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 University of California • Berkeley 
 
 BRUCE PORTER COLLECTION 
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 BT^ADBURY & EYAKS. BOUYERIE S7RBS^ 
 
 ) 84.8. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. K. BROWNE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, 11, BOUVERIE STREET. 
 
 1848. 
 
LONDON : 
 BRADBIRY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 
 
THIS STORY IS DEDICATED, 
 
 WITH GREAT ESTEEM, 
 
 TO 
 
 THE MARCHIONESS OF NORMANBY. 
 
» 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I 
 
 I CANNOT forego my usual opportunity of saying fare- 
 well to my readers in this greeting-place, thougli 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 turns, I hope it may be a sorrow 
 of that sort which endears the sharers in it, one to another. 
 This is not unselfish in me. I may claim to have felt it, at 
 least as much as anybody else; and I would fain be remem- 
 bered kindly for my part in the experience. 
 
 Devonshire Terrace, 
 
 Twenty-Fourth March, 1848. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 — ♦— 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chapter I. Dombey and Son 1 
 
 Chap. II. In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that 
 
 will sometimes arise in the best regulated Families ... 8 
 
 Chap. III. In which Mr. Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the 
 
 head of the Home-Department . " 16 
 
 Chap. IV. In which some more First Appeai-ances are made on the 
 
 Stage of these Adventures 24 
 
 Chap. V. Paul's Progress and Christening 33 
 
 Chap. VI. Paul's Second Deprivation . . .' 45 
 
 Chap. VII. A Bird's-eye glimpse of Miss Tox's Dwelling-place ; also 
 
 of the State of Miss Tox's Affections 61 
 
 Chap. VIII. Paul's further Progress, Growth, and Charactei- .... 65 
 
 Chap. IX. In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble . . 79 
 
 Chap, X. Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman's Disaster ... 88 
 
 Chap. XI. Paul's Introduction to a new Scene ........ 97 
 
 Chap. XII. Paul's Education 107 
 
xil CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chap. XIII. Shipping IntelligencQ and Office Business 120 
 
 Chap. XIV. Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home 
 
 for the Holidays 129 
 
 Chap. XV. Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit 
 
 for Walter Gay 146 
 
 Chap. XVI. What the Waves were always saying 157 
 
 Chap. XVII. Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the young people 161 
 
 Chap. XVIII. Father and Daughter . 169 
 
 Chap. XIX. Walter goes away > 183 
 
 Chap. XX. Mr. Dombey goes upon a Journey 193 
 
 Chap. XXI. New Faces 203 
 
 Chap. XXII. A Trifle of Management by Mr. Carker the Manager . . 211 
 
 Chap. XXIII. Florence Solitary, and the Midshipman Mysterious . . 225 
 
 Chap. XXIV. The Study of a Loving Heart 241 
 
 Chap. XXV. Strange News of Uncle Sol 250 
 
 Chap. XXVI. Shadows of the Past and Future 257 
 
 Chap. XXVII. Deeper Shadows 269 
 
 Chap. XXVIII. Alterations 281 
 
 Chap. XXIX. The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs. Chick 289 
 
 Chap. XXX. The Interval before the Marriage 297 
 
 Chap. XXXI. The Wedding 309 
 
CONTENTS. xiii 
 
 Chap. XXXII. The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces .... 321 
 
 Chap. XXXIII. Contrasts 334 
 
 Chap. XXXIV. Another Mother and Daughter 343 
 
 Chap. XXXV. The Happy Pair 363 
 
 Chap. XXXVI. Housewarming 361 
 
 Chap. XXXVII. More Warnings than One 370 
 
 Chap. XXXVIII. Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance . . , 378 
 
 Chap, XXXIX. Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, 
 
 Mariner 385 
 
 Chap. XL. Domestic Relations 397 
 
 Chap. XLI. New Voices on the Waves 409 
 
 Chap. XLII. Confidential and Accidental 417 
 
 Chap. XLI II. The Watches of the Night 428 
 
 Chap. XLIV. A Separation 435 
 
 Chap. XLV. The Trusty Agent 442 
 
 Chap. XLVI. Recognizant and Reflective 449 
 
 Chap. XLVII. The Thunderbolt 468 
 
 Chap. XLVIII. The Flight of Florence 472 
 
 Chap. XLIX. The Midshipman makes a Discovery 481 
 
 Chap. L. Mr. Toots's Complaint 494 
 
PAOE 
 
 xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 Chap. LI. Mr. Dombey and the World 507 
 
 Chap. LII. Secret Intelligence 513 
 
 Chap. LIII. More Intelligence 524 
 
 Chap. LIV. The Fugitives 536 
 
 Chap. LV. Rob the Grinder loses his Place . 545 
 
 Chap. LVI. Several People Delighted, and the Game Chicken Disgusted 554 
 
 Chap. LVII. Another Wedding 571 
 
 Chap. LVIII, After a Lapse 577 
 
 Chap. LIX, Retribution 588 
 
 Chap, LX. Chiefly Matrimonial 602 
 
 Chap. LXI. Relenting , 611 
 
 Chap. LXII. Final 620 
 
LIST OF PLATES. 
 
 — *—— 
 
 TAQE 
 FRONTISPIECE AND VIGNETTE 
 
 MISS TOX INTRODUCES THE PARTY . . 10 
 
 THE DOMBEY FAMILY . 22 
 
 THE CHRISTENING PARTY 40 
 
 POLLY RESCUES THE CHARITABLE GRINDER .50 
 
 PAUL AND MRS. PIPCHIN 75 
 
 CAPTAIN CUTTLE CONSOLES HIS FRIEND 87 
 
 DOCTOR BLIMBER's YOUNG GENTLEMEN AS THEY APPEARED WHEN ENJOYING 
 
 themselves . 113 
 
 Paul's exercises ]17 
 
 paul goes home for the holidays 145 
 
 profound cogitation of captain cuttle 151 
 
 POOR Paul's friend . 179 
 
 THE WOODEN MIDSHIPMAN ON THE LOOK OUT 185 
 
 MAJOR BAGSTOCK IS DELIGHTED TO HAVE THAT OPPORTUNITY .... 204 
 
 MR. TOOTS BECOMES PARTICULAR — DIOGENES ALSO 223 
 
 SOLEMN REFERENCE IS MADE TO MR. BUNSBY .238 
 
 MR. CABKER INTRODUCES HIMSELF TO FLORENCE AND THE SKETTLES FAMILY . 249 
 
 JOE B, IS SLY, SIR J DEVILISH SLY . . . . - . . . , 267 
 
 MR. DOMBEY INTRODUCES HIS DAUGHTER FLORENCE 288 
 
xvi LIST OP PLATES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE EYES OF MRS. CHICK ARE OPENED TO LUCRETIA TOX .... 294 
 
 COMING HOME FROM CHURCH 316 
 
 A VISITOR OF DISTINCTION • . . 325 
 
 THE REJECTED ALMS . . . 352 
 
 MRS. DOMBEY AT HOME . 366 
 
 MISS TOX PAYS A VISIT TO THE TOODLE FAMILY . . . . . . 381 
 
 THE MIDSHIPMAN IS BOARDED BY THE ENEMY 394 
 
 A CHANCE MEETING 40S 
 
 MR. DOMBEY AND HIS " CONFIDENTIAL AGENT " 424 
 
 FLORENCE PARTS FROM A VERY OLD FRIEND ....... 439 
 
 ABSTRACTION AND RECOGNITION 450 
 
 FLORENCE AND EDITH ON THE STAIRCASE . . . • 469 
 
 THE SHADOW IN THE LITTLE PARLOR .491 
 
 MR. DOMBEY AND THE WORLD 508 
 
 SECRET INTELLIGENCE 516 
 
 MR. CARKER IN HIS HOUR OF TRIUMPH 539 
 
 ON THE DARK ROAD 547 
 
 AN ARRIVAL 565 
 
 "let HIM REMEMBER IT IN THAT ROOM, YEARS TO COME" .... 595 
 
 ANOTHER WEDDING 607 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 494, first line of the chapter. Fov down stairs, read dbove stairs. 
 Page 497, line 29 from top. Fcr you tOOj read you two. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 97, line 23 from top— for " the register," read " that register." 
 ,, 100, line 23 from bottom — for "probably," read " possibly." 
 „ 101, line 9 from bottom— for " dull crying," read " diUl cooing." 
 „ 102, line 20 from top— strike out " Quintius," before " Curtias." 
 ,, 105, line 3 from bottom— for "auspiciously," read " suspiciously." 
 ,, 112, line C from bottom— for " the iirst epistle," read " the lirst chapter of the epistle." 
 ,. 117, lines 3 and 4 from top— for "when you know I want them," read "when you 
 
 know why I want them." 
 „ 120, Une 12 from top— for " Saturday," read " Saturdays." 
 ,, 121, line 12 from top— for " doing," read " bein^. ' 
 ,, 125, line 23 from top— insert a period after the words "have reason." 
 ,, 126, line 17 from bottom— for "voice," read " voices." 
 
 "WllUtv tnv> \^KJlt.txv 
 
 sand little creases, wliich tlie same deceitful Time would take delight in 
 smootliing out and wearing away with the tlat part of his scythe, as a pre- 
 jjaration of the siu'face for liis deeper operations. 
 
 Dombey, exidting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the 
 heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat, 
 whereof the buttons sparkled- phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the 
 distant fire. Son with his httle fists cm-led up and clenched, seemed, in 
 his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for having come upon him so 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 "The house will once again, Mi's. Dombey," said IVIi'. Dombey, "be not 
 only in name but in fact Dombey and Son ; Dom-bey and Son ! " 
 
 The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of 
 endeannent to Mi's. Dombey's name (though not without some hesitation, 
 as being a man but little used to that form of addi-ess) : and said, " Mrs. 
 Dombey my — my dear." 
 
 A transient flush of faint sm-prisc overspread the sick lady's face as she 
 raised her eyes towards him. 
 
 a / 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 DOMBEY sat in the comer of the darkened room in the great arm-chair 
 by the bedside, and Son lay tucked iip warm in a Httle basket bedstead, 
 carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close 
 to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was 
 essential to toast him brown wliile he Avas veiy new. 
 
 Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight- 
 and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a 
 handsome Avell-made man, too stem and pompous in appearance, to be pre- 
 possessing. Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) aa 
 imdeniably fine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect, 
 as yet. On the brow of Dombey, Time and his bi'other Cai'e had set some 
 marks, as on a tree that was to come down in good time — remorseless 
 twins they are for striding tlu'ough their human forests, notching as they 
 go — while the countenance of Son was crossed and recrossed with a thou- 
 sand little creases, which the same deceitfid Time Avoidd take delight in 
 smootliing out and wearing away with the fiat part of his scythe, as a pre- 
 paration of the surface for liis deeper operations. 
 
 Dombey, exidting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the 
 heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat, 
 whereof the buttons sparkled' phosphoresceutly in the feeble rays of the 
 distant fire. Son with his little fists cm4ed up and clenched, seemed, in 
 his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for having come upon him so 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 " The house wiU once again, 'Mis. Dombey," said Mi-. Dombey, " be not 
 only in name but in fact Dombey and Son ; Dom-bey and Son ! " 
 
 The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of 
 endeannent to IMi-s. Dombey's name (though not without some hesitation, 
 as being a man but little used to that form of address) : and said, " Mrs. 
 Dombey my — my dear." 
 
 A transient flush of faint sm*prise overspread the sick lady's face as she 
 raised her eyes towards him. 
 
 U / 
 
2 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " He will be ckristened Paul, ray — Mi-s. Dombey — of coiu-se." 
 
 She feebly echoed, " Of coxu'se," or rather expressed it by the motion of 
 her lips, and closed her eyes again. 
 
 " His father's name, Mrs. Dombey, and his grandfather's ! I wish Ms 
 gTandfather were ahve tliis day ! " Ajid again he said " Dom-bey and Son," 
 in exactly the same tone as before. 
 
 Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr. Dombey's hfe. Tlie 
 earth was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sim and moon 
 were made to give them light. Eivers and seas were formed to float then- 
 ships ; rainbows gave them promise of fan* Aveather ; Avinds blew for or 
 against their enterprises ; stars and planets circled in then orbits, to pre- 
 serve inviolate a system of which they were the centre. Common abbre- 
 viations took new meanings in his eyes, and had sole reference to them. 
 A. D. had no concern with anno Domini, but stood for anno Dombei — 
 and Son. 
 
 He had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life and 
 death, from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the sole 
 representative of the firm. Of those years he had been married, ten — 
 manied, as some said, to a lady vdth no heart to give liim ; whose happi- 
 ness was in the past, and who was content to bind her broken spirit to the 
 dutiful and meek endm'ance of the present. Such idle talk was little likely 
 to reach the ears of Mr. Dombey, whom it nearly concerned ; and probably 
 no one in the Avorld woidd have received it with such utter iuCTeduHty as 
 he>, if it had reached liim. Dombey and Son had often dealt in Itides, but 
 never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys and giiis, and boarding- 
 schools and books. Mr. Dombey woidd have reasoned : That a matri- 
 monial alliance with himself 7nust, in the natm-e of things, be gratifying and 
 honom'able to any Avoman of common sense. That the hope of giving 
 bh-th to a new partner in such a house, could not fail to awaken a glorious 
 and stining ambition in the breast of the least ambitious of her sex. That 
 IMrs. Dombey had entered on that social contract of matrimony : almost 
 necessarily part of a genteel and Avealthy station, even Avithout reference to 
 the perpetuation of family firms : Avith her eyes fully open to these advan- 
 tages. That JVIrs. Dombey had had daily practical knoAvledge of his posi- 
 tion in society. That IMrs. Dombey had ahvays sat at the head of his 
 table, and done the honom's of his house in a remarkably lady-like and 
 becoming manner. That J\Irs. Dombey must have been happy. That 
 she couldn't help it. 
 
 Or, at all events, Avith one di-awback. Yes. That he would have allowed. 
 With only one ; but that one certauily involving much. They had been 
 married ten years, and imtd this present day on Avhich Mr. Dombey sat 
 jingling and jingling his heavy gold Avatch-chain in the great arm-chair 
 by the side of the bed, had had no issue. 
 
 — To speak of; none Avorth mentioning. There had been a girl some six 
 years before, and the child, ViXio had stolen into the chamber unobserved, 
 was noAv crouching timidly, in a comer Avhence she could see her mother's 
 face. But Avhat Avas a girl to Dombey and Son ! In the capital of the 
 House's name and dignity, such a child Avas merely a piece of base coin 
 that coiddn't be invested — a bad Boy — nothing more. 
 
 ^•. Dombey's cup of satisfaction was so full at this momentj however, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 that 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, " Florence, you may go and look at your pretty brother, if 
 you Hke, I dare say. Don't touch liim ! " 
 
 The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff white cravat, which, 
 with a pah' of creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch, embodied her 
 idea of a father ; but her eyes returned to her mother's face immediately, 
 and she neither moved nor answered. 
 
 Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the chdd; and the 
 child had run towards her ; and, standing on tiptoe, the better to hide her 
 face in her embrace, had clung about her with a desperate affection veiy 
 much at variance with her years. 
 
 " Oh Lord bless me !" said Mr. Dombey, rising testily. "A very ill- 
 advised and feverish proceeding this, I am sure. I had better ask Doctor 
 Peps if he 'U have the goodness to step up staii-s again perhaps. I 'U go 
 down. I '11 go down. I needn't beg you," he added, pausing for a moment 
 at the settee before the fire, " to take particidar care of this young gentle- 
 man, ^Il"S. " 
 
 " Blockitt, Su- ? " suggested the nurse, a simpering piece of faded gentility, 
 who did not presume to state her name as a fact, but merely offered it as a 
 mild suggestion. 
 
 " Of this young gentleman, Mrs. Blockitt." 
 
 "No Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence Avas bom — " 
 
 "Ay, ay, ay," said IVIr. Dombey, bending over the basket bedstead, 
 and shghtly bending his brows at the same time. " IMiss Florence was aU 
 very well, but tliis is another matter. This yoimg gentleman has to accom- 
 plish a destiny. A destiny, little fellow !" As he thus apostropliized the 
 infant he raised one of his hands to his Hps, and kissed it ; then, seeming 
 to fear that the action involved some compromise of his dignity, went, 
 awkwardly enough, away. 
 
 Doctor Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of immense 
 reputation for assisting at the increase of great families, was walking up 
 and down the di"awing-room with his hands behind him, to the imspeakable 
 admii'ation of the family Surgeon, who had regularly puffed the case for the 
 last six weeks, among aU his patients, friends, and acquaintances, as one to 
 which he was in hourly expectation day and night of being smnmoned, in 
 conjunction with Doctor Parker Peps. 
 
 " "Well Sii-," said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, sonorous voice, 
 muffled for the occasion, hke the knocker ; "do you find that yom' dear lady 
 is at aU roused by yom* visit ?" 
 
 "Stimulated as it were?" said the family practitioner faintly: bowing 
 at the same tune to the Doctor, as much as to say " Excuse my putting in 
 a word, but this is a valuable connexion." 
 
 Mr. Dombey was quite discomfited by the question. He had thought so 
 little of the patient, that he was not in a condition to answer it. He said 
 that it would be a satisfaction to liim, if Doctor Parker Peps would walk 
 up stairs again. 
 
 " Good ! We must not disguise fi-om you Sir," said Doctor Parker Peps, 
 " that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess — I beg yoiu* 
 pardon ; I confound names ; I should say, in your amiable lady. That 
 
 B 2 
 
4 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 there is a certain degree of languor, and a general absence of elasticity, 
 which we woidd rather — not — " 
 
 " See," interposed the ftamily 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 shoidd 
 say of Mi-s. Dombey : I confuse the names of cases — " 
 
 " So very numerous," miu-mm"ed the family practitioner — " can't be 
 expected I 'm sui-e — quite wonderful if otherwise — Doctor Parker Peps's 
 West End practice — " 
 
 " Thank you," said the Doctor, " quite so. It would appear, I was 
 observing, that the system of om- patient has sustained a shock, from which 
 it can only hope to rally by a great and strong — " 
 
 "And vigorous," murmui-ed the family practitioner. 
 
 " Quite so," assented the Doctor — " and vigorous effort. IMi'. Pdkins 
 here, who from his position of medical adviser in tliis family — no one better 
 qualified to fill that position, I am sure." 
 
 "Oh!" murmured the familv practitioner. "'Praise from Sir Hubert 
 Stanley!'" 
 
 " You are good enough," retiu-ned Doctor Parker Peps, " to say so. 
 Mr. Pilkins who, fi-om Ids position, is best acquainted ynth. the patient's 
 constitution in its normal state (an acquaintance veiy valuable to us in 
 fonning om- opinions on these occasions), is of opinion, with me, that 
 Nature must be called upon to make a vigorous efi^oi-t in this instance ; 
 and that if our interesting friend the Countess of Dombey — I beff yoiu: 
 pardon ; IVIi-s. Dombey — should not be — " 
 
 "Able," said the family practitioner. 
 
 "To make that effort successfully," said Doctor Parker Peps, "then 
 a crisis might arise, which we shoidd both sincerely deplore." 
 
 With that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the ground. Then, 
 -on the motion — made in dumb show — of Doctor Parker Peps, they went up 
 stall's ; the family practitioner opening the room door for that distinguished 
 professional, and following liim out, with most obsequious politeness. 
 
 To record of Mi-. Dombey that he was not in Ms way affected by this 
 intelligence, would be to do him an injustice. He was not a man of whom 
 it could properly be said that he was ever startled, or shocked; but he cer- 
 tainly had a sense within him, that if his wife shoidd sicken and decay, he 
 woidd be vei-y son-y, and that he would find a something gone from among 
 his plate and fimiitiu-e, and other household possessions, Avhich was well 
 worth the having, and coidd not be lost without sincere regret. Though it 
 w^oidd be a cool, business-like, gentlemanly, self-possessed regret, no doubt. 
 
 His meditations on the subject were soon inten-vqited, first by the rustling 
 of garments on the staircase, and then by the sudden whisking into the room 
 of a lady rather past the middle age than othenvise, but dressed in a very 
 juvenile manner, particularly as to the tightness of her boddice, who, running 
 up to him with a kind of screw in her face and carnage, expressive of sup- 
 piTssed emotion, flung her arms round his neck, and said, in a choking voice, 
 
 ' " My dear Paul ! He 's quite a Dombey ! " 
 
 " Well, well ! " returned her brother — ^for IMr. Dombey was her brother 
 — " I think he is like the family. Don't agitate youi-self, Louisa." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " It 's veiy foolish of me," said Louisa, sitting dowTi, and taking out 
 her pocket-handkerchief, " but he 's — he 's such a perfect Dombey ! / 
 never saw anything like it in my life ! " 
 
 " But what is this about Fannv, herself? " said Mr. Dombey. " How 
 is Fanny ? " 
 
 " My dear Paul," returned Louisa, " it 's nothing whatever. Take 
 my word, it's nothing whatever. There is exhaustion, certainly, but 
 nothing like what I underwent myself, either with George or Frederick. 
 An effort is necessary. That 's all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey ! — 
 But I dare say she 'U make it ; I have no doubt she 'U make it. Know- 
 ing it to be required of her, as a duty, of com-se she '11 make it. My dear 
 Paid, it 's very weak and silly of me, I know, to be so trembly and shakey 
 fi"om head to foot ; but I am so veiy queer that I must ask you for a glass 
 of wine and a morsel of that cake. I thought I should have fallen out of 
 the staircase window as I came down from seeing dear Fanny, and that 
 tiddy ickle sing." These last words originated in a sudden vivid reminis- 
 cence 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 
 now, my dear friend? " 
 
 " My dear Paul," said Louisa in a low voice, as she rose from her seat, 
 " it 's Miss Tox. The kindest creature ! I never coidd have got here with- 
 out her ! Miss Tox, my brother Mr. Dombey. Paid my dear, my verj'" 
 particular friend Miss Tox." 
 
 The lady thus specially presented, was a long lean figiu'e, wearing such 
 a faded air that she seemed not to have been made in what linen-drapers 
 call "fast colours " originally, and to have, by little and little, washed 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 
 evei-ything that was said in her presence, and looking at the speakers as if 
 she were mentally engaged in taking off impressions of theii* images upon 
 her soul, never to part with the same but with life, her head had quite 
 settled on one side. Her hands had contracted a spasmodic habit of 
 raising themselves of their own accord as in involuntaiy admiration. Her 
 eyes were liable to a similar affection. She had the softest voice that ever 
 was heard ; and her nose, stupendously aquiline, had a little knob in the 
 veiy centre or key-stone of the bridge, whence it tended downwards to- 
 wards her face, as in an invincible determination never to turn up at 
 anything. 
 
 IVIiss Tox's dress, though perfectly genteel and good, had a certain cha- 
 racter of angularity and scantiness. She was accustomed to wear odd 
 weedy little flowers in her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were some- 
 times perceived in her hair ; and it was observed by the curious, of all her 
 collars, friUs, tuckers, wristbands, and 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 terms, and wouldn't quite meet without a 
 struggle. She had fm-ry articles for winter wear, as tippets, boas, and 
 mufts, which stood up on end in a rampant manner, and were not at all 
 sleek. She was much given to the carrying about of small bags with snaps 
 to them, that went off like little pistols when they were shut up; and when 
 
b DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 full-di'essed, she wore round her neck the baiTcnest of lockets, representing 
 a fishey old eye, Avith no approach to specidation m it. These and other 
 appearances of a similar nature, had sen-ed to propagate the opinion, that 
 Miss Tox was a lady of what is called a limited independence, which she 
 turned to the best account. Possibly her mincing gait encoiu'aged the 
 belief, and suggested that her clipping a step of ordinary compass into two 
 or three, originated in her habit of making the most of everji;hing. 
 
 " I am siu'e," said Miss Tox, "vvith a prodigious curtsey, "that to have 
 the honour of being presented to ]\fr. Dombey is a distinction which I have 
 long sought, but veiy little expected at the present moment. My dear 
 Mrs. Chick — may I say Louisa ! " 
 
 Mi's. Chick took Miss Tox's hand in hers, rested the foot of her wine- 
 glass upon it, repressed a tear, and said in a low voice " Bless you ! " 
 
 " My dear Louisa then," said IMiss Tox, "my sweet friend, how are you 
 now ? " 
 
 " Better," Mrs. Chick returned. " Take some wine. You have been 
 almost as anxious as I have been, and must want it, I am siu'e," 
 
 Mr. Dombey of course officiated. 
 
 " Miss Tox, Paul," pursued IVIi's. Chick, still retaining her hand, 
 " knowing how much I have been interested in the anticipation of the 
 event of to-day, has been working at a little gift for Panny, which I pro- 
 mised to present. It is only a pincushion for the toilette table, Paul, but 
 I do say, and wdl say, and must say, that Miss Tox has very prettily 
 adapted the sentiment to the occasion. I call ' Welcome little Dombey ' 
 Poetry, myself." 
 
 " Is that the device ? " inquired her brother. 
 
 " That is the device," returned Louisa. 
 
 " But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa," said Miss Tox 
 in a tone of low and earnest entreaty, " that nothing but the — I have some 
 difficulty in exj)ressing myself — the dubiousness of the result would have 
 induced me to take so gi'cat a liberty : 'Welcome, Master Dombey,' Avoidd 
 have been much more congenial to my feelings, as I am sm*e you know. 
 But the uncertainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope, excuse 
 what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable familiarity." Miss Tox 
 made a gi-aceful 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-natiu'cd person — ^had perhaps more influence over htm. than 
 anybody else. 
 
 " Well ! " said Mrs. Chick, with a sweet smile, " after this, I forgive 
 Fanny eveiything ! " 
 
 It was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs. Cliick felt that it 
 did her good. Not that she had anything particidar to forgive in her 
 sister-in-law, nor indeed anything at all, (jxcept her having maiTied 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 aU the attention and distinction she had met with. 
 
 Ml-. Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room at this moment, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 7 
 
 the two ladies were left alone together. Miss Tox immediately became 
 spasmodic. 
 
 " I knew yon would admire my brother. I told yon so beforehand, my 
 dear," said Lonisa. 
 
 Miss Tox's hands and eyes expressed how much. 
 
 "And as to his property, my dear I" 
 
 "Ah!" said Miss Tox, with deep feeling. 
 
 " Im — mense !" 
 
 "But his deportment, my dear Lonisa!" said Miss Tox. "His pre- 
 sence ! His dignity ! No portrait that I have ever seen of any one has 
 been half so replete with those qnahties. Something so stately, you know : 
 so uncompromising : so veiy wide across the chest : so upi-ight ! A pecn- 
 niaiy Duke of York, my love, and nothing short of it !" said Miss Tox, 
 " That's what / should designate him." 
 
 " Wliy my dear Paul !" exclaimed his sister, as he returned, " you look 
 quite pale ! There's nothing the matter?" 
 
 " I am soiTy to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny — " 
 
 "Now my dear Paul," returned his sister rising, " don't believe it. If 
 you have any rehance 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-hke manner, "she must be encom'aged, and really, if necessary, 
 m-ged to make. Now my dear Paid, come up stairs 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 
 busthng 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 dose 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 aroimd, or spoke, or moved, or shed a 
 tear. 
 
 " Eestless without the little girl," the Doctor whispered Mi*. Dombey. 
 " We found it best to have her in again." 
 
 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 Uttle hope, that Mrs. Chick was for the moment diverted from her 
 pm-pose. But presently summoning com'age, 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 aAvaken 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, wliich seemed in the silence to be 
 ninning 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 Uttle boy — the baby, Fanny, you know ; yoii have hardly seen 
 him yet, I think — ^in bed ; but they can't tiU you rouse yourself a little. 
 Don't you tliink 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. 
 
8 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "Ell?" 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 posi- 
 tion, 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 painfid 
 effort wliich 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 w^atches 
 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 rmder- 
 stand me ; wUl you? Good Heaven, gentlemen, Avhat is to be done 1" 
 
 The two mediical attendants exchanged a look across the bed ; and the 
 Physician, stooping doAvn, Avhispered in the chUd's ear. Not having under- 
 stood the purport of his whisper, the little creatm-e turned her perfectly 
 colourless face, and deep dark eyes towards him ; but without loosening 
 her hold in the least. 
 
 The wlusper was repeated. 
 
 " Mama ! " said tlie child. 
 
 The Httle voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of con- 
 sciousness, 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 aU the world. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN WHICH TIMELY PROVISION IS MADE FOU AN EMERGENCY THAT 
 WILL SOMETIMES ARISE IN THE BEST REGULATED FAMILIES. 
 
 " I SHALL never cease to congi*atulate myself," said Mrs. Chick, " on 
 liaving said, Avhen 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 up- 
 stairs, w'\\o were busy on the family mourning. She delivered it for the 
 l)ehoof of Mr. Chick, who was a stout bald gentleman, Avith a very large 
 face, and his hands continually in his pockets, and who had a tendency in 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 9 
 
 liis natui'e to whistle and hum tunes, which, sensible of the indecorum of 
 such sounds in a house of grief, he Avas at some pains to repress at present. 
 
 " Don't you over-exert yoiu-self, Loo," said jVIi". Chick, " or you 'U be 
 laid up with spasms, I see. Eight tol loor rid ! 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 pro- 
 ceeded Avith the thi-ead of her discourse. 
 
 " I am sm'e," she said, " I hope this heart-rending occmTcnce AviU be a 
 warning to aU of us, to accustom ourselves to rouse ourselves and to make 
 efforts in time Avhere they 're required of us. There 's a moral in every- 
 thing, if we Avoidd only avail ourselves of it. It AviU be om' OAvn faults if 
 we lose sight of this one." 
 
 Mr. Chick invaded the gi'ave silence Avhich ensued on this remark Avith 
 the singidarly inappropriate air of ' A cobbler there Avas ; ' and checking 
 himself, in some confusion, observed, that it was undoubtedly om' own 
 faults if Ave 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 
 coUege hornpipe, or the equally unmeaning and unfeeling remark of rump- 
 te-iddity, boAV-wOAV-wow ! " — Avhich Mr. Cliick had indeed indidged in, under 
 his breath, and AA^hich Mrs. Chick repeated in a tone of AA'ithering scorn. 
 
 " Merely habit, my dear," pleaded Mi-. Chick. 
 
 " Nonsense ! Habit !" returned his Avife. " If you 're a rational being, 
 don't make such ridicidous excuses. Habit ! If I Avas to get a habit (as 
 you call it) of Avalking on the ceiling, hke the flies, I shoidd hear enough 
 of it, I dare say." 
 
 It appeai-ed so probable that such a habit might be attended Avith some 
 degree of notoriety, that Mr. Chick didn't ventm'c to dispute the position. 
 
 " HoAV 's the Baby, Loo ? " asked Mi'. Chick : to change the subject. 
 
 "What Baby do you mean?" answered Mi's. Cliick. " I am sure the 
 morning I have had, Avith that dining-room doAvn stairs one mass of 
 babies, no one in then* senses would believe." 
 
 "One mass of babies!" repeated Mr. Chick, staring Avith an alarmed 
 expression about him. 
 
 " It would have occmTcd to most men," said Mrs. Chick, " that poor 
 dear Fanny being no more, it becomes necessary to provide a Niuse." 
 
 " Oh ! Ah ! " said Mr. Cliick. " Toor-rul — such is Ufe, 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. Meanwhile, of course, the child is — " 
 
 " Going to the veiy Deuce," said Mi\ Chick, thoughtfully, " to be sure." 
 
 Admonished, hoAvever, that he had committed himself, by the indignation 
 expressed in Mi-s. 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 Avith 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 walked majestically to the AAandow and 
 peeped through the bhnd, attracted by the sound of Avheels. Mr. Chick, 
 
10 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 finding that his destiny was, for the time, against him, said no more, and 
 walked off. But it was not always thus with Mr. Cliick. He was often 
 in the ascendant himself, and at those times punished Louisa roimdly. In 
 their matrimonial bickerings they were, upon the whole, a weU-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 woidd 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 IVIi's. Chick, theii' little 
 contests usually possessed a chai-acter of imcertainty that was very 
 animating. 
 
 Miss Tox had arrived on the wheels just now alluded to, and came 
 running into the room in a breatliless condition. 
 
 " My dear Louisa," said Miss Tox, " is the vacancy stiU unsupplied?" 
 
 " You good soul, yes," said Mrs. Cliick. 
 
 "Then, my dear Louisa," returned Miss Tox, "I hope and believe — 
 but in one moment, my dear, I '11 introduce the pai-ty." 
 
 Eimning do-mi stall's again as fast as she had ran up, Miss Tox got the 
 pai'ty out of the hackney coach, and soon retm'ned 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 ]\Iiss 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 earned in his 
 aims 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, "knomng yom- great anxiety, and 
 wishing to reheve it, I posted off myself to the Queen Charlotte's Eoyal 
 Manied Pemales, which you had forgot, and put the question, Was there 
 anybody there that they thought Avould suit ? No, they said there Avas 
 not. WTien they gave me that answer, I do assure you, my dear, I was 
 almost driven to despair* on yom* account. But it did so happen, that one 
 of the Eoyal Mamed Females, hearing the inquhy, reminded the matron 
 of another who had gone to her own home, and Avho, she said, would in all 
 hkehhood be most satisfactoiy. The moment I heard this, and had it 
 coiToborated 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 gentle- 
 man," said Miss Tox, pointing out the apple-faced man, " is the father. 
 WiU you have the goochiess to come a little fonvard. Sir ? " 
 
 The apple-faced man having sheepishly complied Avith this request, stood 
 chuckling and grinning in a front roAV. 
 

 ^:C- 
 
 ^^^. 
 
 -^<#*j >^^- 
 
 
 '>%. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 11 
 
 " This is his wife, of coivrse," 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 yoimg woman is 
 her unmaiTied sister who lives with them, and woidd 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 veiy glad indeed to hear it," said Miss Tox. " I hope you 'U 
 keep so. Five children. Youngest six weeks. The fine little boy ^vith 
 the blister on his nose is the eldest. The blister, I believe," said Miss 
 Tox, looking round upon the family, " is not constitutional, but acci- 
 dental?" 
 
 The apple-faced man was understood to gi'owl, " Plat iron." 
 
 " I beg yoiu- pardon. Sir," said IVIiss Tox, " did you? — " 
 
 " Plat iron," he repeated. 
 
 "Oh yes," said Miss Tox. "Yes ! quite true. I forgot. The little 
 creatiu*e, in his mother's absence, smelt a waim flat iron. You 're quite 
 right. Sir. You were going to have the goodness to infonn me, when we 
 aiTived 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 ! " retm-ned Miss Tox, looking thoughtftdly at him, and 
 seeming still to have but a very imperfect understanding of his meaning. 
 " And how do you hke it. Sir ? " 
 
 " Wliich, Mum ? " said the man. 
 
 " That," replied Mss Tox. " Yom- trade." 
 
 " Oh ! Pretty well. Mum. The ashes sometimes gets in here ; " touching 
 his chest ; " and makes a man speak grufi", 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 PoUy, her children, her mar- 
 riage certificate, testimonials, and so forth. Polly coming out unscathed 
 fi'om this ordeal, Mrs. Chick T^athcbew with her report to her brother's 
 room, and as an emphatic comment on it, and coiToboration of it, carried 
 the two rosiest httle 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. Sometliing 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 lum an almost angiy sorrow. That the 
 life and progi-ess on which he built such hopes, shovdd be endangered in the 
 outset by so mean a want ; that Dombey and Son shoidd be tottering for 
 a niu-se, was a sore humiliation. And yet in his pride and jealousy, he 
 viewed ^vith so much bitterness the thought of heing dependent for the 
 
 3} 
 
12 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 veiy first step towards the accomplishment of his soul's desire, on a hired 
 serving-woman Avho would be to the child, for the time, all that even Ids 
 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 feehngs. 
 The less so, as there seemed to be no flaw in the title of Polly Toodle after 
 liis sister had set it forth, with many commendations on the indefatigable 
 friendship of Miss Tox. 
 
 " These children look healthy," said Mr. Dombey. " But to think of 
 their some day claiming a sort of relationship to Paid ! Take them away, 
 Louisa ! Let me see this woman and her husband." 
 
 Mrs. Chick bore off the tender pair of Toodles, and presently retm-ned 
 with that tougher couple whose presence her brother had commanded. 
 
 " My good woman," said Mr. Dombey turning romid in his easy chair, 
 as one piece, and not as a man with limbs and joints, " I understand you 
 are poor, and msli to earn money by nm-sing the little boy, my son, who 
 has been so prematm-ely deprived of what can never be replaced. I have 
 no objection to your adding to the comforts of yom* 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 Kichards — an ordinary name, and convenient. Have you any 
 objection to be known as Eichards ? You had better consult your 
 husband." 
 
 As the husband did nothing but chuckle and gi'in, and continually draw 
 his right hand across his mouth, moistening the palm, ^frs. 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 woidd be considered in 
 the wages." 
 
 " Oh, of com*se," said 1VL-. 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 Uberal stipend in 
 retura for the discharge of certain duties, in the performance of which, I 
 wish you to see as little of yom* 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 anytliing 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, luring and 
 letting : and will stay away. The child ^vill cease to remember you ; and 
 you will cease, if you please, to remember the child." 
 
 Mrs. Toodle, with a little more color 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 AveU. Indeed it is so plain and obvious that it could hardly 
 be otherwise. Louisa, my dear, an-ange wdth Richards about money, and 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 13 
 
 let her have it when and how she pleases. Mr. what 's-your-name, a word 
 with you, if yon please ! " 
 
 Thus arrested on the threshold as he was folloAving his wife out of the 
 room, Toodle returned and confronted Mr. Dombey alone. He was a 
 strong, loose, ronnd-shoiddered, shidlling, shaggy fellow, on whom his 
 clothes sat neghgently : with a good deal of hair and whisker, deepened in 
 its natm-al thit, 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 ^Ii*. Dombey, who was one of those close- 
 shaved close-cut monied 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 shower-baths. 
 
 " 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, Sii-." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " To lose 'em Sir." 
 
 " Can you read?" asked Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Wliy, not partick'ler Su-." 
 
 "Write?" 
 
 "With chalk, Sir?" 
 
 "With anything?" 
 
 " I coidd 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 leara?" asked Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " So I 'm a going to Sir. One of my little boys is agoing to learn me, 
 when he 's old enough, and been to school himself." 
 
 "Well!" said Mr. Dombey, after looking at him attentively, and A\'ith 
 no great favoiu", as he stood gazing roimd the room (principally round the 
 ceding) and stiU di'awing his hand across and across his mouth. " You 
 heard what I said to yoiu* wife just now?" 
 
 " Polly heerd it," said Toodle, jerking his hat over his shoidder in the 
 direction of the door, with an air of perfect confidence in his better half. 
 " It 's aU right." 
 
 " As you appear to leave everything to her," said IVIi'. Dombey, fnis- 
 trated 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 
 anytliing to vou." 
 
 " Not a bit," said Toodle. " Polly heerd it. She 's awake Sir." 
 
 " I won't detain you any longer then," returned Mr. Dombey disap- 
 pointed. " Where have you worked aU your hfe ?" 
 
 " Mostly underground Sir, 'till I got married. I come to the level 
 then. I 'm a going on one of these here raih-oads when they comes into 
 fidl play." 
 
 As the last straw breaks the laden camel's back, this piece of under- 
 gi'ound information crushed the sinking spirits of Mi-. Dombey. He 
 
14 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 motioned Ms child's foster-father to the door, who departed by no means 
 miwillingly : and then tmiiing the key, paced up and down the room in 
 solitary wretchedness. For all liis starched, impenetrable dignity and 
 composm-e, he wiped blinding tears from liis eyes as he did so ; and often 
 said, Avith an emotion of which he woidd not, for the world, have had a 
 witness, " Poor httle fellow !" 
 
 It may have been characteristic of Mi*. 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 midergi-oimd ' aU his Ufe, and yet at whose door Death has never 
 knocked, and at whose poor table foui- sons daily sit — but poor little 
 feUow ! 
 
 Those words being on his Ups, it occmTed to him — and it is an instance 
 of the strong attraction with which his hopes and fears and aU 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 
 piusuing it so far as to entertain within himself a pictm'e of what his con- 
 dition would be, if he should discover such an impostiue when he was 
 grown old. Whether a man so situated, woidd be able to pluck away 
 the result of so many years of usage, confidence, and belief, from the im- 
 postor, and endow a stranger with it ? 
 
 As his unusual emotion subsided, these misgivings gradually melted 
 away, though so much of then' shadow remained behind, that he was con- 
 stant in his resolution to look closely after Richards himself, -without 
 appealing to do so. Being now in an easier frame of mind, he regarded 
 the woman's station as rather an advantageous cu'cumstance than other- 
 wise, by placing, in itself, a broad distance between her and the child, and 
 rendering their separation easy and natm'al. 
 
 Meanwhile terms Avere ratified and agreed upon between Mrs. Chick and 
 Eichards, with the assistance of Miss Tox ; and Eichai'ds 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. 
 
 "You'll take a glass yourself, Su-, Avon't you?" said Miss Tox, as 
 Toodle appeared. 
 
 "Thankee, Mum," said Toodle, "since you are suppressing." 
 
 " And you 're very glad to leave yom- dear good wife in such a comfort- 
 able home, aint you, Sii- ? " said IVliss Tox, nodding and winking at him 
 stealthily. 
 
 " No, Mum," said Toodle. " Here 's wishing of her back agin." 
 
 PoUy cried more than ever at this. So Mi's. Chick, who had her matronly 
 apprehensions that this indidgence in grief might be prejudicial to the little 
 Dombey (" acid, indeed," she whispered Miss Tox), hastened to the rescue. 
 
 "Your little child wdl thi'ive charmingly with yom- sister Jemima, 
 Eichai-ds," said INIrs. Chick ; " and you have oidy to make an efl'ort — this 
 is a world of efi'ort, you know, Richards — to be very happy indeed. Y'ou 
 have been ah-eady measm-ed for your mourning, haven't you, Eichards ? " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 15 
 
 " Ye — yes, ma'am," sobbed Polly. 
 
 " And it '11 fit beautiMly, I know," said IVIi-s. Cliick, " for the same 
 young person has made me many dresses. The very best materials, too ! " 
 
 " Lor, you '11 be so smart," said Miss Tox, " that yom* husband won't 
 know you ; wiU you, Sii* ? '■' 
 
 " I should know her," said Toodle, giniffly, " anyhows and anywheres." 
 
 Toodle was evidently not to be bought over. 
 
 " As to living, Eichards, you know," pm-sued Mrs. Cliick, " why, the 
 very best of everything will be at your disposal. You will order yom* little 
 dinner eveiy 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!" retm-ned 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 '11 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 OAvn dear little child — and I 'm sm'e, Louisa, you don't blame her 
 for being fond of it ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! " cried Mrs. Chick benignantly. 
 
 " Still," resumed Miss Tox, " she natm-ally must be interested in her 
 young charge, and must consider it a privilege to see a little cherub closely 
 connected with the superior classes, gradually unfolding itself from day to 
 day at one common fountain. Is it not so, Louisa ? " 
 
 " Most undoubtedly ! " said Mi-s. Chick. " You see, my love, she 's 
 akeady quite contented and comfortable, and means to say good-bye to her 
 sister Jemima and her little pets, and her good honest husband, with a 
 light heart and a smde, don't she, my dear ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! " cried Miss Tox. " To be sm-e she does ! " 
 
 NotAvithstanding which, however, poor Polly embraced them aU round 
 in gi-eat distress, and finally ran away to avoid any more particular leave- 
 taking between herself and the children. But the stratagem hai'dly 
 succeeded as well as it deserved ; for the smallest boy but one divining her 
 intent, immediately began swarming up stairs 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 BUer, 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 fii-st violence of their regi-et, and the family 
 were speedily transported to their own home, by means of the hackney- 
 coach kept in waiting for that purpose. The chilcken under the guardian- 
 ship of Jemima, blocked up the Avindow, 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. 
 
16 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN WHICH MK. DOMBEY, AS A MAN AND A FATHER, IS SEEN AT THE 
 HEAD OF THE HOME-DEPAKTMENT. 
 
 The funeral of the deceased lady having been "performed," to the 
 entire satisfaction of the undertaker, as weU 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 JIi'. 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 theii* mom-ning was wearing rusty too. 
 
 On Eichards, Avho was established up-stairs in a state of honom'able 
 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 taU, dark, dread- 
 fully genteel street in the region between Portland-place and Biyanstone- 
 square. It was a corner house, with great wide areas containing cellars 
 frowned upon by banned windows, and leered at by crooked-eyed doors 
 leading to dustbinns. It was a house of dismal state, with a circular back 
 to it, containing a whole suit 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 smoke-di'ied. The summer sun 
 was never on the street, but in the morning about breakfast time, when it 
 came Avith the water-carts and the old clothes-men, and the people with 
 geranimns, and the umbrella mender, and the man who trilled the little 
 beU of the Dutch clock as he Avent 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 entertain- 
 ments ; 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 
 fadm-e in attempting to brighten up the street with gas. 
 
 It Avas as blank a house inside as outside. When the funeral was over, 
 Mr. Dombey ordered the furnitiu-e to be covered up — perhaps to preserve 
 it for the son Avith Avhom his plans Avere all associated — and the rooms to 
 be ungarnished, saving such as he retained for himself on the grouiul Hoor. 
 Accordingly, mysterious shapes Avere made of tables and chairs, heaped 
 together in the middle of rooms, and covered over Avith great Avinding- 
 sheets. Bell -handles, AvindoAV -blinds, and looking-glasses, being papered 
 up in jom-nals, daily and Aveekly, obtruded fragmentary accounts of deaths 
 and dreadfid mm-ders. Every chandelier or lustre, muffled in holland, 
 looked like a monstrous tear depending from the ceiling's eye. Odom-s, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 17 
 
 as from vaults and clamp places, came out of tlie cliimneys. The dead 
 and buried lady Avas awful in a pictm'e-frame of ghastly bandages. Every 
 gust of wind that rose, brought eddying roimd the corner from the neigh- 
 bouring mews, some fragments of the straw that had been strewn before 
 the house when she was iU, mildewed remains of which were stiU cleaving 
 to the neighbom-hood : and these, being always di-awn by some invisible 
 attraction to the tlu-eshold 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, 
 Avere attainable from the haU, and consisted of a sitting-room ; a library, 
 which was in fact a di-essing-room, so that the smell of hot-pressed paper, 
 veUum, inorocco, 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 proAvling cats. These three rooms opened upon 
 one another. In the morning, Avhen Mi\ 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 repau- to 
 this glass chamber, and there walk to and fro Avith her young charge. 
 From the glimpses she caught of IVIr. Dombey at these times, sitting in 
 the dark distance, looking out tOAvards tlie infant from among the dark 
 heavy fiu-nitm'e — 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 solitaiy state, as if he Avere a lone prisoner in 
 a cell, or a strange appaiition that Avas not to be accosted or understood. 
 
 Little Paid Dombey's foster-mother had led this life herself, and had 
 canied little Paul tlu'ough it for some Aveeks ; and had retmiied up stairs 
 one day from a melancholy saunter thi'ough the di'eary rooms of state (she 
 never went out Avithout IVIi's. Chick, Avho called on fine mornings, usually 
 accompanied by Miss Tox, to take her and Paby for an airing — or in other 
 words, to march them gi-avely up and doAvn the pavement, like a Avalking 
 fimeral) ; when, as she Avas sitting in her oAvn room, the door Avas sloAvly 
 and quietly opened, and a dark-eyed little gui looked in. 
 
 " It 's Miss Florence come home from her amit's, no doubt," thought 
 Richards, Avho had never seen the child before. " Hope I see you AveU 
 Miss." 
 
 " Is that my brother ? " asked the child, pointing to the Baby. 
 
 " Yes my pretty," ansAvered Richards. " Come and kiss him." 
 
 But the child, instead of advancing, looked her earnestly in the face,, 
 and said : 
 
 " WTiat have you done Avith my Mama ? " 
 
 " Lord bless the little creeter 1 " cried Richards, " Avhat a sad question ! 
 I done ? Nothing Miss." 
 
 " What have thei/ done Avith my Mama ? " inquired the child, 
 
 " I never saAv such a melting thing in aU my life ! " said Richards, Avho 
 natm-aUy substituted for this cliild one of her OAvn, inquiring for herself in 
 like circumstances. " Come nearer here my dear IVIiss ! Don't be afraid 
 of me." 
 
 "I am not afraid of you," said the child, di-awing nearer. "But I 
 Avant to knoAv what they have done with my Mama." 
 
 c 
 
18 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "My dai'ling," said Eichards, "you wear that pretty black frock in 
 remembrance of vom- 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 peoj)le when they 're gone." 
 
 " Where gone?" asked the cliild. 
 
 " Come and sit down by me," said Kichards, " and I '11 tell vou 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 imtil 
 now, and sat down on a stool at the Nurse's feet, looking up into her face. 
 
 " Once upon a time," said Eichards, " there was a lady — a veiy good 
 lady, and her Httle daughter dearly loved her." 
 
 " A very good lady and her little daughter dearly loved her," repeated 
 the child. 
 
 " Who, when Grod thought it right that it should be so, was taken iU 
 and died." 
 
 The child shuddered. 
 
 " Died, never to be seen again by any one on earth, and was buried in 
 the ground where the trees grow." 
 
 " The cold gromid," said the child shuddering again. 
 
 " No ! The warm ground," retmiied Polly, seizing her advantage, 
 " where the ugly little seeds turn into beautifid ilowers, and into gi'ass, 
 and corn, and I don't know what all besides. Wliere good people tm'n 
 into bright angels, and fly away to Heaven!" 
 
 The child, who had di-ooped her head, raised it again, and sat looking 
 at her intently. 
 
 " So ; let me see," said PoUy, not a little tiurried between this earnest 
 scrutiny, her desire to comfort the cluld, her sudden success, and her very 
 shght 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 PoUy, affecting herself beyond mea- 
 sure ; being heartily in earnest, " to teach her little daiighter to be siu:e of 
 that in her heart : and to know that she was happy there and loved her 
 stiU : 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 cliild, springing up, and clasping 
 her roimd the neck. 
 
 " And the child's heart," said PoUy, di-aAvmg her to her breast : " the 
 little daughter's heart, was so full of the truth of this, that even when 
 she heard it fi'om a strange nm-se that couldn't tell it right, but Avas 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 
 cm-Is and dropping tears upon them. " There, poor dear !" 
 
 " Oh AveU Miss Floy ! And won't yom' Pa be angry neither ! " cried 
 a quick voice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown, womanly girl of 
 fom-teen, with a Httle snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads. " When 
 it was 'tickerlerly given out that you wasn't to go and worrit the M^et 
 nm-se." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 19 
 
 " She don't woriy me," was the sui-prised rejoinder of Polly. " I am 
 veiy fond of children." 
 
 " Oh ! but begging yonr pardon, Mrs. Eichards, that don't matter you 
 know," returned the black-eyed girl, who was so desperately shai-p and 
 biting that she seemed to make one's eyes water. " I may be very fond 
 of pennywinkles Mi's. Eichards, but it don't foUoAV that I 'm to have 'em 
 for tea." 
 
 " Well, it don't matter," said Polly. 
 
 "Oh, thank'e Mrs. Eichards, don't it!" returned the sharp gu-1. 
 " Eemembering, however, if you '11 be so good, that Miss Ploy 's under my 
 charge, and Master Paid 's under your'n." 
 
 " But still we needn't quaii'el," said Polly. 
 
 " Oh no, Mrs. Eichards," rejoined Spitfire. " Not at all, I don't wish 
 it, we needn't stand upon that footing. Miss Ploy being a peraianency. 
 Master Paul a temporaiy." Spitfire made use of none but comma pauses ; 
 shooting out whatever she had to say ui one sentence, and in one breath, 
 if possible. 
 
 " Miss Florence has just come home, hasn't she ?" asked PoUy. 
 
 " Yes, Mi's. Eichards, just come home, and here, Miss Ploy, before 
 you 've been in the house a quarter of an horn*, you go a smearing your 
 wet face against the expensive mourning that Mrs. Eichards is a wearing 
 for yoiu* Ma ! " With this remonstrance, yoimg Spitfii'e, 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 tlie exces- 
 sively sharp exercise of her official functions, than with any deliberate 
 imkindness. 
 
 " She '11 be quite happy, now she has come home again," said Polly, 
 nodding to her ^v'ith an encouraging smile upon her wholesome face, " and 
 will be so pleased to see her dear Papa to-night." 
 
 " Cork, Mrs. Eichards !" cried Miss Nipper, taking up her words with 
 a jerk. " Don't. See her dear Papa indeed ! I should like to see her 
 doit!" 
 
 " Won't she then ? " asked PoUy. 
 
 " Lork, Mrs. Eichards, no, her Pa 's a deal too ^vi-appedup in somebody 
 else, and before there was a somebody else to be Avrapped up in she never 
 was a favorite, gii'ls are throAvn away in this house, Mrs. Eichards, / 
 assure you.'* 
 
 The child looked quickly from one nm'se to the other, as if she under- 
 stood and felt Avhat was said, 
 
 "You sui-prise me!" cried Polly. "Hasn't Mr. Dombey seen her 
 since — " 
 
 " No," iuten-upted 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, IVIi-s. Eichards, as to me" said Spitiire, with a 
 giggle, " I doubt if he 's aweer of my existence." 
 
 "Pretty dear!" said Eichards j meaning, not Miss Nipper, but the 
 little Florence. 
 
 " Oh ! there 's a Tartar within a hundred miles of where we 're now iu 
 
 c 2 
 
20 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 conversation, I can tell you, Mrs. Ricliards, present company always ex- 
 cepted too," said Susan Nipper ; " wish you good morning, Mrs. Richards, 
 now Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don't go hanging back hke 
 a naughty wicked child that judgments is no example to, don't !" 
 
 In spite of being thus adjui-ed, and in spite also of some haiding on the 
 part of Susan Nipper, tending towards the dislocation of her right shoidder, 
 little Florence broke away, and kissed her new friend, affectionately. 
 
 "Goodbye!" said the child. " God bless you! I shall come to see 
 you again soon, and you 'U 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 Avhich holds that child- 
 hood, hke 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. Eichards and me vnR see what can be done, if Mrs. Richards 
 Hkes, I may -wish, you see, to take a voyage to Chancy, Mrs. Richards, but 
 I mayn't know how to leave the London Docks." 
 
 Richards assented to the proposition. 
 
 "Tliis house ain't so exactly ringing with merry-making," said Miss 
 Nipper, " that one need be loneHer than one must be. Tour Toxes and 
 your Chickses may di'aAv out my two front double teeth, INIrs. 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 agreeable, I 'm siu'e," said Susan Nipper, " to live friendly, 
 Mrs. Richards, wliile Master Paul continues a permanency, if the means 
 can be planned out without going openly against orders, but goodness 
 gi'acious ME, Miss Floy, you haven't got youi" things oft" 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 cpiiet, and imcom- 
 plaining ; was possessed of so nmch affection that no one seemed to care to 
 have, and so much sorroAvfid intelligence that no one seemed to mind or 
 think about the wounding of; that Polly's heart was sore when she Avas 
 left alone again. In the simple passage that had taken place between her- 
 self 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 some- 
 thing of confidence and interest between them from that moment. 
 
 Notwithstanchng Mr. Toodle's gi-eat rehance on Polly, she was perhaps 
 in point of artificial accompUshments veiy little his superior. But she was 
 a good plain sample of a natm'e that is ever, in the mass, better, truer, 
 higher, nobler, quicker to feel, and much more constant to retain, aU ten- 
 derness and pity, self-denial and devotion, than the nature of men. And 
 perhaps, unlearned as she w^as, she could have brought a dawning know^- 
 ledge home to Mr. Dombey at that early day, which wo\dd not then have 
 struck him in the end like lightning. 
 
 But this is from the piirpose. Polly only thought, at that time, of im- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 21 
 
 proving on her siiccessM propitiation of IMiss Nipper, and devising some 
 means of having Uttle Florence beside her, lawfully, and without rebellion. 
 An opening happened to present itself that veay 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 
 gi-eat sm"prise and dismay, Mi\ Dombey came out, suddenly, and stopped 
 before her. 
 
 " Good evening, Eichards." 
 
 Just the same austere, stiff gentleman, as he had appeared to her on that 
 first day. Such a hard-looking gentleman, that she involuntarily di'opped 
 her eyes and her curtsey at the same time. 
 
 " How is Master Paid, Eichards ?" 
 
 " 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, how- 
 ever, that 'Mx. Dombey, who had tmiied away, stopped, and turned round 
 again, inquiringly. 
 
 " I believe nothing is so good for making children lively and cheerful Sir, 
 as seeing other children playing about 'em," observed Polly, taking covu-age. 
 
 " I tliink I mentioned to you, Eichards, when you came here," said Mr. 
 Dombey, with a frown, " that I wished you to see as little of your family 
 as possible. You can continue your walk if you please." 
 
 With that, he disappeared into his inner room ; and Polly had the satis- 
 faction of feeling that he had thoroughly misunderstood her object, and 
 that she had fallen into disgrace without the least advancement of her 
 piu*pose. 
 
 Next night, she found him walking about the conservatoiy when she 
 came doAvn. As she stopped at the door, checked by tliis unusual sight, 
 and \mcertain whether to advance or retreat, he called her in. 
 
 " 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 Plorence?" 
 
 " Nothing could be better than Miss Florence Sii*," said Polly eagerly, 
 " but I understood from her little maid that they were not to — " 
 
 Mr. Dombey rang the beU, and walked till it was answered. 
 
 "TeU them always to let -Miss Florence be with Eichards w^hen she 
 chooses, and go out ynih. her, and so forth. Tell them to let the cluldreu 
 be together, wiien Eichards Avishes it." 
 
 The iron was now hot, and Eichards striking on it boldly — it was a good 
 cause and she was bold in it, though instinctively afraid of Mr. Dombey — 
 requested that Miss Florence might be sent down then and there, to make 
 friends Avith her little brother. 
 
 She feigned to be dandling the child as the servant retii'ed on this en-and, 
 but she thought she saw that Mr. Dombey's colour changed ; that the ex- 
 pression of his face qixite altered ; that he turned, hurriedly, as if to gainsay 
 what he had said, or she had said, or both, and was onlv'deten-ed bv very 
 shame. 
 
22 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 And she was right. The last time he had seen liis shghted chUd, 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 coidd 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 fi'om liis 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 liis pride, liis previous feebng of indiiference towards httle Florence 
 changed into an uneasiness of an extraordinary kind. 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 Idmself. 
 As if she had an innate knowledge of one jarring and discordant string 
 witliin him, and her vei-v breath could sound it. 
 
 His feeUng about the child had been negative from her bii-th. He had 
 never conceived an aversion to her ; it had not been worth his while or in 
 his humom". She had never been a positively disagi-eeable object to him. 
 But now he was ill at ease about her. She troubled his peace. He woidd 
 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 httle Florence timidly presented herself, Mr. Dombey stopped in 
 his pacing up and down and looked towards her. Had he looked with 
 greater interest and Avith a father's eye, he might have read in her keen 
 glance the impulses and fears that made her waver ; the passionate desire 
 to nm clinging to liim, crying, as she hid her face in his embrace, " Oh 
 father, tiy to love me ! there 's no one else ! " the di-ead of a repulse ; the 
 fear of being too bold, and of offending him ; the pitiable need in which 
 she stood of some assm-ance and encom-agement ; and how her overcharged 
 yovmg heart was wandering to find some natm-al resting-place, for its soitow 
 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 afi-aid of?" 
 
 She came in ; and after glancing round her for a moment with an im- 
 certain air, stood pressing her small hands hard together, close within the 
 door. 
 
 *' Come here, Florence," said her father, coldly. " Do you know who 
 lam?" 
 
 " Yes Papa." 
 
 " Have you notlung 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 trembhng 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. 
 
- # 
 
 n J- ,■ 
 
 !!■., 
 
 i;|^t, 
 
 '"A 
 
 ayAe 
 
 
 (^'• 
 
 ^ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 23 
 
 " There ! Be a good gii'l," he said, patting her on the head, and re- 
 garding her as it were by stealth with a disturbed and doubtM look. " Go 
 toEiehards! Go!" 
 
 His little daughter hesitated for another instant as though she woidd 
 have clung about him stUl, 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 difficxdt to perceive that Florence was at a great disadvantage 
 in her father's presence. It was not oidy a constraint upon the child's 
 mind, but even upon the natm'al gi'ace and freedom of her actions. Still, 
 PoUy persevered Avith aU 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 moui'ning di-ess. " It 's hard indeed," thought PoUy, 
 " if he takes only to one Kttle motherless child, when he has another, and 
 that a girl, before his eyes." 
 
 So, Polly kept her before liis eyes, as long as she could, and managed 
 so well with little Paul, as to make it very plain that he was aU the livelier 
 for his sister's company. When it was time to withdraw up stairs again, 
 she woidd have sent Florence into the inner room to say good-night to her 
 father, but the cliUd was timid and drew back ; and when she vu'ged her 
 again, said, spreading her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out her own 
 nnworthiness, " 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 Avas afraid of iutennipting. Sir, if she came in to say 
 good-night," said Eieliards. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," returned Mr. Dombey. "You can let her come 
 and go without regarding me." 
 
 The cliild 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 addi-ess with which she had brought it to 
 bear : whereof she made a fuU disclosm'e to Spitfire when she was 
 once more safely entrenched up stairs. Miss Nipper received that proof of 
 her confidence, as well as the prospect of their free association for the 
 futm-e, rather coldly, and was anything but enthusiastic in her demonstra- 
 tions of joy. 
 
 " I thought you would have been pleased," said Polly, 
 
 " Oh yes Mrs. Eichards, I 'm very well pleased, thank you," returned 
 Susan, Avho had suddenly become so veiy upright that she seemed to have 
 put an additional bone in her stays. 
 
 " You don't shoAV 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 tlus 
 house and the next, I mayn't exactly like to go to it, ^Irs. Eichards, 
 notAvithstanding ! " 
 
24 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN WHICH SOME MOBE FIRST APPEARANCES ARE MADE ON THE STAGE 
 
 OP 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 clasliing voices 
 were not dro^Tied 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 ^vitliin ten minutes' walk ; the 
 Eoyal Exchange was close at hand ; the Bank of England with its vaults 
 of gold and silver " down among the dead men " undergTound, was theu' 
 magnificent neighbour. Just round the corner stood the rich East India 
 House, teeming with suggestions of precious stuifs and stones, tigers, 
 elephants, howdahs, hookahs, umbrellas, palm trees, palanquins, and gor- 
 geous princes of a brown complexion sitting on cai-pets with theii' slippers 
 very much turned up at the toes. Anywhere in the immediate vicinity 
 there might be seen pictm'cs of ships speeding away fidl 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 shopdoors of nautical instru- 
 ment-makers in taking observations of the hackney coaches. 
 
 Sole master and proprietor of one of these effigies - — of that which might be 
 called, familiarly, the woodenest — of that which thrust itself out above the 
 pavement, right leg foremost, Avith a suavity the least endurable, and had 
 the shoe buckles and flapped waistcoat the least reconcUeable to human rea- 
 son, and bore at its right eye the most offensively disproportionate piece of 
 machinery — sole master and proprietor of that midshipman, and proud of liim 
 too, an elderly gentleman in a Welsh wig had paid house-rent, taxes, rates, 
 and dues, for more years than many a fuU-grown midsliipmau of flesh and 
 blood has numbered in his life ; and midshipmen who have attained a pretty 
 gi'eeu old age, have not been wanting in the English navy. 
 
 Tlie stock in trade of this old gentleman comprised cluonometers, baro- 
 meters, telescopes, compasses, charts, maps, sextants, quadi'ants, and 
 specimens of every kind of instrument used in the working of a ship's 
 com'se, 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 coidd have found the top of, or guessed 
 the use of, or having once examined, could have ever got back again into 
 their mahogony nests without assistance. Everything was jammed into 
 the tightest cases, fitted into the narrowest corners, fenced up beliind the 
 most impertinent cushions, and screwed into the acutest angles, to prevent 
 its philosophical composure from being distm-bed by the rolling of the sea. 
 Such extraordinaiy precautions were taken in eveiy instance to save room, 
 and keep the tiling compact ; and so much practical navigation was fitted, 
 and cushioned, and screwed, into every box (whether the box was a mere 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 25 
 
 slab, as some were, or something between a cocked liat and a star-fish, as 
 others Avere, and those quite niikl 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 secm-ely, 
 to any desert island in the world. 
 
 Many minor incidents in the household life of the Ships' Instrument 
 maker Avho 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 extraordinaiy flavour 
 of rope yam. Pickles were produced upon it, in great wholesale jars, with 
 " dealer in aU kinds of Ships' Provisions " on the label ; spirits were set 
 forth in case bottles with no throats. Old prints of sliips 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 
 parlom- was lighted by a skylight, like a cabin. 
 
 Here he hved too, in skipper-like state, aU. alone yntlx his nephew Walter : 
 a boy of fourteen who looked quite enough Hke a midshipman, to cany out 
 the prevailing idea. But there it ended, for Solomon GDIs himself (more 
 generally called old Sol) was far from having a maritime appearance. To 
 say nothing of his Welsh Avig, which was as plain and stubborn a Welsh wig 
 as ever was worn, and in which he looked like anything but a Kover, he was 
 a slow, quiet-spoken, thoughtfid 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 fom* 
 days successively, through eveiy optical instrument in liis shop, and 
 suddenly come back to the world again, to find it gi-een. The only change 
 ever known in his outward man, was fi"om a complete suit of coffee-color 
 cut very square, and ornamented with glaring buttons, to the same suit of 
 coffee-color minus the inexpressibles, which were then of a pale nankeen. 
 He wore a very precise shirt-frUl, and carried a pair of first-rate spectacles 
 on his forehead, and a tremendous clu'onometer in his fob, rather than doubt 
 which precious possession, he would have believed in a conspiracy against 
 it on the 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 parlor 
 behind the little midshipman, for years upon years : going regularly aloft 
 to bed every night in a hoAvling garret remote from the lodgers, where, 
 when gentlemen of England Avho 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 aiitmnn afternoon, when the reader 
 and Solomon GiUs become acquainted. Solomon Gills is in the act of 
 seeing what time it is by the unimpeachable chi'onometer. The usual daily 
 clearance has been making in the city for an horn* or more ; and the human 
 tide is still rolling westward. ' The streets have thinned,' as INIr. GiUs 
 says, 'veiy much.' It tlireatens to be wet to-night. AU the weather glasses 
 in the shop are in low spirits, and the rain already shines upon the cocked 
 hat of the wooden midsliipman. 
 
 " Where's Walter, I wonder ! " said Solomon Gills, after he had carefully 
 
26 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 put up the clironometer again. " Here's dinner been ready, lialf 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 Avho was slowly 
 working lus way along the piece of brass outside, writing his name over 
 Ml'. GiUs's name with his forefinger. 
 
 " If I didn't know he was too fond of me to make a ran of it, and go 
 and enter liimself aboard ship against my -wishes, I should begin to be 
 fidgetty," said Mi*. GiUs, tapping two or three weather glasses with his 
 knuckles. " I reaUy should. All in the Downs, eh ? Lots of moistm-e ! 
 Well! it 's Avanted.'' 
 
 "I believe," said Mr. Gills, blowing the dust off the glass top of a 
 compass case, " that you don't point more dii-ect and due to the back 
 parlour than the boy's incbnation does after aU. And the parlour couldn't 
 bear straighter either. Due north. Not the twentieth part of a point 
 either way." 
 
 "HaUoa uncle Sol!" 
 
 " HaUoa my boy !" cried the Instrument Maker, turning briskly round. 
 " What ! you are here, are you ! " 
 
 A cheerfid looking, merry boy, fresh with nmning home in the rain; fair- 
 faced, bright-eyed, and curly-haii-ed. 
 
 "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-natiu-edly, "it would be odd if 
 I couldn't get on without a young dog like you a gi-eat deal better than 
 with you. As to dinner being ready, it 's been ready this half-horn- and 
 waiting for you. As to being hungiy, / am ! " 
 
 "Come along then, uncle ! " cried the boy. " Hirrrah for the admu-al ! " 
 
 "Confound the admiral!" retmned Solomon GiUs. "You mean the 
 Lord Mayor." 
 
 " No I don't !" cried the boy. " Hurrah for the admiral. Hmi'ah for 
 the admiral ! For— ward ! " 
 
 At this word of command, the Welsh wig and its wearer were borne 
 without resistance into the back parlom-, as at the head of a boarding pai-ty 
 of five hundi-ed men ; and uncle Sol and his nephew were speedily engaged 
 on a fided sole with a prospect of steak to follow. 
 
 " The Lord Mayor, Wally," said Solomon, " for ever ! No more admii-als. 
 The Lord Mayor 's your admii-al." 
 
 " Oh, is he though ! " said the boy, shaking his head. _ " Why, the Sword 
 Bearer 's better than him. He draws 7«'.s sword sometimes." 
 
 "And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains," returned the uncle, 
 " Listen to me WaUy, listen to me. Look on the mantel-shelf." 
 
 "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'U drink out of anytliing you like, so 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 27 
 
 long as I can drink to you. Here 's to you, Uncle Sol, and Hurrali for 
 the—" 
 
 " Lord Mayor," internipted the old man. 
 
 " For the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, Common Council, and Livery," said the 
 boy. " Long life to 'em ! " 
 
 The Uncle nodded Ms head with gi-eat satisfaction. " And now," he said, 
 "let 's hear sometliing about the Firm." 
 
 " Oh ! there 's not much to be told about the Firm, Uncle," said the boy, 
 plying liis knife and fork. " It 's a precious dark set of offices, and in the 
 room where I sit, there 's a liigh 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 sluiveUed-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 bii"d-cage (I wonder how that ever 
 came there !) and a coal-scuttle." 
 
 " No bankers' books, or cheque books, or bills, or such tokens of Avealth 
 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 
 imctiious emphasis ujjon the Avords. 
 
 " Oh yes, plenty of that I suppose," returned his nephew carelessly ; 
 " but all that sort of thing 's in ]\Ir. Carker's room, or Mr. Morfin's, or 
 Mr. Dombey's." 
 
 " Has Mr. Dombey been there to-day ? " inquii'ed the uncle. 
 
 " Oh yes ! In and out aU 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 Sliips' 
 Instrument Maker.' 'Nephew Sir,' I said. 'I said nephew, boy,' said he. 
 But I could take my oath he said Son, uncle." 
 
 "You're mistaken I dare say. 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 Avas expected to be attentive and punctual, 
 and then he went away. I thought he didn't seem to Hke me much." 
 
 " You mean, I suppose," observed the Instrmnent Maker, " that you 
 didn't seem to Hke him much." 
 
 " WeU, Uncle," returned the boy, laughing. " Perhaps so ; I never 
 thought of that." 
 
 Solomon looked a little gi'aver as he finished his dinner, and glanced 
 from time to time at the boy's bright face. When dinner Avas done, and 
 the cloth Avas cleared aAvay (the entertainment had been brought from a 
 neighbouring eating-house), he Hghted a candle, and Avent down beloAv into 
 a Utile cellar, AvhUe his nephcAV, standing on the mouldy staircase, dutifully 
 held the hght. After a moment's groping here and there, he presently 
 retm-ned Avith a very ancient -looking bottle, covered with dust and dirt. 
 
 "^Tiy, Uncle Sol ! " said the boy, "Avhat are you about ! that 's the 
 wonderful Madeii'a ! — there 's only one more bottle ! " 
 
28 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Uncle Sol nodded liis head, implying that he knew very well what he 
 Avas about ; and ha^ang drawn the cork in solemn silence, filled two glasses 
 and set the bottle and a third clean glass on the table. 
 
 "You shall di-ink the other bottle Wally," he said, "when you have 
 come to good fortune ; when you are a tluiving, 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 coiu'se you have to run, 
 my child. My love to you ! " 
 
 Some of the fog that himg 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 liis Hps, 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 Air. Solomon Gdls with three times 
 three and one cheer more. Hurrah ! and you 'U return thanks, unde, 
 when we diink 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 assiime. 
 
 His Uncle sat looking at him for some time in silence. "VMien 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 coidd hardly Hve if I 
 rehnquished it : but there 's nothing doing, nothing doing. When that 
 uniform was Avorn," pointing out towards the little midshipman, " then 
 indeed, fortunes Avere to be made, and Avere made. But competition, 
 competition — ^new invention, new invention — alteration, alteration — the 
 Avorld 's gone past me. I hardly knoAv Avhere I am myself; much less 
 where my customers arc." 
 
 " Never mind 'em Uncle ! " 
 
 " Since you came home from Aveekly 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." 
 
 " Tavo Uncle, don't you recollect? There was the man aa'Iio came to ask 
 for change for a sovereign — " 
 
 " That 's the one," said Solomon. 
 
 "Why Uncle ! don't you caU the Avoman anybody, Avho came to ask the 
 way to Mile-End Tiu-npike ? " 
 
 " 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 have gone to another shop," said Solomon, 
 in the same tone. 
 
 " But there Avere tAvo of 'em Uncle," cried the boy, as if that were a 
 great triumph. " You said only one." 
 
 "Well, WaUy," resiimed the old man, after a short pause: "not being 
 like the Savages Avho came on Eobinson Crusoe's Island, Ave can't live on 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 29 
 
 a man who asks for change for a sovereign, and a woman who inqiui-es the 
 way to Mile-End Tmnpike. 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-fa sliioned 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 shoidd 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 yom- advantage, ahnost 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 dihgent, try to hke it my dear boy, work for a steady independence, 
 and be happy ! " 
 
 " I '11 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, WaUy, but it won't do 
 in fact : it won't do at aU. It 's natural enough that you shoidd think 
 about it, associating it with all these familiar tilings ; but it Avon't do, it 
 Avon't do." 
 
 Solomon Gills rubbed liis hands Avith an air of stealthy enjoyment, as 
 he talked of the sea, though ; and looked on the seafaring objects about 
 him with inexpressible complacency. 
 
 " Tliink of this Avine for instance," said old Sol, " wliich 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 
 roUing seas : " 
 
 " The thunder, lightning, rain, hail, storm of all kinds," said the boy. 
 
 " To be sm-e," said Solomon, — " that this Avine has passed through. 
 Think what a straining and creaking of timbers and masts : what a 
 whistling and howHng of the gale through ropes and rigging :" 
 
 " What a clambering aloft of men, vying Avith each other Avho shall lie 
 out first upon the yards to furl the icy sails, Avlule the ship rolls and 
 pitches, hke mad ! " cried his nephcAv. 
 
 " Exactly so," said Solomon : " has gone on, over the old cask that 
 held tliis Avine. Why, Avhen 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 Avatch stopped in his pocket ; he lying dead 
 against the main-mast — on the fourteenth of Eebruary, seventeen forty- 
 nine ! " cried Walter, Avith gi-eat animation. 
 
 " Ay, to be sm-e !" cried old Sol, " quite right ! Then, there were five 
 
30 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 hundred casks of such ■\nne aboard ; and all hands (except the fu*st mate, 
 fost lieutenant, two seamen, and a lady, m a leaky boat) going to work to 
 stave the casks, got dnuik and died drunk, singing ' Eide Britannia,' when 
 she settled and went down, and ending with one awM scream in chorus." 
 
 " But when the George the Second drove ashore. Uncle, on the coast of 
 Cornwall, in a dismal gale, two hours before daybreak, on the fom'th of 
 March, 'seventy-one, she had near two hundred horses aboard ; and the 
 horses breaking loose down below, early in the gale, and tearing to and fro, 
 and tramjjhng each other to death, made such noises, and set up such 
 human cries, that the crew believing the ship to be full of devils, some of 
 the best men, losing heart and head, Avent overboard in despau", and only 
 two were left aUve, at last, to tell the tale." 
 
 "And when," said old Sol, "when the Polyphemus — " 
 
 " Private West India Trader, bm'den thi'ce hundred and fifty tons, Captain, 
 John Brown of Deptford. Owners, Wiggs and Co.," cried Walter. 
 
 " The same," said Sol; "when she took fire, four days' sail with a fair 
 wind out of Jamaica Harbour, in the night, — " 
 
 " There were two brothers on board," interposed his nephew, speaking 
 very fast and loud, "and there not being room for both of them in the only 
 boat that wasn't swamped, neither of them woidd consent to go, until the 
 elder took the younger by the waist, and flung him in. And then the 
 younger, rising in the boat, cried out, ' Dear Edward, think of yom* pro- 
 mised wife at home. I 'm only a boy. No one waits at home for me. 
 Leap down into my place !' and flung himself into the sea !" 
 
 The kindling eye and heightened colom' of the boy, who had risen from 
 his seat in the earnestness of what he said and felt, seemed to remind old 
 Sol of something he had forgotten, or that his encircling mist had hitherto 
 shut out. Instead of proceeding with any more anecdotes, as he had evi- 
 dently intended but a moment before, he gave a short dry cough, and said, 
 "Well ! suppose we change the subject." 
 
 The tnith was, that the simple-minded uncle in his secret attraction 
 towards the marvellous and adventm'ous — of which he was, in some sort, a 
 distant relation, by his trade — liad greatly encom-aged the same attraction 
 in the nephew ; and that everything that had ever been put before the boy 
 to deter him from a life of adventm'e, had had the usual unaccountable 
 effect of sharpening his taste for it. This is invariable. It woidd seem 
 as if there never was a book -written, or a story told, expressly with the 
 object of keeping boys on shore, which did not lure and charm them to the 
 ocean, as a matter of coiu'se. 
 
 But an addition to the httle party now made its appearance, in the shape 
 of a gentleman in a ^^nde suit of blue, with a hook instead of a hand at- 
 tached to his right wrist ; very btishy black eyebrows ; and a thick stick 
 in his left hand, covered all over (like his nose) with knobs. He wore a 
 loose black silk handkerchief round his neck, and such a very large coarse 
 shirt collar, that it looked like a small sail. He was evidently the person 
 for whom the spare mne-glass was intended, and evidently knew it ; for 
 having taken oft' his rough outer coat, and hung up, on a particular peg 
 behind the door, such a hard glazed hat as a sjTnpathetic person's head 
 might ache at the sight of, and which left a red rim round Ids own forehead 
 as if he had been wearing a tight basin, he brought a chair to where the clean 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 m. 
 
 glass was, and sat himself down behind it. He was usually addi-essed as 
 Captain, this \'isitor ; and had been a pilot, or a skipper, or a privateers- 
 man, or all three perhaps ; and was a very salt-looking man indeed. 
 
 His face, remarkable for a brown soUdity, brightened as he shook hands 
 with uncle and nephew ; but he seemed to be of a laconic disposition, 
 and merely said : 
 
 "How goes it?" 
 
 " AU well," said Mr. GiUs, pushing the bottle towards him. 
 
 He took it up, and having smweyed and smelt it, said with extraordi- 
 naiy expression : 
 
 " The," returned the Instrument Maker. 
 
 Upon that he whistled as he filled his glass, and seemed to think they 
 were making holiday indeed. 
 
 " Wal'r ! " he said, arranging his hair (which was tliin) with his hook, 
 and then pointing it at the Instrument Maker, " Look at him ! Love ! 
 Honour ! And Obey ! Overhaid yom- catechism till you find that passage, 
 and when found turn the leaf doAvn. Success, my boy ! " 
 
 He was so perfectly satisfied both with liis quotation and his reference 
 to it, that he coidd not help repeating the words again in a low voice, and 
 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 'em, GiEs," he observed. " It comes of not 
 wasting language as some do." 
 
 The reflection perhaps reminded Mm that he had better, like young 
 Norval's father, " increase his store." At any rate he became silent, and 
 remained so, imtil old Sol went out into the shop to light it up, when he 
 turned to Walter, and said, without any introductory remark : 
 
 " I suppose he coidd make a clock if he tried ? " 
 
 " I shoiddn't wonder. Captain Cuttle," retm-ned the boy. 
 
 " And it woidd go ! " said Captain Cuttle, making a species of serpent 
 in the aii' with his hook. " Lord, how that clock woidd go ! " 
 
 For a moment or two he seemed quite lost in contemplating the pace 
 of this ideal timepiece, and sat looking at the bov as if his face were the 
 dial. 
 
 " But he 's chockfuU of science," he observed, waving his hook towards 
 the stock-in-trade. " Look 'ye here ! Here 's a collection of 'em. Earth, 
 air, or water. It 's all one. Only say where you '11 have it. Up in a 
 balloon? There you are. Down in a beU? There you are. D'ye want 
 to put the North Star in a pair of scales and weigh it ? He 'U do it for 
 you." 
 
 It may be gathered from these remarks that Captain Cuttle's reverence 
 for the stock of instrimients was profound, and that his philosophy knew 
 little or no distinction between trading in it and inventing it. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, with 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 weighed, 
 measured, magnified, electrified, polarized, played the very devil with : and 
 never know how." 
 
 Nothing short of the wonderful Madeii'a, combined with the occasion 
 
32 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 (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 
 Avhich it opened up to view the som-ces of the taciturn delight he had had 
 in eating Sunday dinners in that parlom- for ten years. Becoming a 
 sadder and a AAaser man, he mused and held his peace. 
 
 " Come ! " cried the subject of his admii-ation, retm'ning. " Before you 
 have yoiu* glass of grog, Ned, we must finish the bottle." 
 
 " Stand by ! " said Ned, filling his glass. " Give the boy some more." 
 
 " No more, thank'e, Uncle ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Sol, " a little more. We '11 finish the bottle, to the 
 House, Ned — Walter's house. Why it may be his house one of these 
 days, in part. Wlio knows? Sir Richard Whittington married Ids 
 master's daughter." 
 
 " ' Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are 
 old you will never depart from it,'" interposed the Captain. "Walr! 
 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 to-day. And they do say. Uncle and Captain Cuttle," 
 lowering liis 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 noAv, 
 he is going to have balances struck oftener than formerly, and the"^ books 
 kept closer than they iised to be, and has even been seen (when he thought 
 he wasn't) walking in the Docks, lookhig at his ships and property and 
 aU that, as if he was exulting like, over what he and his son a\4i1 possess 
 together. That 's what they say. Of course, / don't know." 
 
 " He knows all about her akeady, you see," said the Listrument 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, humoiu-ing the joke. 
 
 " Very much," said the Captain. 
 
 " Nevertheless, we '11 drink him," pursued Sol. " So, here 's to Dombey 
 and Son." 
 
 " Oh, veiy well, uncle," cried the boy, men-ily, " Since you have intro- 
 duced the mention of her, and have connected me Avith her, and have said 
 that I know aU about her, I shall make bold to amend the toast. So 
 here's to Dombey — and Son — and Daughter ! " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 33 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Paul's progress and christening. 
 
 Little Paul, suifering 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 ajopre- 
 ciated by Mr. Dombey that he began to regard her as a woman of great 
 natm-al good sense, whose feelings did her credit and deserved encourage- 
 ment. He was so lavish of his condescension, that he not only bowed to 
 her, in a particidar manner, on several occasions, but even entrusted such 
 stately recognitions of her to his sister as " pray teU your friend, Loiusa, 
 that she is very good," or "mention to Miss Tox, Louisa, that I am 
 obliged to her ; " speciaUties which made a deep impression on the lad/ 
 thus distinguished. 
 
 Miss Tox was often in the habit of assuring Mi's. Chick, that " nothing 
 coidd exceed her interest in all connected Avith the development of that 
 sweet chdd;" and an observer of Miss Tox's jiroceedings might have 
 inferred so much without declaratory coniirmation. She would preside 
 over the innocent repasts of the young heir, with ineffable satisfaction ; 
 almost with an air of joint proprietorship ^vith Eichards in the entertain- 
 ment. 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 ]VIi\ Dombey was 
 introduced into the nm'sery by his sister, to behold his son, in the course 
 of preparation for bed, taking a short walk uphdl over Kichards's gown, in 
 a short and airy linen jacket. Miss Tox was so transported beyond the 
 ignorant present as to be unable to refrain fi'om crying out, " Is he not 
 beautiful, IVIi-. Dombey ! Is he not a Cupid, sir ! " and then almost 
 sinking behind the closet door ivith confusion and blushes. 
 
 " Louisa," said Mi-. Dombey, one day, to his sister, " I really think I 
 must present yom- friend with some httle token, on the occasion of Paid's 
 chi'istening. She has exerted herself so warmly in the child's behalf from 
 the fii'st, 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, Avho showed a fitting reverence for his. It was not so much 
 theu- merit that they knew themselves, as that they knew him, and bowed 
 low before him. 
 
 " My dear Pad," retm-ned his sister, "you do jVIiss Tox but justice, as 
 a man of your penetration was sure, I knew, to do. I believe if there are 
 three words in the Enghsh language for which she has a respect amounting 
 almost to veneration, those words are, Dombey and Son." 
 
 D 
 
34 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Dombey, " I believe it. It does Miss Tox credit." 
 
 " And as to anytliing in the shape of a token, my dear Paul," pursued 
 his sister, " all I can say is that anytliing you give IVIiss Tox wiU 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 stOl more 
 flattering and acceptable manner, if you should be so inclined." 
 
 "How is that?" asked Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Godfathers, of course," continued ^^Ii's. 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 yom'self. I might have expected nothing else from you. I 
 might have known that such woidd have been yoiu- opinion. Perhaps;" 
 here Mi's. Chick faltered again, as not quite comfortably feeling her way ; 
 "perhaps that is a reason why you might have the less objection to 
 allomng Miss Tox to be godmother to the dear thing, if it were only as 
 deputy and proxy for some one else. That it would be received as a gi'eat 
 honour and distinction. Paid, I need not say." 
 
 "Louisa," said Mi". Dombey, after a short pause, "it is not to be 
 supposed — " 
 
 " Certainly not," cried IVIi's. Cliick, hastening to anticipate a refusal, " I 
 never thought it was." 
 
 Mr. Dombey looked at her impatiently. 
 
 " Don't flun-y 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 
 Panny departed." 
 
 Mr. Dombey glanced at the pocket-handkerchief Avhich his sister applied 
 to her eyes, and resumed : 
 
 " It is not to be supposed, I say — " 
 
 " And I say," murmm-ed Mrs. Chick, " that I never thought it was." 
 
 " Good Heaven, Louisa ! " said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " No, my dear Paid," she remonstrated with tearful dignity, " I must 
 reaUy 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 
 Panny — I would still say I never thought it was. And what is more," 
 added ISIrs. Chick with increased dignity, as if she had withheld her crusldng 
 argument until now, " I never did think it was." 
 
 Mr. Dombey walked to the windoAv and back again. 
 
 " It is not to be supposed, Louisa," he said (Mrs. Chick had nailed her 
 coloiu-s 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 recognized 
 any claim at all in such a case, have a claim upon me superior to Miss 
 Tox's. But I do not. I recognize no such thing. Paul and myself 
 will be able, when the time comes, to hold oiu- own — the house, in other 
 words, wiU 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 35 
 
 foreign help which people usually seek for their cliildren, I can afford to 
 despise ; being above it, I hope. So that Paid's infancy and childhood 
 pass away well, and I see liim becoming qualified -svithout waste of time 
 for the career on wliich he is destined to enter, I am satisfied. He wiU 
 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 Fu-m. Until then, I am enough for Mm, perhaps, and all in aU. I 
 have no wish that people should step in between us. I would much 
 rather show my sense of the obhging conduct of a deserving person like 
 yoiu- friend. Therefore let it be so ; and your husband and myself will do 
 weU enough for the other sponsors, I dare say." 
 
 In the com-se of these remarks, dehvered with gi-eat majesty and gran- 
 deiu:, Mr. Dombey had truly revealed the secret feehngs of his breast. An 
 indescribable distmst of anybody stepping in between himself and his son; 
 a haughty di-ead of having any rival or partner in the boy's respect and 
 deference ; a sharp misgiving, recently acquired, that he was not infalhble 
 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 
 sold. In aU liis hfe, he had never made a friend. His cold and distant 
 nature had neither sought one, nor found one. And now, when that 
 natm-e 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 bm-den, and then frozen with it into one 
 unyielding block. 
 
 Elevated thus to the godmothership of httle Paid, in vu-tue of her insig- 
 nificance. Miss Tox was from that horn* chosen and appointed to office ; 
 and Ml". Dombey further signified his pleasure that the ceremony, already 
 long delayed, shoidd take place Avithout fm-ther 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 JVIr. 
 Dombey was left alone in his hbrary. 
 
 There was anything but solitude in the nursery ; for there, IVIrs. Chick 
 aud Miss Tox were enjoyuig a social evening, so much to the disgust of 
 Miss Susan Nipper that that young lady embraced eveiy opportunity of 
 making ^vry faces behind the door. Her feelings were so much excited on 
 the occasion, that she found it indispensable to afford them this relief, 
 even Avithout having the comfort of any audience or sympathy whatever- 
 As the knight-errants of old relieved their minds by carving their mis- 
 tress's names in deserts, and wildernesses, and other savage places where 
 there was no probabiHty 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 caU names out in the passage. 
 
 The two interlopers, however, blissfully unconscious of the young lady's 
 sentiments, saw little Paul safe tlu'ough all the stages of undi-essing, aiiy 
 exercise, supper and bed ; and then sat down to tea before the fii-e. The 
 two children now lay, through the good offices of PoUy, 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. 
 
 i> 2 
 
36 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "How sound she sleeps ! " said Miss Tox, 
 
 " Why, you know, my dear, she takes a gi-eat deal of exercise in the 
 course of the day," returned Mi'S. Chick, "playing about little Paid so 
 much." 
 
 " She is a curious child," said Miss Tox. 
 
 "My dear," retorted Mrs. Chick, in a low voice: "Her mama, aU 
 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 %Vas expected of her. 
 
 " Florence wiU 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 wony myself about her," said Mrs. Chick, with 
 a sigh of modest merit. " I reaUy don't see what is to become of her 
 when she gi-ows older, or what position she is to take. She don't gain on 
 her papa in the least. How can one expect she shoidd, when she is so 
 veiy milike a Dombey ?" 
 
 Miss Tox looked as if she saw no way out of such a cogent argument 
 as that, at aU. 
 
 " And the child, you see," said IVIi's. Chick, in deep confidence, " has 
 poor dear Fanny's nature. She'll never make an eft'ort in after-life, I'll 
 "ventm-e to say. Never ! She'll never wind and twine herseLT about her 
 papa's heart like — " 
 
 "Like the ivy?" suggested Miss Tox. 
 
 "Like the ivy," Mrs. Chick assented. "Never! She'll never ghde 
 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 yom'self, my dear," said Miss Tox, in a sooth- 
 ing voice. " Now, really ! You have too much feeling." 
 
 " We have all om- faidts," said Mrs. Chick, weeping and shaking her 
 head. " I dare say 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 IVIrs. Chick — a common-place piece of 
 foUy 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 life- 
 time : and to thorougldy believe herself, and take herself in, and make 
 herself uncommonly comfortable on the strength of her toleration ! What 
 a mighty pleasant vntue toleration shoidd be when we are right, to be so 
 veiy pleasant when we are wrong, and quite unable to demonstrate how we 
 come to be invested with the privilege of exercising it ! 
 
 IV&s. Chick was yet diying her eyes and shaking her head, Avlien 
 Eichards made bold to caution her that Miss Florence was awake and 
 sitting in her bed. Slie had risen, as the niu'se said, and the lashes of 
 her eyes were Avet 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 3T; 
 
 " Oh ! dear nm-se ! " said tlie childj looking earnestly up in her face, 
 '• let me lie by my brother ! " 
 
 "Why, my pet?" said Kichards, 
 
 " Oh ! I tliink he loves me," cried the child wildly. " Let me lie by 
 him. Pray do !" 
 
 'Mis. Chick interposed with some motherly words about going to sleep 
 like a dear, but Florence repe^ed her supplication, with a frightened look, 
 and in a voice broken by sobs and tears. 
 
 " I '11 not wake him," she said, covering her face and hanging down her 
 head. " I 'U only touch liim with my hand, and go to sleep. Oh, pray, 
 pray, let me lie by my brother to night, for I beUeve he 's fond of me !" 
 
 llichards took her without a word, and carrying her to the Uttle bed in 
 which the infant was sleeping, laid her down by liis side. She crept as 
 near liim as she cotild without disturbing Ms rest ; and stretching out one 
 arm so that it timidly embraced his neck, and hiding her face on the other, 
 over wliich her damp and scattered hair fell loose, lay motionless. 
 
 " Poor little thing," said Miss Tox ; " she has been dreaming, I dare say." 
 
 This trivial incident had so interrupted the cmTcnt of conversation, that it 
 was difficidt of resmnption; and Mrs. Cliick 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 
 gi-eat 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 caiTy 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 IVIi-s. CMck, " is 
 generally damp, my dear." 
 
 " Yes, Miss," said Towlinson. 
 
 " I '11 trouble you also, if you please, Towhnson," said Miss Tox, " with 
 this card and this shilling. He 's to drive to the card, and is to under- 
 stand that he wiU not on any account have more than the shilUng." 
 
 " No, Miss," said Towhnson. 
 
 " And — I 'm sorry to give you so much trouble, Towhnson," — said IMiss 
 Tox, looking at him pensively. 
 
 " Not at all. Miss," said Towhnson. 
 
 " 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 wiU be punished terribly. You can pretend to say that, if 
 you please, Towhnson, in a friendly way, and because you know it Avas 
 done to another man who died. 
 
 " Certainly, Miss," said Towhnson. 
 
 " 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 warai 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 
 
38 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 deparhire of ]Mrs. CMck. 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 aggTavated, who ever heard 
 the like of them two Griffins, Mrs. Kichards ?" 
 
 " And then to talk of her having been dreaming, poor dear !" said PoUy. 
 
 " 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 sheAVon't, we don't want any more such, one 's enough." 
 
 " Don't wake the children, Susan dear," said PoUy. 
 
 " I 'm very much beholden to you, ]Mi"s. Eichards," said Susan, who 
 was not by any means discriminating in her wrath, " and really feel it as a 
 honom' to receive yom* commands, being a black slave and a mtilotter. IMrs. 
 Eichards, if there 's any other orders you can give me, pray mention 'em." 
 
 " Nonsense ; orders," said PoUy. 
 
 " Oh ! bless your heart, Mrs. Eichards," cried Susan, " temporaries 
 always orders permanencies here, didn't you know that, why wherever was 
 you born, Mrs. Eichards? But wherever you was born, Mrs. Eichards," 
 pursiied 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. Eichards, but a person may be veiy far from diving." 
 
 "There now," said PoUy, "you're angi-y because you're a good little 
 thing, and fond of Miss Plorence ; and yet you tm'n round on me, because 
 there's nobody else." 
 
 " It 's very easy for some to keep their tempers, and be soft-spoken, 
 Mrs. Eichards," returned Susan, sUghtly modified, " when theu* child 's 
 made as much of as a prince, and is petted and patted tiU it wishes its 
 fi-iends further, but when a sweet young pretty innocent, that never ought to 
 have a cross word spoken to or of it, is run down, the case is very different 
 indeed. My goodness gi-acious me. Miss Ploy, you naughty, sinful chUd, 
 if you don 't shut yom* eyes this minute, I 'U caU in them hobgoblins that 
 lives in the cock-loft to come and eat you up alive !" 
 
 Here Miss Nipper made a horrible lomng, supposed to issue from a 
 conscientious goblin of the buU species, impatient to discharge the severe 
 duty of his position. Having fui-ther composed her young charge by 
 covering her head w^ith the bed-clothes, and making tlu-ee or fom' angry 
 dabs at the piUow, 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 nurseiy phrase, " to take a deal of notice 
 for his age," he took as Uttle notice of aU this as of the preparations for 
 his christening on the next day but one ; which nevertheless went on about 
 him, as to his personal appai-el, and that of his sister and the two nm-ses, 
 with gi-eat activity. Neither did he, on the arrival of the appointed 
 moniing, show any sense of its importance ; being, on the contrary, 
 unusually incUned to sleep, and unusuaUy incUned to take it iU in liis 
 attendants that they di'cssed 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. ]\Ii-. Dombey represented 
 
b 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 39 
 
 in himself the "wind, the shade, and autumn of the christening. He stood 
 in Ms libraiy to receive the company, as hard and cokl as the weather ; 
 and when he looked out thi-ough the glass room, at the trees in the little 
 garden, their brown and yellow leaves came fluttering down, as if he 
 blighted them. 
 
 tjgh ! They were black, cold rooms ; and seemed to be in momTung, 
 like the inmates of the house. The books jn-ecisely matched as to size, and 
 drawn up in hue, 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. IVIr. Pitt, in 
 bronze, on the top, with no trace of his celestial origin about him, g-uarded 
 the miattainable treasure like an enchanted Moor. A dusty urn at each 
 high comer, 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 fii'e-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 liis creaking boots. But this was 
 before the amval 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 Mi-. Dombey, grimly. " How do you do, 
 Ml-. John?" 
 
 " How do you do. Sir," said Chick. 
 
 He gave Mi-. Dombey liis hand, as if he feared it might electi-ify him. 
 IVIr. ])ombey took 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, sHghtly tm-ning his head in liis 
 cravat, as if it were a socket, "you would have prefeiTcd a fire ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear Paid, no," said Mrs. Chick, who had much ado to keep 
 her teeth from chattering ; " not for me." 
 
 "Ml-. John," said Mr. Dombey, "you are not sensible of any chiU?" 
 
 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. Ciiick 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 aimounced : 
 
 " Miss Tox ! " 
 
 And enter that fair enslaver, with a blue nose and an indescribably frosty 
 face, referable to her being very thinly clad in a maze of fluttering odds 
 and ends, to do honor 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 Ml-. Dombey's advancing a step or two to meet her. 
 
 " I can never forget this occasion, Su-," said Miss Tox, softly. " 'Tis 
 impossible. My dear Louisa, I can hardly believe the evidence of my 
 
 senses " 
 
40 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 If Miss Tox could believe tlie 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 temperatui-e, it should dis- 
 agreeably astonish the baby when she came to kiss it. 
 
 The baby soon appeared, carried in great glory by Eichards ; while Flo- 
 rence, in custody of that active young constable, Susan Nipper, brought up 
 the rear. Though the Avhole nurseiy party were dressed by this time in 
 lighter mourning than at fii'st, there was enough in the appearance of the 
 bereaved childi'en to make the day no brighter. The baby too — ^it might 
 have been IVIiss Tox's nose — began to cry. Thereby, as it happened, 
 preventing Mr. Chick from the awkward fidfilment of a very honest pm-pose 
 he had ; wliich was, to make much of Florence. For this gentleman, in- 
 sensible to the superior claims of a perfect Dombey (perhaps on account of 
 having the honom* to be imited to a Dombey himself, and being familiar 
 with excellence), really liked her, and shewed that he Mked her, and was 
 about to shew it in his own way now, when Paul cried, and his helpmate 
 stopped liim short, 
 
 " Now Florence cliild ! " said her aunt, briskly, " what are you doing, 
 love ? Shew yourself to him. Engage his attention, my dear ! " 
 
 The atmosphere became or might have become colder and colder, when 
 ]\Ii-. Dombey stood frigidly watching Ms little daughter, who, clapping her 
 hands, and standing on tiptoe before the thi'one of his son and heir, lured 
 him to bend down from liis high estate, and look at her. Some honest 
 act of Kichards' 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 liis tiny hands, wliile she smothered him 
 with kisses. 
 
 Was ]Mi\ Dombey pleased to see this ? He testified no pleasm*e by the 
 relaxation of a nerve ; but outward tokens of any kind of feeling were un- 
 usual with him. If any sunbeam stole into the room to light the childi-en 
 at then* play, it never reached his face. He looked on so fixedly and 
 coldly, that the warm light vanished even from the laugliing eyes of little 
 Florence, when, at last, they happened to meet liis. 
 
 It was a duU, gTcy, autumn day indeed, and in a minute's pause and 
 silence that took place, the leaves fell sorrowfully. 
 
 " ]\£i-. John," said ]\Ii-. Dombey, referring to liis watch, and assuming 
 his hat and gloves. " Take my sister, if you please : my arm to-day is 
 ^liss Tox's. You had better go first with Master Paid, Kichards. Be 
 very careful." 
 
 in 'Mi: Dombey's carnage, Dombey and Son, Miss Tox, ]\Irs. Chick, 
 Eichards, and Florence. In a little carriage following it, Susan Nipper 
 and the owner IMr. Chick. Susan looking out of window, without inter- 
 mission, 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 compUment for herself. 
 
 Once upon the road to church, ill-. Dombey clapped his hands for tlie 
 amusement of his son. At which instance of parental enthusiasm Miss 
 
% 
 
 'M: 
 
W ^ li^ >|FJ| 
 
 / 
 
 , /yy Ovy, 
 
 "Z 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 41 
 
 Tox was enchanted. But exclusive of this incident, the chief difference 
 between the christening party and a party in a moui'ning coach, consisted 
 in the colours of the caniage 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 coach door, looked like another beadle. A beadle less gor- 
 geous but more di-eadful ; the beadle of private life ; the beadle of our 
 business and oui- bosoms. 
 
 Miss Tox's hand trembled as she slipped it through ]\Ir. Dombey's arm, 
 and felt herself escorted up the steps, preceded by a cocked hat and a 
 Babylonian coUar. It seemed for a moment like that other solemn insti- 
 tution " Wilt thou have this man, Lucretia ?" " Yes, I wUl." 
 
 "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 mth Hamlet "into my grave ?" so chiU 
 and earthy Avas the place. The tail shrouded pulpit and reading desk ; the 
 dreary perspective of empty pews stretching away \inder the galleries, 
 and empty benches mounting to the roof and lost in the shadow of 
 the great giim organ ; the dusty matting and cold stone slabs ; the grisly 
 free seats in the aisles ; and the damp corner by the beU-rope, where the 
 black tressels used for funerals were stowed away, along with some shovels 
 and baskets, and a coil or two of deadly-looking rope ; the strange, un- 
 usual, uncomfortable smell, and the cadaverous light ; were aU in unison. 
 It was a cold and dismal scene. 
 
 " There 's a wedding just on, sir," said the beadle, " but it 'U be over 
 directly, if you 'U 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) remem- 
 bered to have had the pleasm'e 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 eye-glass 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 undei-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 
 volmnes) gorged with burials. Over the fireplace Avas a ground-plan of 
 the vaults underneath the chm'ch ; and Mr. Chick, skimming the literary 
 portion of it aloud, by way of enlivening the company, read the reference 
 to IVIi's. 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 chm'chyard, if not to the church, summoned 
 them to the font. Here they waited some little time wliile 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 buUding coughing like a grampus. 
 
 Presently the clerk (the only cheerful-looking object there, and lie was 
 an undertaker) came up vpith a jug of warm water, and said something, as 
 he poured it into the font, about taking the chill off; which millions of 
 
4^ DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 gallons boiling liot could not have clone for the occasion. Then the cler- 
 gyman, an amiable and mild-looking young curate, but obviously afraid of 
 the baby, appeared like the principal character in a ghost-story, " a tail 
 figiu-e aU 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 poi-tico, dm-ing the rest of the ceremony, now 
 fainter, now louder, now hushed, now bm-sting forth again with an irre- 
 pressible 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 IVIiss Tox kept her Prayer- 
 book open at the Gunpowder Plot, and occasionally read responses from 
 that service. , 
 
 During the whole of these proceedings, JVir. 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 mibent his visage in the least, was when the clergyman, in 
 deUvering (very unaifectedly and simply) the closing exhortation, relative 
 to the futm'e examination of the child by the sponsors, happened to rest 
 his eye on INIr. Chick ; and then IVir. Dombey might have been seen to 
 express by a majestic look, that he woidd hke 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 gi'cat origin and piu'pose of 
 the ceremony in which he took so formal and so stiff a part, a little more. 
 His aiTOgance contrasted strangely with its history. 
 
 Wlien it was aU over, he again gave his aitn to Miss Tox, and conducted 
 her to the vestiy, where he informed the clergyman how much pleasure it 
 would have given him to have solicited the honom* of his company at 
 dinner, but for the mrfortunate 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 gi-atitied, and the sexton (who was acci- 
 dentally on the door-steps, looking with great interest at the weather) not 
 forgotten, they got into the carriages again, and drove home in the same 
 bleak fellowship. 
 
 There they found Mr. Pitt tm-ning up his nose at a cold coUation, set 
 forth in a cold pomp of glass and sdver, and looking more like a dead 
 dinner lying in state than a social refreshment. On their amval, 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 IVIiss Tox ; and, on 
 the receipt of this token, Miss Tox was tenderly affected. 
 
 " Mr. John," said ]\Ii-. Dombey, " wiU you take the bottom of tlie 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 i/oti 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 wdl 
 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 
 tui-ning into a " Hem ! " The veal had come from such an any pantry, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 43 
 
 ttat tlie first taste of it stiniclc a sensation as of cold lead to Mr. Chick's 
 extremities. Mr. Dombey alone remained unmoved. He miglit 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 flatteiy or small-talk, and dii'ected all her efforts to looking 
 as warm as she could. 
 
 " WeU, Sii'," said Mr. Chick, making a desperate plunge, after a long 
 silence, and filling a glass of sherry ; " I shall drink tins, if you '11 allow 
 me, Sii', to little Paul." 
 
 " Bless him !" murmm-ed IVIiss Tox, taking a sip of wine. 
 
 " Dear little Dombey !" mmTuured Mrs. Chick. 
 
 " Mr. John," said IMr. Dombey, with severe gravity, " my son would feel 
 and express himself obliged to you, I have no doubt, if he could appre- 
 ciate the favour you have done him. He wiU prove, in time to come, I 
 trust, equal to any responsibility that the obliging disposition of his rela- 
 tions and friends, in private, or the onerous natiu'e of our position, in 
 public, may impose upon him." 
 
 The tone in wliicli 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 Mi's. Chick softly : 
 
 "Louisa!" 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Chick. 
 
 " Onerous nature of om* 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 flo^ving. Obliging disposition cf relations and friends in 
 private, or onerous nature of position in pubhc — may — impose upon 
 Mm ? " 
 
 " Impose upon him, to be sure," said Mi's. Chick. 
 
 Miss Tox struck her delicate hands together Lightly, in triumph ; and 
 added, casting up her eyes, " eloquence indeed !" 
 
 Mr. Dombey, in the meanwliile, had issued orders for the attendance of 
 Eichards, who now entered curtseying, but without the baby ; Paul being 
 asleep after the fatigues of the morning. Mr. Dombey, having delivered 
 a glass of fldne to this vassal, addi-essed her in the following words : Miss 
 Tox previously settling her head on one side, and making other little 
 arrangements for engTaving them on her heart. 
 
 " During the six months or so, Eichards, wliich have seen you an inmate 
 of this house, you have done yom' duty. Desiring to connect some little 
 service to you with tliis occasion, I considered how I could best effect that 
 object, and I also ad\dsed with my sister Mrs. — " 
 
 ". Chick," interposed the gentleman of that name. 
 
 " Oh, hush if you please !" said Miss Tox. 
 
 " I Avas about to say to you, Eichards," resumed Mr. Dombey, with an 
 appalling glance at IVIi-. 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 
 
44) DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 melancholy fact tliat your family, himself at their 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 
 ancfent estabhshment, called (from a worshipful company) the Charitable 
 Grinders ; where not only is a wholesome education bestowed upon the 
 scholars, but where a di-ess and badge is likewise provided for them ; I 
 have (first communicating, through Mrs, Chick, with yoiu- family) nomi- 
 nated yom' 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, tm-ning 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 di-ess, Eichards, 
 is a nice, warm, blue baize tailed coat and cap, tm-ned up v/ith 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, Eichards !" said Miss Tox, " ISTow, indeed, you may be proud. 
 The Charitable Grinders ! " 
 
 "I am sm-e I am very much obliged. Sir," returned Eichards 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 Ms very 
 small legs encased in the serviceable clotliing described by Mrs, Chick, 
 swam before Eichards' eyes, and made them water, 
 
 *' I am very glad to see you have so much feeling, Eichards," 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 left in the Avorld." 
 
 Eichards deferred to these compliments by curtseying and murmm'ing 
 her thanks ; but finding it quite impossible to recover her spirits from the 
 disorder into which they had been throAvn by the image of her son in his 
 precocious nether garments, she gradually approached the door and was 
 heartily reheved to escape by it. 
 
 Such temporaiy indications of a partial thaw as 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 Said, 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. Cluck looked at Miss Tox, and Miss Tox returned the 
 look, and they both rose and said it was really time to go. IVIi-. Dombey 
 receiving this announcement with perfect equanimity, they took leave of 
 that gentleman, and presently departed under the protection of Mr. Chick ; 
 Avho, when they had turned their backs upon the house and left its master 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 45 
 
 in his usual solitary state, put liis hands in his pockets, threw himself back 
 in the carriage, and whistled "With a hey ho chevy!" all through; con- 
 veying into his face as he did so, an expression of such gloomy and tenible 
 defiance, that Mi's. Chick dared not protest, or in any way molest him. 
 
 Eichards, though she had Uttle Paul on her lap, coiild not forget her own 
 first-born. She felt it was ungrateful; but the influence of the day fell 
 even on the Chaiitable Grinders, and she could hardly help regarding liis 
 pewter badge, number one hundi'ed and forty-seven, as, somehow, a part of 
 its formahty and sternness. She spoke, too, in tlie 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." 
 
 " IVhy, then, I teU you what, Mrs. Eichards," retorted Nipper, who 
 had been admitted to her confidence, " see him and make your mind easy." 
 
 " m. Dombey wouldn't like it," said Polly. • 
 
 " Oh wouldn't he, IVIrs. Eichards ! " retorted Nipper, " he 'd like it 
 veiy much, I think, when he was asked." 
 
 " You wouldn't ask liim, I suppose, at aU? " said Polly. 
 
 " No, Mi's. Eichards, quite contrairy," retmned Susan, " and them two 
 inspectors Tox and Chick, not intending to be on duty to-morrow, as I heard 
 'em say, me and ]\Iiss Ploy will go along with you to morrow morning, 
 and welcome, 'Mis. Eichards, if you- like, for we may as well walk there as 
 up and do^vn a street, and better too." 
 
 PoUy 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 for- 
 bidden pictm'es of her childi'en, 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 Paid began to cry most piteously, 
 as if he had a foreboding that no good would come of it. 
 
 " What 's the matter with the cliild ? " 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 di-eary windows, pressed the little feUow 
 closer to her breast, the withered leaves came shoAvering down. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 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 aU 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 excm'sion, and who (Uke Tony Lumpkin), if she could bear the disap- 
 pointments of other people with tolerable fortitu^le, coidd not abide to 
 disappoint herself, thi-cw so many ingenious doubts in the way of tliis 
 
46 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 second tliotiglit, and stimulated tlie original intention witli so many in- 
 genious arguments, that almost as soon as IVIr. Dombey's stately back was 
 turned, and that gentleman was pm-suing his daily road towards the city, 
 liis unconscious son was on his way to Staggs's Gai'dens. 
 
 Tliis euphonious locality was situated in a subm-b, known by the inha- 
 bitants of Staggs's Gardens by the name of Camberhng Town ; a designa- 
 tion 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 mu'ses 
 bent their steps, accompanied by their charges ; Eichards caiiying Paul, 
 of course, and Susan leading Httle Florence by the hand, and giving her 
 such jerks and pokes from time to time, as she considered it wholesome to 
 administer. 
 
 The fii'st shock of a gi-cat earthquake had, just at that period, rent the 
 whole neiglibom'hood to its centre. Traces of its com-se 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 thi'own up ; buildings that were undermined and shaking, 
 propped by great beams of wood. Here, a chaos of carts, overthro-vvn 
 and jumbled together, lay topsy-tm-\T at the bottom of a steep unnatm-al 
 hiE ; there, confused treasm-es of iron soaked and rusted in something that 
 had accidentally become a pond. Eveiywhere were bridges that led 
 nowhere ; thoroughfares that were wholly impassable ; Babel towers of 
 chimneys, wanting half their height ; temporary wooden houses and 
 enclosm-es, in the most unlikely situations ; carcases of ragged tenements, 
 and fragments of unfinished walls and arches, and piles of scaflblding, and 
 wildernesses of bricks, and giant forms of cranes, and tripods straddhng 
 above notliing. There were a hundi-ed thousand shapes and substances of 
 incompleteness, wildly mingled out of their places, upside down, biurow- 
 ing in the earth, aspii-ing in the air, moiddering in the water, and imintel- 
 ligible as any dream. Hot springs and fiery eraptions, the usual attend- 
 ants upon earthquakes, lent then contribiitions of confusion to the scene. 
 BoiHng water liissed and heaved within dilapidated AvaUs ; whence, also, 
 the glare and roar of flames came issuing forth ; and mounds of ashes 
 blocked up rights of way, and whoUy changed the law and custom of the 
 neighboiu'hood. 
 
 In short, the yet unfinished and unopened Eaih'oad was in progress ; and, 
 from the very core of aU this dire disorder, trailed smoothly away, upon its 
 mighty com-se of civilisation and improvement. 
 
 But as yet, the neighbom-hood was shy to own the Eailroad. One or 
 two bold speculators had projected streets ; and one had built a httle, 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 Eailway Arms ; but that might be rash enter- 
 prise — and then it hoped to sell drink to the workmen. So, the Exca- 
 vators' House of Call had sprung up from a beer shop ; and the old- 
 established Ham and Beef Shop had become The Eailway Eating House, 
 with a roast leg of pork daily, thi-ough interested motives of a similar 
 immediate and popular description. Lodgmg-house keepers were favour- 
 able in hke manner ; and for the like reasons were not to be trusted. The 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 general belief was very slow. Tliere Avere frowzy fields, and cowhouses, 
 and dimgliills, and dustheaps, and ditches, and gardens, and summer- 
 houses, and carpet-beating groimds, at the veiy door of the EaUway. Little 
 tumiUi of oyster shells in the oyster season, and of lobster shells in the 
 lobster season, and of broken crockeiy 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 coimtenance. 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, hke many of the 
 miserable neighbours. 
 
 Staggs's Gardens was uncommonly incredidous. It was a Uttle row of 
 houses, with httle squahd patches of ground before them, fenced off with 
 old doors, barrel staves, scraps of tarpauhn, and dead bushes ; with bot- 
 tomless 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 Avas 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 rm-al times when the antlered herd, imder the familiar 
 denomination of Staggses, had resorted to its shady precincts. Be this as 
 it may, Staggs's Gardens was regarded by its popidation as a sacred 
 grove not to be withered by raUroads ; and so confident were they 
 generally of its long outhving 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 Kaih-oad opening, if it ever did open, two of his boys 
 shoidd ascend the flues of his dweRing, with instructions to had the failm'e 
 with derisive jeers 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 httle Paul now 
 borne by Pate and Kichards. 
 
 " That 's my house, Susan," said PoUy, pointing it out. 
 
 " Is it, indeed, Mfs. Eichards," 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 pan* 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. 
 
 "^\'hy, PoUy!" cried Jemima. "You! what a tm'n jou. Imve given 
 me ! who 'd have thought it ! come along in PoUy ! How well you do 
 look to be sure ! The childi-cn Avill go half wild to see you Polly, that 
 they wiU." 
 
 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 Ioav chah in the 
 chimney comer, where her own honest apple face became immediately the 
 centre of a bunch of smaller pippins, all laying then* rosy cheeks close to 
 
48 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 it, and all evidently tlie gi-owth of tlie same tree. As to PoUy, sKe was 
 full as noisy and vehement as tlie cliddren ; and it was not until slie was 
 quite out of breath, and her haii- was hanging all about her flushed face, 
 and her new cln-istening attire was veiy much dishevelled, that any pause 
 took place in the confusion. Even then, the smallest Toodle but one 
 remained in her lap, holcKng 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 ah', 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 Avliat passed, du-ected the attention of the younger 
 branches towards her ; and had Ukewise the happy effect of leading to the 
 formal recognition of Miss Nipper, who was not quite free from a mis- 
 giving 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 Avith myself, if it wasn't for Susan Nipper ; I shouldn't be here 
 now but for her." 
 
 " Oh do sit down Mss Nipper, if you please," cpioth Jemima. 
 
 Susan took the extreme comer of a chau", 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 yom* bonnet-strings and make yom'self at home. Miss 
 Nipper, please," entreated Jemima. " I am afraid it 's a poorer place 
 than you 're used to ; but you '11 make allowances, I 'm sm'e." 
 
 The black-eyed was so softened by this deferential behaviom*, that she 
 caught up little Miss Toodle who was running past, and took her to 
 Banbiu"y 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 '11 break Ms heart, when he 
 hears his mother has been here. He 's at school, Polly." 
 
 " Gone abeady ! " 
 
 " Tes. He went for the first time yesterday, for fear he should lose 
 any learning. But it 's half-holiday, PoUy ; if you could only stop 'till he 
 comes home — you and Mss 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 belund ; but they 'U 
 get longer, Polly, every day." 
 
 It was a slow, prospective kind of consolation ; but the cheerfidness and 
 good nature Avith Avhich it was administered, gave it a value it did not 
 intrinsically possess. Mter a moment's silence, Polly asked, in a more 
 sprightly manner : 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 49 
 
 " And where 's Eather, Jemima dear ? " — for by that patriarchal appel- 
 lation, ^Ii\ Toodle was generally known in the family, 
 
 " There again ! " said Jemima. " Wliat a pity ! Father took his dinner 
 with him this morning, and isn't coming home till night. But he 's 
 always talking of you PoUy, and telling the cliildren 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 PoUy ; delighted by the speech, 
 and disappointed by the absence. 
 
 " Oh you needn't thank me, Polly," said her sister, giving her a sound- 
 ing 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 gi-eeted Avith such a reception ; so 
 the sisters talked hopefidly about family matters, and about Biler, and 
 about all his brothers and sisters : while the black-eyed, having performed 
 several journeys to Banbuiy Cross and back, took sharp note of the furni- 
 ture, the Dutch clock, the cvipboard, the castle on the mantelpiece with 
 red and green mndows in it, susceptible of illumination by a candle-end 
 Avithin ; and the pair of small black velvet kittens, each with a lady's reti- 
 cule 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 tiu-n 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 Avardrobe, and some account of her principal relations and friends. 
 Having relieved her mind of these disclosm'es, she jiartook 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 toadstools 
 and other curiosities of the Gardens, she entered with them, heart and 
 soul, on the formation of a temporary breakwater across a smaU green 
 pool that had collected in a comer. She was stiU busily engaged in that 
 labour, Avhen sought and found by Susan ; who, such Avas her sense of 
 duty, even under the humanizing influence of shrimps, deUvered a moral 
 address to her (punctuated Avitli thumps) on her degenerate natm'e, Avhile 
 Avashing her face and hands ; and predicted that she AA^ould bring the grey 
 hairs of her family in general, Avith sorroAV to the grave. After some 
 delay, occasioned by a pretty long confidential intervieAV above stairs on 
 I^ecuniary subjects, betAveen PoUy and Jemima, an interchange of babies 
 Avas again effected — for PoUy had aU this time retained her OAvn child, and 
 Jemima Uttle Paul — and the visitors took leave. 
 
 But first the yoimg Toodles, victims of a pious fraud, Avere aeluded into 
 repaii-ing in a body to a chandler's shop in the neighbom-hood, for tlie 
 ostensible pm-pose of spending a penny ; and Avhen the coast Avas quite 
 clear, PoUy fled : Jemima caUing after her that if they could only go round 
 toAvards the City Koad on theh Avay back, they would be sure to meet Uttle 
 Biler coming from school. 
 
 " Do you think Ave might make time to go a Uttle romid in that dii-ec- 
 tion, Susan ? " inquired PoUy, Avhen they halted to take breath. 
 
 JG 
 
50 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Wliy not, Mrs. Kichards ? " retm-ned 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 Httle round." 
 
 Now, it happened that poor Biler's hfe had been, since yesterday morning, 
 rendered weary by the costume of the Charitable Grinders. The youth of 
 the streets could not endm^e it. No young vagabond coidd be brought to 
 bear its contemplation for a moment, without throwing himself upon the 
 nnoifending wearer, and doing him a mischief. His social existence had 
 been more hke that of an early Christian, than an innocent child of the 
 nineteenth century. He had been stoned in the streets. He had been 
 overthro^\^l into gutters; bespattered Avith mud; violently flattened against 
 posts. Entire strangers to his person had lifted his yellow cap ofl:" 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 pvmished 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 aU chubby Httle boys had a 
 perfect fascmation. 
 
 Thus it fell out that Biler, on his way home, sought unfrequented paths ; 
 and slunk along by naiTOW passages and back streets, to avoid his 
 tormentors. Being compelled to emerge into the main road, his iU 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 theii- hands — set up 
 a general yell and rushed upon liim. 
 
 But it so fell out likewise, that, at that same time, Polly, looking hope- 
 lessly along the road before her, after a good hoiu-'s walk, had said it was 
 of no use going any fm'ther, when suddeidy she saw this sight. She no 
 sooner saAV 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 Bidl!" was raised. 
 
 With a wald confusion before her, of people i-unning 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 tiU she Avas exhausted, 
 urging Susan to do the same ; and then, stopping and wringing her hands 
 as she remembered they had left the other mu'se behind, found, with a sen- 
 sation of terror not to be described, that she was quite alone. 
 
 "Susan! Susan!" cried Florence, clapping her hands in the very 
 eostacy of her alarm. " Oh, where are they ! where are they !" 
 
 "Where are they?" said an old woman, coming hobbling across as fast 
 
C-'.ycro^jf^ y^^-^^^^'^ 
 
 ^^ /?^.,>//:^/y^-^ rY^^no^, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 51 
 
 as slie could from tlie opposite side of tlie way. " "VVliy did you run away 
 from 'em ? " 
 
 " I was frightened," answered Florence. " I didn't know wliat I did. 
 I thought they were with me. Where are they?" 
 
 The old woman took her by the wrist, and said " I'U show you." 
 
 She was a veiy 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 earned 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 ugUer stiU, 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 sohtaiy 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 fi-ightened now," said the old woman, still holding her 
 tight. " Come along with me." 
 
 " I — I don't know you. What's yom' name ? " asked Florence. 
 
 " Mi-s. Brown," said the old woman. " Good IVIi-s. Brown." 
 
 "Are they near here?" asked Florence, beginning to be led away. 
 
 "Susan an't far otf," said Good IV'Ii-s. Brown; "and the others are 
 close to her." 
 
 "Is anybody hm-t?" ciied Florence, 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said Good Mrs. Bro^vn. 
 
 The child shed tears of dehght on hearuig tliis, 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 IVIi-s. Brown, if there were such a person, was at all like her. 
 
 They had not gone very 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 fuU 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 gi-eat 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 ceihng were 
 quite black. 
 
 The cluld became so terrified that she was stricken speecldess, and 
 looked as though about to swoon. 
 
 " Now don't be a young mule," said Good ]\Irs. 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 supphcation, 
 
 " I 'm not a going to keep you, even, above an horn-," said Mi-s. Brown. 
 " D 'ye understand what I say ? " 
 
 The cluld answered with great difficulty, " Yes." 
 
 " Then," said Good IVIi-s. 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 '11 kiU you. I coidd have you killed at any time— even if you was 
 
 ' E 3 
 
50 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 ill your ovra 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 natm-al 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 yom- name 's Dombey, eh? " said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am." 
 
 " 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, 
 aU the wlnle, 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 leism-e, and seemed tolerably well satisfied with their 
 quality and value. 
 
 " Humph ! " she said, running her eyes over the child's shght figiue. 
 " I don't see anything else — except the shoes. I must have the shoes, 
 Miss Dombey." 
 
 Poor httle Florence took them off Avith equal alacrity, only too glad to 
 have any more means of concihation about her. The old woman then 
 produced some wretched substitutes from the bottom of the heap of rags, 
 which she tmiied up for that purpose ; together with a girl's cloak, quite 
 worn out and very old ; and the crushed remains of a boimet that had pro- 
 bably 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 mth 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 gi-ew 
 luxuriantly, and could not immediately disentangle it. Good ^Irs. Brown 
 whipped out a lai'ge pair of scissors, and fell into an unaccountable state of 
 excitement. 
 
 " Why coiddn't you let me be ! " said JVIi-s. Brown, " when I was con- 
 tented. You Httle fool ! " 
 
 " I beg yom- pardon. I don't know what I have done," panted Florence. 
 " I couldn't help it." 
 
 " Coiddn't help it ! " cried Mrs. Brown. " How do you expect I can 
 help it ? Wliy, Lord ! " said the old woman, ruffling her cm-Is with a 
 fm-ious plcasm'c, " anybody but me woidd have had 'em off", fu-st 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 noAV — 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 -ttdth a wild 
 tossing up of her lean arms, it was fidl of passionate grief, and tlu-iUed to 
 the heart of Florence, whom it frightened more than ever. It had its part, 
 perhaps, in saving her curlsj for IVIi-s. Brown, after hovering about her with 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 53 
 
 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 accompHshed this victory over herself, Mrs. Brown resumed her 
 seat on the bones, and smoked a veiy short black pipe, mowing and 
 mumbhng aU the time, as if she were eating the stem. 
 
 When the pipe was smoked out, she gave the child a rabbit-skin to 
 caiTj'-, 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 
 covld 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 clocks struck 
 tlu-ee. These du-ections Mrs. BroAvn enforced Avith assurances that there 
 would be potent eyes and ears in her employment cognizant of aU 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 thi-ough a labyrinth of narrow streets and lanes and alleys, 
 M'hich emerged, after a long time, upon a stable yard, with a gateway 
 at the end, whence the roar of a great thorouglifare made itself audible. 
 Pointing out tliis gateway, and informing Florence that when the clocks 
 struck thi'ee she was to go to the left, IVIi's. Brown, after making a part- 
 ing gi-asp at her hair which seemed involuntaiy 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 afi'aid, Florence felt herself released, 
 and tripped off to the comer. WTien 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 
 afteiTvards — eveiy 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 meanwliile the clocks appeared to 
 have made up their minds never to strike three any more. At last the 
 steeples rang out tlu'ee o'clock ; there was one close by, so she couldn't 
 be mistaken ; and — after often looking over her shoulder, and often going 
 a httle way, and as often coming back again, lest the aU-poAverful spies of 
 IVIi's. Brown should take offence — she hurried off, as fast as she could in 
 her slipshod shoes, holding the rabbit skin tight in her hand. 
 
 AU 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 
 coidd only ask the way to Dombey and Son's in the city ; and as she 
 generally made the inquiry of children — being afraid to ask gTown people — 
 she got very httle satisfaction indeed. But by dint of asking her way to 
 the city after a while, and dropping the rest of her inquuy for the present, 
 she reaUy did advance, by slow degi-ees, towards the heart of that great 
 region which is governed by the temble Lord Mayor. 
 
 Tired of walking, repulsed and pushed about, stunned by the noise and 
 
54 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 confusion, anxions for lier brother and the nm-ses, terrified by what she had 
 undergone, and tlie prospect of encountering her angry father in sucli 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 tearfid eyes, and once or twice could not help stopping to 
 ease her biursting 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 aU the finnness and self-rehance of a character that her sad experience 
 had prematurely fonned and tried ; and keeping the end she had in view, 
 steadily before her, steadily pm-sued it. 
 
 It was fidl two hours later in the afternoon than when she had started 
 on this strange adventiu-e, when, escaping from the clash and clangor of a 
 narrow street fuU of carts and waggons, she peeped into a kind of wharf 
 or landing-place upon the river side, where there were a great many pack- 
 ages, casks, and boxes, stre^vn about ; a large pair of wooden scales ; and 
 a little wooden house on wheels, outside of which, looking at the neigh- 
 boui'ing 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 dare say. 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 stroUing carelessly towards her, seemed sur- 
 prised by this reply, and looking attentively in her face, rejoined : 
 
 " Why, what can you Avant with Dombey and Son's." 
 
 " To knoAV 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. 
 
 " Wliere 's that young spark of Dombeys who's been watching the ship- 
 ment of them goods ? " 
 
 " Just gone, by the 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, an't you ?" said the first man. 
 
 " I 'm in Dombey's House, Mr. Clark," retm-ned the boy, 
 
 " Look'ye here, then," said IVIi-. 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 Avhat passed, and who, besides the relief 
 of so suddenly considering herself safe and at her journey's end, felt 
 re-assured beyond all measiu'c by his lively youtlifid face and manner. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 55 
 
 ran eagerly up to Mm, leaving one of the slipsliod 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 ovm now — 
 and my name is Florence Dombey, my Httle brother's only sister — and, 
 oh dear, dear, take care of me, if you please!" sobbed Florence, giving 
 fidl vent to the childish feehngs she had so long suppressed, and bm'sting 
 into tears. At the same time her miserable bonnet falUng off, her hair 
 came tumbhng down about her face : moving to speechless admii'ation and 
 commiseration, young Walter, nephew of Solomon Grills, Ships' Instru- 
 ment-maker in general. 
 
 IVIr. Clark stood rapt in amazement : observing under his breath, /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 Cinde- 
 rella's slipper on. He hung the rabbit-skin over his left arm ; gave the 
 right to Florence; and felt, not to say like Ei chard Whittington — that is a 
 tame comparison — but hke Saint George of England, with the di'agon Ijing 
 dead before him. 
 
 " Don't ciy. 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, IVIiss 
 Dombey." 
 
 " No, no, no," said Florence, checking him in the act of impetuously 
 pidling off his own. " These do better. These do very weU." 
 
 " Why, to be siu'c," said Walter, glancing at her foot, " mine are a 
 mile too large. Wliat am I thinking about ! You never coidd 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 veiy 
 happy ; and they went arm in arm along the streets, perfectly indifferent 
 to any astonishment that then* appearance might or did excite by the way. 
 
 It was gi'owing 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 vdth the innocent good faith and confidence 
 of her years, while Walter listened as if, far from the mud and gi'case of 
 Thames-street, they were rambling alone among the broad leaves and taU 
 trees of some desert island in the tropics — as he veiy likely fancied, for 
 the time, they were. 
 
 " Have we far to go? " asked Florence at last, lifting 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, Mss 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 
 
56 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 live — it 's veiy near here — and go to your liouse in a coacli to tell tliem 
 you are safe, and bring you back some clothes. Won't that be best ? " 
 
 " I think so," answered Florence. "Don't you ? "Wliat do you think ? " 
 
 As they stood deUberating in the street, a man passed them, who 
 glanced quickly at Walter as he went by, as if he recognized him ; but 
 seeming to correct that first impression, he passed on without stopping. 
 
 " Why, I think it 's Mi-. Carker," said Walter. " Carker in our House. 
 Not Carker our manager, Miss Dombey — the other Carker ; the junior — 
 Halloa! Mi-. Carker!" 
 
 " Is that W"alter Gay ? " said the other, stopping and retm-ning. " I 
 coiddn't beheve it, Avith 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 figm-es 
 arm-in-arm before Mm. He was not old, but his hair was white ; his body 
 was bent, or bowed as if by the weight of some gi-eat 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 aU subdued 
 and quenched, as if the spmt within him lay in ashes. He was respectably, 
 though vei-y plainly di-essed, in black ; but his clothes, moulded to the 
 general character of his figm-e, seemed to shrink and abase themselves upon 
 him, and to join in the sorrowful solicitation Avhich 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 soid, for he watched the boy's eai-nest coun- 
 tenance as he spoke with unusual sympathy, though with an inexpli- 
 cable show of trouble and compassion, Avhicli 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 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 Flo- 
 rence 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, Sii-. I '11 remain at 
 home. You shaU 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 aAvay. 
 
 " Come, Miss Dombey," said Walter, looking after him as they turned 
 away also, " we 'U 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 wliich he had been looking down upon the gentle patient little 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 57 
 
 face moving on at liis side, lie bestiiTed himself with his accustomed 
 boyish animation and restlessness to change the subject ; and one of the 
 unfortunate shoes coming off again ojiportunely, proposed to carry Flo- 
 rence 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 akeady 
 near the wooden midshipman, and as Walter Avent on to cite various pre- 
 cedents, from shipwrecks and other moving accidents, where younger boys 
 than he had triumphantly rescued and canied off older girls than Flo- 
 rence, 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 adventm-e ! Here 's Mr. Dombey's 
 daughter lost in the streets, and robbed of her clothes by an old witch of a 
 woman — foxmd by me — ^brought home to om* parlour to rest — look here ! " 
 
 " Good Heaven ! " said uncle Sol, starting back against his favom'ite 
 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 httle sofa 
 near the fire, will you, uncle Sol — take care of the plates — cut some dinner 
 for her, will you uncle — throw those shoes imder the grate, ]\Iiss Florence — 
 put yom' feet on the fender to chy — how damp they are — ^here 's an adven- 
 ture, uncle, eh? — God bless my soid, how hot I am ! " 
 
 Solomon Gills was quite as hot, by sympathy, and in excessive bewilder- 
 ment. He patted Florence's head, pressed her to eat, pressed her to diink, 
 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 accompHsh twenty things at once, and doing notlxing 
 at all. 
 
 " Here, wait a minute, uncle," he continued, catching up a candle, " till 
 I ran up stairs, and get another jacket on, and then I '11 be oft". I say, 
 uncle, isn 't this an adventm-e? " 
 
 " My dear boy," said Solomon, who, with his spectacles on his forehead 
 and the great chi'onometer in liis pocket, was incessantly oscillating between 
 Florence on the sofa, and his nephew in all parts of the parlom-, " it 's the 
 most extraordinaiy — " 
 
 " No, but do, uncle, please — do, MissFlorence — 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 '11 take care of her, Wally ! I under- 
 stand. Pretty dear ! Famished, of course. You^ go and get ready. Lord 
 bless me ! Sh Eichard Whittington thrice Lord Mayor of London ! " 
 
 Walter was not very long in mounting to his lofty garret and descending 
 from it, but in the mean time Florence, overcome by fatigue, had sunk into 
 a doze before the fii-e. 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 retiuned, she was 
 sleeping peacefully. 
 
 " That 's capital ! " he whispered, giving Solomon such a hug that it 
 
58 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 squeezed a new expression into Ms face. " Now I 'm off. I '11 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. " /never saw such a face, uncle Sol. 
 Now I 'm off." 
 
 " That 's right," said Solomon, greatly reheved. 
 
 " 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 doo]-, 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, WaUy," 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, Avatching Elorence in her 
 slumber, building a great many aiiy castles of the most fantastic architec- 
 tm-e, and looking, in the dim shade, and in the close vicinity of aU the 
 instruments, like a magician disguised in a Welch wig and a suit of coffee 
 colom', who held the child in an enchanted sleep. 
 
 In the mean time, 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 breath- 
 lessly annoimcing his errand to the servant, followed him straight into the 
 library, where there Avas a great confusion of tongues, and where IVIi'. Dom- 
 bey, his sistei*, and Miss Tox, Eichards, and Nipper, Avere all congregated 
 together. 
 
 " Oh ! I beg yom* pardon, Sir," said Walter, rushmg 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 floAving hair, and sparkling eyes, pant- 
 ing with pleasm-e and excitement, Avas Avonderfidly opposed to Air. Dom- 
 bey as he sat confronting him in his library chair. 
 
 " I told you, Louisa, that she Avould certainly be foimd," said Mr. Dombey, 
 looking slightly over his shoulder at that lady, who Avept in company Avith 
 Miss Tox. " Let the servants knoAV that no further steps are necessary. 
 This boy who brings the information, is young Gay, from the office. Hoav 
 Avas my daughter found. Sir ? I knoAV hoAV she Avas lost." Here he looked 
 majestically at Eichards. " But how was she found ? Avho found her ? " 
 
 " Why, I believe / found Miss Dombey, Sh," said Walter modestly; " at 
 least I don't know that I can claim the merit of having exactly found her. 
 Sir, but I Avas the fortunate instiniment of — " 
 
 " Wliat do you mean. Sir," interrupted Mr. Dombey, regarding the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 59 
 
 boy's evident pride and pleasure in Ms share of the transaction Avitli 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 poAver 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 ]\Ir, Dombey sternly to the black-eyed. 
 " Take what is necessary, and retiu-n immediately with this young man to 
 fetch Miss Florence home. Gay, you vnW. be rewarded to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh ! thank you, Sii-," said Walter, " You are veiy kind. I 'm sure 
 I was not tliinking 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 httle 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 
 liis mind's eye followed liim with no gi-eater relish, as he rode back to liis 
 uncle's with Miss Susan Nipper. 
 
 There they found that Florence, much refreshed by sleep, had dined, 
 and greatly improved the acquaintance of Solomon GiUs, 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 con- 
 tradiction or reproach, and made a very hysterical meeting of it. Tiien 
 converting the parloui*, for the nonce, into a private tyring room, she 
 dressed her, with great care, in proper clothes ; and presently led her forth, 
 as hke a Dombey as her natiu-al disquaUfications admitted of her being 
 made. 
 
 " Good night !" said Florence, running up to Solomon. " You have 
 been very good to me." 
 
 Old Sol was quite dehghted, and kissed her like her grandfather. 
 
 " Good night, Walter ! Good bye !" said Florence. 
 
 " Good bye !" said Walter, giving both his hands. 
 
 " I 'U never forget you," pm-sued Florence. " No ! indeed I never wiU. 
 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, aU red and bui'ning ; and 
 looked at uncle Sol, quite sheepislily. 
 
 " Where 's Walter ! " " Good night, Walter ! " " Good bye, Walter ! " 
 " Shake hands, once more, Walter!" This was stdl Florence's cry, after she 
 was shut vip with her little maid, in the coach. And when the coach at 
 length moved oft", Walter on the door-step gaily returned the waving of her 
 handkercliief, 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 hbrary. Again, too, the coach was ordered 
 to wait — " for Mrs. Eichards," one of Susan's fellow-servants ominously 
 whispered, as she passed with Florence. 
 
 The entrance of the lost child made a sKght sensation, but not much. 
 
60 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Mr. Dombey, who had never found her, kissed her once upon the forehead, 
 and cautioned her not to run aAvay again, or wander anywhere with trea- 
 cherous attendants. Mrs. Chick stopped in her lamentations on the cor- 
 ruption 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 
 feebngs by the models before her. Kichards, the culprit Eichards, 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 Eichards ! " said ]\Ii-s. Chick, with a sigh. "It woidd have been 
 much more satisfactory to those who wish to think weU of their fellow 
 creatm'es, 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 nom'ishment." 
 
 " Cut oif," said ]\Iiss Tox in a plaintive whisper, " from one common 
 fountain ! " 
 
 " If it was my ungratefid ease," said Mrs. Chick, solemnly, " aiid I 
 had your reflections, Eichards, I should feel as if the Charitable Grinders' 
 dress would bUght my child, and the education choke him." 
 
 For the matter of that — but ]\Irs. Chick didn't knoAV it — he had been 
 pretty well blighted by the dress akeady ; 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 Wx. Dombey. " It is not necessary to prolong these 
 observations. The woman is discharged and paid. You leave this house, 
 Eichards, for taking my son — my son " said Mi-. Dombey, emphatically 
 repeating those two Avords, " into haimts 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 gi-eat sense, a hajDpy 
 and fortunate circumstance; inasmu.ch as, but for that occurrence, I never 
 could have known — and from yom* own Hps 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 — " IVIi". Dombey stopped and evinced — " to 
 Staggs's Gardens." 
 
 PoUy 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 hoAV the 
 flesh and blood he covdd not disoAvai clung to this obscvue stranger, and he 
 sitting by. Not that he cared to whom his daughter tm'ued, or from whom 
 tmiied away. The swift sharp agony struck through Mm, as he thought 
 of what liis son might do. 
 
 His son cried lustily that night, at aU 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 Avhich had darkened the beginning of 
 his life. At the same blow, his sister, too, Avho cried herself to sleep so 
 mom-nfuUy, had lost as good and true a friend. But that is quite beside 
 the question. Let us waste no words about it. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 61 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A bird's eye glimpse of miss TOx's DWELLING-PLACE; ALSO OF 
 THE STATE OF MISS TOX's AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Miss Tox inliabited a dark little house that had been squeezed, at some 
 remote period of English History, into a fashionable neighbourhood at the 
 Avest end of the town, where it stood in the shade Hke 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 hag- 
 gard by distant double knocks. The name of tliis retirement, where grass 
 gTCw between the chinks in the stone pavement, was Princess's Place ; and 
 in Princess's Place was Princess's Chapel, with a tinkling beU, where some- 
 times as many as five-and-twenty people attended service on a Sunday. 
 The Princess's Anns was also there, and much resorted to by splendid 
 footmen. A sedan chau' was kept inside the raihng before the Princess's 
 Arms, but it had never come out witlun the memory of man ; and on fine 
 mornings, the top of every rail (there wei-e eight-and-forty, as IVIiss 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 stabhng in the aii' of Princess's Place ; and 
 Miss Tox's bedi'oom (which was at the back) commanded a vista of Mews, 
 where hostlers, at whatever sort of work engaged, were continually accom- 
 panying themselves with effervescent noises ; and where the most domestic 
 and confidential garments of coachmen and their wives and families, usually 
 hung, hke 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 Pm-nished, to 
 a single gentleman : to wit a wooden-featured, blue-faced. Major, with his 
 eyes starting out of liis head, in whom Miss Tox recognised, as she herself 
 expressed it, " something so truly miUtary;" and between whom and herself, 
 an occasional interchange of newspapers and pampldets, and s\ich Platonic 
 daUiance, Avas effected through the medium of a dark servant of the Major's, 
 Avhom Miss Tox was quite content to classify as a " native," without con- 
 necting him with any geogi-aphical 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 httle house in England, and the 
 crookedest ; but then. Miss Tox said, what a situation ! There was very 
 little dayhght 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. StiU Miss Tox 
 said, think of the situation ! So said the blue-faced Major, whose eyes 
 were starting out of his head : who gloried in Prmcess's Place : and who 
 
62 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 delighted to turn the conversation at his ckib, whenever he could, to 
 something connected with some of the gi-eat people in the great street 
 roimd the corner, that he might have the satisfaction of saying they were 
 his neighbours. 
 
 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 pig- 
 tail, balanced the kettle-holder on opposite sides of the parlour fire-place. 
 The gi-eater 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 hai-psichord, 
 illuminated round the maker's name with a painted garland of sweet peas. 
 
 Although Major Bagstock had arrived at what is called in polite htera- 
 ture, the grand meridian of life, and was proceeding on liis joiu'ney down- 
 hill 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 abeady 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 jocidarities, 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., Sii'," the Major woidd 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 wife 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 woidd be heard; and the Major's blue 
 woidd deepen into pm-ple, while his eyes strained and started convulsively. 
 
 Notwithstanding his veiy 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 fonuer. He had no idea of being overlooked or sHghted by anybody ; 
 least of aU, 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 discoveiy 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. Sometliing or somebody 
 had superseded him as a source of interest. 
 
 " Good morning. Ma'am," said the Major, meeting Miss Tox in Prin- 
 cess's Place, some weeks after the changes chi'onicled in the last chapter. 
 
 " Good morning, Sir," said Miss Tox ; very coldly. 
 
 " Joe Bagstock, Ma'am," obsei*ved the Major, with his usual gaUantiy, 
 " has not had the happiness of bowing to you at yom- window, for a con- 
 siderable period. Joe has been hardly used, Ma'am. His sun has been 
 behind a cloud." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 63 
 
 Miss Tox inclined her head ; but very coldly indeed. 
 
 " Joe's luminary has been out of town Ma'am, perhaps," euquii-ed 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, Sn ! " 
 
 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 gi'owUng some not at aU comphmentary remarks. 
 
 " ^liy, damme. Sir," said the Major, rolling his lobster eyes round and 
 round Princess's Place, and apostrophizing its fi-agi-ant aii-, " six months 
 ago, the woman loved the gi-ound Josh. Bagstock walked on. What 's the 
 meaning of it ? " 
 
 The Major decided, after some consideration, that it meant man-traps ; 
 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 wliich 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 notliing 
 at aU about him. She had been wont, once upon a time, to look out at 
 one of her httle 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, 
 coidd make out that an air of greater smartness had recently come over 
 Miss Tox's house ; that a new cage with gilded whes had been provided 
 for the ancient little canary bird ; that divers ornaments, cut out of colom*ed 
 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 Avas 
 always displayed ostentatiously, ci'owned 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 momiiing. But this helped the Major out of 
 his difficulty ; and he determined witliin 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 wonder fid 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-ban-elled opera-glass, through which he 
 surveyed it intently for some minutes. 
 
 " It 's a Baby, Sii'," said the Major, shutting up the glass again, " for 
 fifty thousand pound ! " 
 
 The Major couldn't ftn-get it. He could do nothing but wliistle, and 
 stare to that extent, that liis eyes, compared with what they now became, 
 had been in former times quite cavernous and sunken. l)ay after day, 
 two, three, four times a week, this Baby reappeared. The Major continued 
 
64. DOMBEY AND SOX. 
 
 to stare and wliistle. To all other intents and pm-poses he Avas 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 w^oidd have been of no con- 
 sequence to her. 
 
 The perseverance with which she walked out of Princess's Place to fetch 
 this baby and its nm-se, and walked back with them, and walked home 
 with them again, and continually mounted guard over them ; and the per- 
 severance 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 Avould take long observations from her chamber window. But what- 
 ever she looked at ; sun, moon, stars, or bracelets ; 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 '11 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 vou, does he at all resemble her ?" 
 
 " Not at all," returned Louisa. 
 
 " She was — she was pretty, I believe ?" Mtered Miss Tox, 
 
 " Why, poor dear Panny was interesting," said Mi-s. Chick, after some 
 judicial consideration. " Certainly interesting. She had not that air of 
 commanding superiority which one wo\dd somehow expect, almost as a 
 matter of com-se, 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 INIiss Tox to little Paul. " You Pictm-e of your 
 own Papa!" 
 
 If the Major could have known how many hopes and ventm-es, what a 
 midtitude 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 Paid; he might have 
 stared indeed. Then would he have recognised, among the croAvd, some few 
 ambitious motes and beams belonging to Miss Tox ; then woidd he perhaps 
 have understood the natm-e of that lady's faltering investment in the Dom- 
 bey Pii'm. 
 
 If the cliild liimself could have awakened in the night, and seen, gathered 
 about liis cradle-curtains, faint reflections of the di-eams that other people 
 had of him, they might have scared liim, with good reason. But he 
 slumbered on, alike unconscious of the kind intentions of IMiss Tox, the 
 wonder of the Major, the early sorrows of his sister, and the sterner visions 
 of his father; and innocent that any spot of earth contained a Dombey or 
 a Son. 
 
DOMBEY AND SOX. 65 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Paul's fukthek 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 di-eams distm'bed them ; an accu- 
 mulating 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 Eichards, the nursery may be said to 
 have been put into commission; as a PubHc Department is sometimes, when 
 no individual Atlas can be found to support it. The Commissioners were, 
 of course, IVIi's. Cliick and Miss Tox : who devoted themselves to their 
 duties with such astonishing ardor that Major Bagstock had every day 
 some new reminder of liis being forsaken, while Mr. Cliick, bereft of 
 domestic supervision, cast himself upon the gay world, dined at clubs and 
 coffee-houses, smelt of smoke on three distinct occasions, went to the play 
 by himself, and in short; loosened (as IVIrs. Chick once told him) every social 
 bond, and moral obligation. 
 
 Yet, in spite of his early promise, all this vigilance and care coidd not 
 make little Paul a thriving boy. Naturally delicate, perhaps, he pined 
 and Avasted after the dismissal of his nurse, and, for a long time, seemed 
 but to Avait Ids opportunity of gUding through then* hands, and seeking his 
 lost mother. This dangerous ground in his steeple-chase towards man- 
 hood passed, he still found it very rough riding, and was giievously beset 
 by all the obstacles in his com*se. 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 tluoat 
 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 sensi- 
 tive part of his natiu-e, which could not recover itself in the cold shade of 
 his father; but he Avas an unfortunate child from that day. Mrs. Wickam 
 often said she never see a dear so put upon. 
 
 IVIrs. Wickam Avas a waiter's Avife — Avhich Avould seem equivalent to 
 being any other man's AAddoAV — Avhose appKcation for an engagement in 
 Mr. Dombey's service had been favorably considered, on aceount of the 
 apparent impossibility of her having any foUoAvers, or any one to foUow; 
 and who, from Avithin a day or tAvo of Paul's sharp Aveaning, had been 
 engaged as his nurse. IVIi-s. Wickam Avas a meek Avoman, of a fail' com- 
 plexion, Avith her eyebrows always elevated, and her head ahvays drooping ; 
 who was ahvays ready to pity herself, or to be pitied, or to pity anybody 
 else ; and Avho had a sui-prising natm'al gift of vicAving all subjects in an 
 utterly forlorn and pitiable light, and bringing di'eadfid precedents to bear 
 upon them, anddcriAdngthegi-eatest consolationfromthe exerciseof thattalent. 
 . It is hardly necessaiy to observe, that no touch of tliis quality ever 
 
 F 
 
66 DOMBEY AND SOX. 
 
 reached the magnificent knowledge of JMi-. Dombey. It woidd have been 
 remarkable, indeed, if any had ; when no one in the house — not even ]VIi-s. 
 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 httle Paul. 
 He had settled, within himself, that the cliild must necessarily pass tlu'ough 
 a certain routine of minor maladies, and that the sooner he did so the 
 better. If he coidd have bought him oft", or provided a substitute, as in 
 the case of an unlucky di-awdng for the mihtia, he would have been glad to 
 do so, on hberal terms. But as this was not feasible, he merely won- 
 dered, in his haughty manner, now and then, what Natiu'e meant by it; and 
 comforted liimself with the reflection that there Avas another milestone 
 passed upon the road, and that the gi-eat end of the jom-ney lay so much 
 the nearer. For the feehng uppermost in his mind, now and constantly 
 intensifying, and increasing in it as Paul gi-ew older, was impatience. 
 Impatience for the time to come, when liis visions of their united conse- 
 quence and grandem* would be triumphantly realized. 
 
 Some philosophers teU. us that selfishness is at the root of om' best loves 
 and aff"ections. iSix. Dombey's yoxmg cliild was, from the beginning, so 
 distinctly important to him as a part of his owoi gi'eatness, or (which is the 
 same thing) of the greatness of Dombey and Son, that there is no doubt 
 his parental aft'ection might have been easily traced, Hke many a goodly 
 superstructure of fan- fame, to a very low foundation. But he loved Ms 
 son with all the love he had. If there were a wann place in his frosty 
 heart, his son occupied it; if its very hard smface coidd receive the impres- 
 sion 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 futm'e, and to InuTy over 
 the intei-vening 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 Avhom he held such constant 
 communication in his thoughts, and for whom he planned and projected, 
 as for an existing reality, eveiy day. 
 
 Thus Paul grew to be neai'ly five years old. He was a pretty little 
 fellow; though there was something wan and wistfid in his small face, that 
 gave occasion to many significant shakes of Mis. Wickam's head, and many 
 long-di-awn inspu'ations of JVIi's. 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 subserWence of aU 
 other things and persons to it, as heart eoidd desu-e. He was childish 
 and sportive enough at times, and not of a suUen disposition ; but he had 
 a strange, old-fashioned, thoughtful Avay, at other times, of sitting brooding 
 in his miniatm-e arm-chau', when he looked (and talked) like one of those 
 terrible little Beings in the Pairy tales, who, at a hundred and fifty or two 
 huncbed years of age, fantastically represent the children for Avhoni they 
 have been substituted. He woidd frequently be sti-icken with this preco- 
 cious mood upstau-s in the nm-sery ; and woidd sometimes lapse into it 
 suddenly, exclaiming that he was tired : even while plajdng Avith Florence, 
 or driving Miss Tox in single harness. But at no tune did he faU into it 
 so sm-ely, as Avhen, his httle chah being carried doAvn into his father's room, 
 he sat there with him after dinner, by the fii-e. They Avere the strangest 
 pail" at such a time that ever fii-ehght shone \ipon, j\Ii-. Dombey so erect 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 67 
 
 and solemn, gazing at the blaze ; his Kttle image, with an old, old, face, 
 peering into the red j^erspective with the fixed and rapt attention of a^sage. 
 Mr. Dombey entertaining complicated worldly schemes and plans ; the Uttjg 
 image entertaining Heaven knows what wild fancies, half-formed thoughts, 
 and wandering specidations. IMr. Dombey stiff with starch and arrogance ; 
 the little image by inheritance, and in unconscious imitation. The two so 
 very much ahke, and yet so monstrously contrasted. 
 
 On one of these occasions, when they had both been perfectly qioiet for a 
 long time, and IVIi-. Dombey oidy knew that the child was awake by occa- 
 sionally glancing at his eye, where the bright fire was sparkling hke a jewel, 
 Uttle Paul broke silence thus . 
 
 "Papa! what's money?" 
 
 The abrupt question had such immediate reference to the subject of 
 Ml'. Dombey's thoughts, that IVIr. Dombey was quite disconcerted. 
 
 " "What is money, Paid?" he answered. " Money ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the child, laying liis hands upon the elbows of his Little chau-, 
 and tiuming the old face up towards Mr. Dombey's; " what is money ?" 
 
 Mr. Dombey was in a difficulty. He woidd have hked to give him 
 some explanation involving the terms circvdating-medium, cmTency, depre- 
 ciation of cun-ency, paper, bullion, rates of exchange, value of precious 
 metals in the market, and so forth ; but looking doAvn at the little chair, 
 and seeing what a long way down it Avas, he answered: " Gold, and silver, 
 and copper. Guineas, shillings, half-pence. You know what they m'e?" 
 
 " Oh yes, I know what they are," said Paid. " I don't mean that. Papa. 
 I mean, what 's money after aU." 
 
 Heaven and Earth, how old his face was as he tm-ned it up again 
 towards Ids 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 presump- 
 tuous atom that propomided such an inquiry. 
 
 "I mean, Papa, what can it do?" retm-ned Paul, folding his arms (they 
 were hardly long enough to fold), and looking at the fire, and up at liim, 
 and at the fire, and up at him again. 
 
 IVIi-. Dombey drew liis chair back to its fonner place, and patted him 
 on the head. " You 'U know better bye-and-bye, my man," he said. 
 " Money, Paid, can do anything." He took hold of the httle hand, and 
 beat it softly against one of his own as he said so. 
 
 But Paul got Ids hand free as soon as he could ; and rubbing it gently 
 to and fro on the elbow of his chair, as if Ids wit were in the palm, and 
 he were shai-pemng 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. Anytlung — almost," said 'Mx. Dombey. 
 
 "Anything means eveiything, don't it. Papa ? " asked his son : not 
 observing, or possibly not understanding, the qualification. 
 
 " It includes it : yes," said jVIr. Dombey. 
 
 " Wliy didn't money save me my mama ? " returned the chdd. " It 
 isn't cruel, is it ? " 
 
 " Cruel ! " said Mi*. 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 
 
 F 2 
 
68 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, " I wonder why it didn't save 
 me my mania." ^ 
 
 He didn't ask the question of his father ihis time. Perhaps he had 
 seen, with a child's quickness, that it had aheady made his father uncom- 
 fortable. But he repeated the thought aloud, as if it were q\ute an 
 old one to him, and had troubled him veiy much ; and sat with his chin 
 resting on his hand, still cogitating and looking for an explanation in the fu'e. 
 
 Mr. Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say liis alann 
 (for it was the ^^ry first occasion on which the child had ever broached the 
 subject of his mother to him, though he had had him sitting by liis side, 
 , in this same manner, evening after evenhig), expounded to him how that 
 money, though a very potent spirit, never to be disparaged on any account 
 whatever, could not keep people ahve whose time was come to die; and 
 how that we must aU die, unfortunately, even in the city, thougli we were 
 never so rich. But how that money caused us to be honored, feared, re- 
 spected, com'ted, and admned, 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 secm-ed to liis mama 
 the services of j\Ir. Pilkins, by which he, Paid, had often profited himself ; 
 likewise of the gi-eat Doctor Parker Peps, whom he had never kno^^ai. And 
 how it coidd do all, that could be done. This, with more to the same 
 pm-pose, Mr. Dombey instilled into the mind of his son, who listened atten- 
 tively, 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 : nibbing his tiny hands. 
 
 " Why, you are strong and quite well," retm'ned Mr. Dombey. "Are 
 you not ? " 
 
 Oh ! the age of the face that was tiu'ned 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 jVIi-. Dombey. 
 
 " Florence is older than I am, but I'm not as strong and well as Plo- 
 rence, I know," retm'ned the child; "and I beheve that when Florence was 
 as httle as me, she could play a great deal longer at a time without tiring 
 herself. I am so tii'cd sometimes," said Uttle Paid, warming his hands, 
 and looking in between the bars of the gi'ate, 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." 
 
 " Aye ! But that 's at night," said IVIr. Dombey, di-a^vdng liis own 
 chair closer to Ms 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," retm-ned the cluld, " 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 Ids hands again, and tliinking 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 hght of the fire, with his hand resting on his back, as if it 
 were detained there by some magiietic attraction. Once he advanced his 
 other hand, and tm'ued the contemplative face towards his owa for a 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 69 
 
 moment. But it sought the tire again as soon as he released it; and 
 remained, addi-essed towards the Hickering blaze, until the nm-se appeared, 
 to summon him to bed. 
 
 " I want Florence to come for me," said Paul. 
 
 "Won't you come wdth yom* poor Nurse Wickam, Master Paul?" 
 inqiured that attendant, with gi-eat pathos. 
 
 " No, I won't," rephed Paul, composing himself in his arm-chair again, 
 like the master of the hoiise. 
 
 Invoking a blessing upon his innocence, Mrs. Wickam withdrew, and 
 presently Plorence appeared in her stead. The child immediately started 
 up with sudden readiness and animation, and raised towards liis father 
 in bidding him good night, a countenance so much brighter, so much 
 younger, and so much more eliild-like altogether, that Mr. Dombey, yvhile 
 he felt greatly re-assm'cd 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 cm'iosity to open the door and listen, and look after them. She was 
 toiling up the "great, wide, vacant staircase, Avitli liim in her arms ; his head 
 Avas lying on her shoulder, one of his aiins tin-own 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 liis sight ; and then he still stood gazing 
 upward, until the dull rays of the moon, glimmering in a melancholy manner 
 through the dim skyhght, sent him back to his own 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 Avith Paul, and what IMr. Pilkins said 
 about him. 
 
 " For the child is hardly," said Mr. Dombey, " as stout as I could wish." 
 
 "With your usual happy discrimination, my dear Paid," retm-ned Mrs. 
 Chick, " you have hit the point at once. Oiu* darhng is not altogether as 
 stout as we could wish. The fact is, that his mind is too much for him. His 
 sold is a gi-eat deal too large for his frame. I am sm-e the Avay in Avhich 
 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 ]\li'. Dombey, uiterrupting her testdy, "that some 
 of those persons upstairs suggest improper subjects to the child. He was 
 speaking to me last m'ght about his — about his Bones," said jMi-. 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 fai- from it," said ]\Ii-s. Chick, with unspeakable expression. 
 
 " I hope so," retm-ned 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. 
 
70 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Keally I was quite dismayed and shocked last night. "VSTio puts such 
 things into his head, Louisa? " 
 
 " My dear Paid," said Mrs. Chick, after a moment's silence, " it is of 
 no use inquii-ing. I do not think, I will tell you candidly, that Wickam 
 is a person of very cheerfid sphits, or what one woidd call a — " 
 
 "A daughter of Momus," Miss Tox softly suggested. 
 
 "Exactly so," said IVIi's. Chick; "but she is exceedingly attentive and 
 useful, and not at all presumptuous ; indeed I never saw a more biddable 
 woman. If the dear child," pursued Mi's. Cliick, in the tone of one Avho 
 was summing up what had been previously quite agi'eed upon, instead of 
 saying it all for the first time, "is a Httle weakened by that last attack, and 
 is not in qiute such vigorous health as we could wdsh ; 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 ]\Ir. Dombey's recent objection 
 to bones, and therefore waited for a suggestion from IVIiss 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 reproach- 
 ful. "How can you ask me? You heard him. I say, if om* dear Paid shoidd 
 lose, for the moment, the use of his legs, these are casualties common to 
 many children at his time of hfe, and not to be prevented by any care or 
 caution. The sooner you understand that, Paul, and admit that, the better." 
 
 " Sm-ely you must know, Louisa," observed IMi-. Dombey, "that I 
 don't question yom* natural devotion to, and natural regard for, the futui'e 
 head of my house. Mr. PdMns saAv Paul this morning, I believe?" said 
 ]VIx'. Dombey. 
 
 " Yes, he did," retmned his sister. " IVIiss Tox and myself were 
 present. Miss Tox and myself are always present. We make a point of 
 it. Ml'. PUkins has seen him for some days past, and a very clever man I 
 beheve him to be. He says it is notliing 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 liis sister. 
 
 " There is nothing to be made uneasy by, in that," said Mi-s. Chick. " My 
 George and Frederick were both ordered sea-ah, when they were about his 
 age ; and I have been ordered it myself a great many tunes. I quite agree 
 with you. Paid, that perhaps topics may be incautiously mentioned upstairs 
 before him, Avhich it woidd 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 IVIiss Tox, that a short absence 
 from this house, the air of Brighton, and the bodily and mental training 
 of so judicious a person as IVIrs. Pipchin for instance — " 
 
 "Wlio is Mi-s. Pipcliin, Louisa?" asked Mi-. Dombey; aghast at this 
 amdiar introduction of a name he had never heard before. 
 
 " Mrs. Pipcliin, my dear Paul," returned his sister, " is an elderly lady 
 — Miss Tox knows her whole liistory — who has for some time devoted aU 
 the energies of her mind, with the greatest success, to the study and treat- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 71 
 
 ment of infancy, and who lias been extremely well connected. Her 
 husband broke his heart in — how did you say her husband broke liis 
 heart, my dear? I forget the precise circumstances." 
 
 " In pumping water out of the Peravian Mines," replied Miss Tox. 
 
 "Not being a Pumper himself, of com-se,""saidMi-s. Cluck, glancing at 
 her brother ; and it really did seem necessary to oifer 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 round the bookcase near the bu^t of Mr. Pitt, 
 which was about ten feet from the ground. 
 
 " Perhaps I should say of Mi's. Pipchin, my dear Sii-," observed IVIiss 
 Tox, with an ingenuous blush, "having been so pointedly referred to, 
 that the encomium which has been passed upon her by youi* sweet sister 
 is well merited. Many ladies and gentlemen, now grown up to be interest- 
 ing members of society, have been indebted to her care. The humble 
 individual who addresses you was once under her charge. I believe 
 juvemle nobiUty itself is no stranger to her estabhsluuent." 
 
 " Do I understand that this respectable matron keeps an establishment, 
 Miss Tox?" inquired 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. Shoidd I 
 express my meaning," said Miss Tox, with pecid^iar sweetness, " if I desig- 
 nated it an infantine Boarding-House of a very select description?" 
 
 " On an exceedingly hmitecl and particular scale," suggested IMrs. Cluck, 
 mth a glance at her brother. 
 
 " Oh! Exclusion itself!" said Miss Tox. 
 
 There was sometliing in this. Mi's. Pipchin's husband having broken 
 his heart of the Peruvian naines was good. It had a rich soimd. Besides, 
 Ml'. Dombey was in a state almost amounting to consternation at the idea 
 of Paid 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. Then- recommendation of ]\Irs. Pipchin had great weight with 
 liim ; 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 
 soUcitous to divide a responsibility, of which he had, as shown just now, 
 his own estabhshed views. Broke his heart of the Peinivian mines, mused 
 Mr. Dombey. Well ! a very respectable way of doing it. 
 
 " Supposing we should decide, on to-moiTOw's inquiries, to send Paul 
 down to Brighton to this lady, who would go with him?" inquired IMr. 
 Dombey, after some reflection. 
 
 " I don't think you could send the child anywhere at present mthout 
 Florence, my dear Paul," returned his sister, hesitating. " It 's quite an 
 infatuation with him. He 's very young, you know, and has liis fancies." 
 
 Mr. Dombey tm-ned his head away, and going slowly to the book-case, 
 and unlocking it, brought back a book to read. 
 
 " Anybody else, Louisa ?" he said, without looking up, and tm-ning over 
 the leaves. 
 
 " Wickam, of com'se. Wickam would be quite sufficient, I should say," 
 
72 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 returaed his sister. " Paul being in such hands as Mrs. Pipchin's, yon 
 coidd hardly send anybody who woidd be a fiu-ther check iipon her. You 
 w'oidd go down yoiu'self 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 Mi's Pipcliin was a marvellous ill-favored, ill-conditioned 
 old lady, of a stooping figm'e,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. Porty years at least had 
 elapsed since the Peruvian mines had been the death of Mr. Pipchin ; but 
 his relict stiU wore black bombazeen, of such a lustreless, dee]), dead, sombre 
 shade, that gas itself coiddn't light her up after dark, and her presence 
 was a quencher to any munber of candles. She was generally spoken of 
 as " a gi'cat manager" of chikben ; and the secret of her management 
 was, to gixe them everything that they didn't like, and nothing that they 
 did — ^which was found to sweeten their dispositions veiy 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 aU her 
 waters of gladness and milk of Imman kindness had been pimiped out dry, 
 instead of the mines. 
 
 The Castle of this ogress and child-queUer was in a steep bye-street at 
 Brighton; where the sod 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 so^vn in them ; and where snaUs were constantly 
 discovered holding on to the street doors, and other public places they 
 were not expected to ornament, Avith 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 Avas such a continual reverbera- 
 tion of Avind in it, that it sounded like a gi-eat shell, Avhich the inhabitants 
 were obliged to hold to their ears night and day, whether they liked it or 
 no. It Avas not, naturally, a fresh-smeUing house; and in the windoAV of 
 the front parlom*, AAdnch Avas never opened, Mrs. Pipchin kept a collection 
 of plants in pots, Avhich imparted an earthy flavor of their OAvn to the 
 establishment. HoAvever choice examples of their kind, too, these plants 
 were of a kind pecidiarly adapted to the embowerment of Mrs. Pipchin. 
 There were half-a-dozen specimens of the cactus, writhing round bits of 
 lath, like hauy serpents ; another specimen shooting out broad claAvs, like 
 a green lobster ; several creeping vegetables, possessed of sticky and 
 adhesive leaves ; and one uncomfortable floAver-pot hanging to the ceiling, 
 Avhich appeared to have boiled over, and tickling people underneath Avith 
 its long green ends, reminded them of spiders — in Avliich Mi-s. Pipchin's 
 dAveUing Avas uncommonly prolific, though perhaps it challenged competi- 
 tion still more proudly, in the season, in point of earwigs. 
 
 Mi-s. Pipchin's scale of charges being high, hoAvever, to all avIio could afford 
 to pay, and Mrs. Pipchin very seldom sweetening the equable acidity of 
 her natm-e in favor of anybody, she Avas held to be an old lady of remark- 
 able finnncss, Avho Avas quite scientific in her knoAvledge of the childisli 
 character. On this reputation, and on the broken heart of IVIi'. Pipchin, 
 she had contrived, taking one year with another, to eke out a tolerably 
 sufficient living, since her husband's demise. Within three days after Mrs. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 73, 
 
 Cliick's fii-st allusion to lier, tliis excellent old lady had tlie satisfaction of 
 anticipating a handsome addition to her ciu-rent receipts, from the pocket 
 of jVIi-. Dombev; and of receiving; Florence and her httle brother Paid, as 
 inmates of the Castle. 
 
 Mrs. Chick and ]\Iiss Tox, who had brought them down on the previous 
 night (which they all passed at an Hotel), had just diiven away from the 
 door, on theii* journey home again ; and Mvs. Pipchin, with her back to 
 the fire, stood, reviewing the new-comers, hke an old soldier. IVIi's. Pip- 
 chin's middle-aged niece, her good-natm^ed and devoted slave, but possess- 
 ing a gaunt and ii-on-bound aspect, and much afflicted with bods on her 
 nose, ^vas 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 coiTectional purposes), for having sniffed thrice, in 
 the presence of visitors. 
 
 "Well, Su-," said Mrs. Pipchin to Paul, "hovr do vou think you shall 
 Hke me?" 
 
 " I don't think I shall like yon at all," repKcd 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 Paid. 
 
 "There 's a worse place in it than this though," said Mrs. Pipchin, 
 " where we shut up om* bad boys." 
 
 " Has ke ever been in it ? " asked Paid : pointing out Master 
 Bitherstone. 
 
 ]\Irs. Pipchin nodded assent ; and Paul had enough to do, for the rest of 
 that day, in siu-veying Master Bitherstone from head to foot, and watching 
 aU the workings of his countenance, with the interest attaclung to a boy 
 of mysterious and terrible experiences. 
 
 At one o'clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the farinacedus and vege- 
 table kind, when Miss Pankey (a mild httle blue-eyed morsel of a child, 
 who was shampoo'd eveiy 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 gi-eat truth had been thoroughly impressed upon her, she was 
 regaled with rice; and subsequently repeated the form of gi-ace established 
 in the Castle, in which there was a special clause, thanking Mi's. Pipchin 
 for a good dinner. Mrs. Pipchin's niece, Berinthia, took cold pork. Mrs. 
 Pipchin, whose constitution required warm nomishment, made a special 
 repast of mutton-chops, which were brought in hot and hot, between two 
 plates, and smelt veiy nice. 
 
 As it rained after dinner, and they coiddn't go out Avalking 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 mthout any stove in it. Enlivened by company, however, this 
 was the best place after aU ; for Berry played with them there, and seemed 
 to enjoy a game at romps as much as they did; untd !Mi-s. Pipclun knock- 
 ing angrily at the wall, like the Cock Lane Ghost revived, they left off, and 
 Berry told them stories in a wliisper until twilight. 
 
 Por, tea there was plenty of milk and Avater, and bread and butter, with 
 
74 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 a little black tea-pot for Mrs. Pipcliin and Beny, and buttered toast 
 unlimited for IVIi's. Pipchin, wliicli was brought in, hot and hot, Uke the 
 chops. Though IVIrs. 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 gi-ey eye knew no softening. 
 
 After tea, Berry brought out a little workbox, with the Eoyal Pavilion 
 on the hd, and fell to working busily ; whde Mi's. Pipchin, having put on 
 her spectacles and opened a great volume bound in gi'een baize, began to 
 nod. And whenever Mi's. 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 chikben's bed time, and after prayers they went to 
 bed. As bttle IMiss Pankey was afraid of sleeping alone in the dark, IVIi's. 
 Pipcliin always made a point of driving her up stau's herself, like a sheep ; 
 and it Avas cheerfid to hear Miss Pankey moaning long afterwards, in the 
 least eligible chamber, and IVIi's. Pipchin now and then going in to shake 
 her. At about half-past nine o'clock the odom' of a wann sweet-bread 
 (Mi's. Pipchin's constitution wouldn't go to sleep mthout sweet-bread) 
 diversified the prevailing fragi'ance of the house, which Mrs. Wickam said 
 was "a smell of building ;" and slmnber 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 bttle more u-ate when it 
 Avas over. Master Bitherstone read aloud to the rest a pedigTce from 
 Genesis (judiciously selected by Mi-s. Pipchin), getting over the names 
 with the ease and clearness of a person tumbbng up the treadmill. That 
 done, ]\Iiss Pankey was borne away to be shampoo' d; and Master Bither- 
 stone to have something else done to him with salt water, fi.-om which 
 he always retm-ned 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 Mi's. Pipchin presided over some early readings. It 
 being a part of IVIi-s. Pipcliin's system not to encom'age a cliild's mind to 
 develop and ex:pand itself Uke a young flower, but to open it by force Uke 
 an oyster, the moral of these lessons was usuaUy of a violent and stim- 
 ning character : the hero — a naughty boy — seldom, iii the inildest 
 catastrophe, being finished oft" by anything less than a Uon, or a bear. 
 
 Such was life at IMi'::. Pipchin's. On Satm-day IMr. Dombey came down ; 
 and Florence and Paul would go to his Hotel, and have tea. They passed 
 the whole of Sunday with liim, and generally rode out before dinner; and 
 on these occasions !^Ir. Dombey seemed to grow, Uke Palstafi"'s assailants, 
 and instead of being one man in bucki'am, 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 generaUy brought back from an aunt's at Eottendean, in deep 
 distress ; and Master Bitherstone, whose relatives were aU in India, and 
 who was requii-ed to sit, between the services, in an erect position with his 
 head against the parlor waU 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 generaUy said that IMi's. Pipchin was a woman of system 
 with children ; and no doubt she was. Certaiidy the wUd ones went home 
 tame enough, after sojom-ning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof. 
 It was generaUy said, too, that it was higlily creditable of Mi-s. Pipchin to 
 
Qyiiu^^ty a 
 
 .^ 
 
 ''.od^^/ij^. 
 
*> 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 75 
 
 have devoted herseK to this way of life, and to have made such a sacrifice 
 of her feelings, and snch a resolute stand against her troubles, when jMr. 
 Pipchni broke liis 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 weari- 
 ness was, when he was looking fixedly at Mrs. Pipchin. He was not fond 
 of her ; he was not afi'aid 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 wanning his hands, and looking at her, until he sometimes 
 quite confounded Mrs. Pipcliin, Ogress as she was. Once she asked him, 
 when they were alone, what he Avas thinking about. 
 
 " You," said Paul, without the least reserve. 
 
 " And what are you thinking about me ? " asked jNIi-s. Pipchin. 
 
 " I am thinking how old you must be," said Paid. 
 
 " You mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman," retimied the 
 dame. " That 'U 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, coloring, "is a wicked, impudent, 
 bold-faced hussy." 
 
 " What 's that ? " inquii-ed Paul. 
 
 "Never you mind. Sir," retorted Mi*s. Pipchin. "Eemember the story 
 of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad buU for asking questions." 
 
 " K 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 Paid had not considered the subject in that light, and had founded 
 his conclusions on the alleged Imiacy of the bull, he allowed himself to be 
 put down for the present. But he sat tunung 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. 
 
 Prom that time, Mrs. Pipchin appeared to have something of the same 
 odd kind of attraction towards Paid, as Paul had towards her. She woidd 
 make liim move Ids chau- to her side of the fii-e, instead of sitting opposite ; 
 and there he would remain in a nook between Mi*s. Pipchin and the fender, 
 with all the light of Ins little face absorbed into the black bombazeen 
 di-apery, studying every line and wrinkle of her countenance, and peering 
 at the hard grey eye, until Mi'S. Pipchin was sometimes fain to shut it, on 
 pretence of dozing. Mrs. Pipcliin had an old black cat, who generally lay 
 coiled upon the centre foot of the fender, piu'ring 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 
 
76 DOMBEY AXD SON. 
 
 disrespectfully— a witch, and Paul and the cat her two familiars, as they 
 ail sat by the fire together. It would have been quite in keeping with the 
 appearance of the party if they had all spnmg 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 Mi-s. 
 Pipchin, were constantly to be found in their usual places after dark ; and 
 Paid, eschewing the companionship of INIaster Bitherstone, Avent on study- 
 ing Mrs. Pipchin, and the cat, and the fire, night after night, as if they 
 were a book of necromancy, in three volumes. 
 
 ]\Irs. Wickam put her own construction on Paid's eccentricities ; and 
 being confirmed in her low spirits by a perplexed view of cliimneys 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 expres- 
 sion) of her present life, deduced the most dismal reflections from the fore- 
 going premises. It was a part of Mi's. Pipchin's pohcy to prevent her own 
 " young hussy " — that was Mrs. Pipchin's generic name for female servant — 
 from communicating Avith Mrs. Wickam : to which end she devoted much 
 of her time to conceahng herself behind doors, and springing out on that 
 devoted maiden, whenever she made an approach tov.ards JMi-s. Wickam's 
 apartment. But Berry was free to hold what converse she coidd in that 
 quarter, consistently with the discharge of the midtifarious duties at Avhich 
 she toiled incessantly from morning to night ; and to Berry, Mrs. Wickam 
 mibm"dened her mind. 
 
 " What a pretty fellow he is when he 's asleep !" said Berry, stopping 
 to look at Paid in bed, one night when she took up Mrs. Wickam's supper. 
 
 " x\h !" sighed Mrs. Wickam. " He need be." 
 
 " \Miy, he 's not ugly Avhen he 's awake," observed Berry. 
 
 " No, Ma'am. Oh, no. No more was my imcle's Betsey Jane," said 
 Mrs. Wickam. 
 
 Berry looked as if she would hke to trace the connection of ideas 
 between Paid Dombey, and IVIi-s. Wickam's uncle's Betsey Jane. 
 
 " ]\Iy micle's wife," Mrs. Wickam went on to say, " died just like 
 his mama. ]\Iy uncle's child took on just as Master Paul do. My uncle's 
 child made people's blood run cold, sometimes, she did !" 
 
 " How ? " asked Berry. 
 
 " I Avouldn't have sat up all night alone with Betsey Jane ! " said Mrs. 
 "VNickam, "not if you'd have put Wickam into business next morning 
 for himself. I couldn't have done it. Miss Beny." 
 
 Miss Berry naturally asked why not ? But Mrs. Wickam, agi-eeably 
 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 coiddn'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 yom-- 
 self. Miss Berry." Miss Berry involuntarily wrinkled her nose. 
 
 " But Betsey Jane," said Mrs. Wickam, lowering her voice, and look- 
 ing round the room, and towards Paul in bed, " had been minded, in her 
 cradle, by her departed mother. I coiddn't say how, nor I couldn't say 
 when, nor I couldn't say Avhether the dear child knew it or not, but Betsey 
 Jane had been watched by her mother, ]\Iiss Berry ! You may say 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 77 
 
 nonsense ! I an't offended, Miss. I hope you may be able to think in 
 your own conscience that it is nonsense ; you '11 find yovu- spirits aU the 
 better for it in this— you 'U excuse my being so free — in this burying- 
 ground of a place ; which is Avearing of me down. Master Paid 's a little 
 restless in his sleep. Pat his lack, if you please." 
 
 " Of com'se you think," said Berry, gently doing what she was asked, 
 "that he has been nui'sed by his mother, too ? " 
 
 "Betsey Jane," returned Mi's. Wickam in her most solemn tones, "was 
 put upon as that clidd has been put upon, and changed as that child 
 has changed. I have seen her sit, often and often, think, think, think- 
 ing, Uke him. I have seen her look, often and often, old, old, old, Uke him. 
 I have heard her, many a time, talk just like him. I consider that cliild 
 and Betsey Jane on the same footing entirely. Miss Beny." 
 
 " Is yom' uncle's child alive ? " asked Berry. 
 
 " Yes, IVIiss, she is alive," retmnied IVIi's. Wickam with an an- of triumph, 
 for it was evident Miss Ben-y expected the reverse; " and is married to 
 a sUver-chaser. Oh yes. Miss, She is alive," said Mi's. Wickam, laying 
 strong stress on her nominative case. 
 
 It being clear that somebody was dead, Mrs. Pipclun's niece inquired 
 who it was. 
 
 " I wouldn't wish to make you uneasy," retmTied Mrs. Wickam, piir- 
 suing her supper. " Don't ask me." 
 
 This was the sm-est way of being asked again. Miss Beriy repeated 
 her question, therefore ; and after some resistance, and reluctance, Mi's. 
 Wickam laid down her knife, and again glancing round the room and at 
 Paid 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 aU 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 forefinger stealthily towards the bed where 
 Plorence lay ; then turned it upside down, and made several emphatic 
 points at the floor; immediately below wldch was the parlor in which 
 Mrs. Pipchin habitually consumed the toast. 
 
 " Kemember 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 '11 
 excuse my being so free — in this jad of a house !" 
 
 Miss Berry's emotion might have led to her patting Paid 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 di-eam, and asked 
 for Florence. 
 
 She was out of her own bed at the first sound of his voice ; and bend- 
 ing over his pillow immediately, sang him to sleep agam. IVIi's. Wickam 
 shaking her head, and letting fall several tears, pointed out the little 
 gi'oup to Berry, and turned her eyes up to the ceihng. 
 
 " Good night. Miss ! " said Wickam softly. " Good night ! Your aunt 
 is a old lady, Mss Beriy, and it's what yo\i must have looked for, often." 
 
78 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 \vind was blowing mournfully, she indulged 
 in melancholy — that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries — ^until she 
 was overpowered by slumber. 
 
 Although the niece of ]VIi-s. Pipchin did not expect to find that exem- 
 plary dragon prostrate on the hearthrug when she went down stairs, she 
 was reheved 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 disap- 
 pear in regular succession, notwithstanding that Paul studied her as 
 attentively as ever, and occupied his usual seat between the black skii-ts 
 and the fender, with unwavering constancy. 
 
 But as Paul liimself 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 
 Ms 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 Avas proposed as the drawer of this carnage, 
 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 pickhng 
 in salt Avater, and who smelt like a weedy sea-beach when the tide is out. 
 
 With tliis 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 Avould sit 
 or lie in his carriage for hom-s together: never so distressed as by the com- 
 pany of childi-en — Florence alone excepted, always. 
 
 " Go away, if you please," he Avoidd say, to any child who came to 
 bear him company. " Thank you, but I don't Avant you." 
 
 Some small voice, near Ms ear, Avould ask him Iioav he was, perhaps. 
 
 " I am very Avell, I thank you," he would ansAver. " But you had 
 better go and play, if you please." 
 
 Then he Avould tm-n his head, and Avatch the child aAvay, and say 
 to Florence, " We don't Avant any others, do we ? Kiss me, Floy." 
 
 He had even a dishke, at such times, to the company of Wickam, and 
 was weU pleased Avhen she strolled aAvay, as she generally did, to pick 
 up shells and acquaintances. His favorite spot Avas quite a lonely one, far 
 aAvay from most loungers ; and with Florence sitting by his side at Avork, 
 or reading to Mm, or talking to Mm, and the Avind bloAving on his face, and 
 the Avater coming up among the Avheels of Ms bed, he Avanted notlung more. 
 
 " Floy," he said one day, " Avhere 's India, AA'here that boy's friends live ? " 
 
 " Oil, it 's a long, long distance off," said Florence, raising her eyes from 
 her Avork. 
 
 "Weeks off?" asked Paul. 
 
 " Yes, dear. Many Aveeks' journey, night and day." 
 
 " If you were in India, Floy," said Pavd, after being silent for a mmute, 
 " I shoidd — Avhat is that Mama did? I forget." 
 
 " Loved me !" ansAvered Florence. 
 
 " No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy ? What is it ?— Died. If you 
 were in India, I should die, Floy." 
 
/ 
 
 En^raiTJ h H K. firc-K-ru- .(• R.Tr 
 
 ILIT^', ... 
 
/ 
 
 
 Drai'.'n l?y Mailot lOujfkt Btowtij: . 
 
 Engraysdby S.K.Brc)ime&RYaun^. 
 
 FJLOIREHCE 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 79 
 
 She huiiiedly put her work aside, and laid her head Aown 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 ansAvered, 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 some- 
 thing. 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 farther 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 sajdng ; and 
 would rise up in his couch to look towards that invisible region, far away. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN WHICH THE WOODEN MIDSHIPMAN GETS INTO TUOrBLE. 
 
 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 GlUs, had not very much weakened 
 by the waters of stem practical experience, was the occasion of his attach- 
 ing an uncommon and delightful interest to the adventm-e of Florence 
 with good IVIrs. 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 hked ynth it. 
 
 The recollection of those incidents, and liis 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 Kichard 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 Eoad : which poetical performance set 
 forth the com-tship and nuptials of a promising young coal-whipper with a 
 certain "lovely Peg," the accomphshed daughter of the master and part- 
 owner of a Newcastle coUier. 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 
 bii'thdays and a few other non-Dominical holidays, he would roar through 
 the whole song in the little back parlor ; making an amazing shake on the 
 word Pe — e — eg, with which every verse concluded, in compliment to the 
 heroine of the piece. 
 
80 do:mbey and son. 
 
 But a frank, free-spirited, opcn-liearted boy, is not mucli given to 
 analyzing tlie nature of his own feelings, hoAvever strong their hold upon 
 him : and Walter would have found it diflicidt to decide this point. He 
 had a great affection for the wharf where he had encoiintered Florence, and 
 for the streets (albeit not enchanting in themselves) by wliich 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 Httle back parlor of an evening, he 
 had di'awn a whole gallery of fancy portraits of good ]\Irs. Brown. It may 
 be that he became a little smarter in his di-ess, after that memorable occa- 
 sion; and he certainly hked in his leism^e time to walk towards that quarter 
 of the town where Mr. Dombey's house was situated, on the vagTie chance 
 of passing little Florence in the street. But the sentiment of all this was 
 ■ as boyish and innocent as coidd be. Florence was very pretty, and it is 
 pleasant to admire a pretty face. Florence was defenceless and weak, and 
 it Avas a proird thought that he had been able to render her any protection 
 and assistance. Florence was the most grateful httle creatm-e 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 shghted child, in her didl, 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. Mi's. Wickam (who, with a charac- 
 teristic 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 pro- 
 pitiated by Walter's good looks, and incUning to the behef that its 
 sentiments were responded to. 
 
 In this way, Walter, so far from forgetting or losing sight of liis 
 acquaintance with Florence, only remembered it better and better. As to 
 its adventiu-ous beginning, and all those httle circumstances wliich gave it 
 a distinctive character and rehsh, he took them into account, more as a 
 pleasant stoiy very agi'eeable 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 lumself. Some- 
 times he thought (and then he walked very fast) what a gi-and 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 colors of the dolphin, or at least a Post-Captain with epaulettes of 
 insupportable brightness, and have married Florence (then a beautifid 
 young w^oman) in spite of Mr. Dombey's teeth, cravat, and watch-chain, 
 and borne her away to the blue shores of somewhere or other, trium- 
 phantly. 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 brilhant 
 lustre on then- dirty skyhghts ; and when the Captain and Uncle Sol talked 
 about Eichard Whittington and masters' daughters, Walter felt that he 
 understood his tme position at Dombey and Son's, much better than they did. 
 
 So it w^as 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 com- 
 plexion of Uncle Sol and Captain Cuttle ; and yet entertained a thousand 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 81 
 
 indistinct and visionary fancies of his own, to which theii-s were work-a- 
 day probabilities. Such was his condition at the Pipchin period, when he 
 looked a httle older than of yore, but not much; and was the same light- 
 footed, hght -hearted, light-headed lad, as when he charged into the parlor 
 at the head of Uncle Sol and the imaginary boarders, and lighted liim 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." 
 
 " WivxA. is it. Uncle ? Customers ? " 
 
 "Aye," retm-ned 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 aU. day, and passing and repassing 
 the shop eveiy minute, by scores, I feel half tempted to rush out, collar 
 somebody, bring him in, and malce him buy fifty pounds' worth of instru- 
 ments for ready money. What ai-e you lookuig in at the door for? — " con- 
 tinued Walter, apostrophizing an old gentleman with a powdered head 
 (inaudibly to him of com-se), Avho 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 aU. 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 
 spkits. Uncle, When orders do come, they 'U 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 GiUs. " They 'U never come to this shop again, tiU I am out of it." 
 
 " I say. Uncle! You mustn't really, you know!" m'ged Walter. " Don't!" 
 
 Old Sol endeavoured to assimie 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 Avith me, Uncle, if there is, and 
 tell me all about it." 
 
 " No, no, no," retm-ned 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 '11 teU you what, Uncle, 
 when I see you like this, I am quite sorry that I Hve 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 hve with you, when I see you with 
 anything on your mind." 
 
 " I am a httle duU at such times, I know," observed Solomon, meekly 
 rubbing his hands. 
 
 " What I mean. Uncle Sol," pursued Walter, bendiug over a httle more 
 to pat him on the shoulder, " is, that then I feel you ou[>ht to have, sittmg 
 here and pouring out the tea instead of me, a nice httle dumpling of a 
 
 o 
 
82 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 wife, you know — a comfortable, capital, cosey old lady, Avho was just a 
 matcli 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 sui'e 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 yom- 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 wiU to console you, "Uncle, 
 but hasn't got the way — ^liasn't got the way," repeated Walter, reaching 
 over fm'ther yet, to shake his uncle by the hand. 
 
 " Wally, my dear boy," said Solomon, " if the cosey little old lady had 
 taken her place in this parlom* five and forty years ago, I never could have 
 been fonder of her than I am of you." 
 
 " /know that. Uncle Sol," retm-ned 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 dd," returned the instrument maker. 
 
 "Well then, what's the matter. Uncle Sol?" said Walter, coaxingly. 
 *' Come ! What 's the matter ?" 
 
 Solomon GiUs persisted that there was nothing the matter ; and main- 
 tained it so resolutely, that his nephew had no resomxe 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. 
 
 " Yeiy weU," 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 bye-and-bye 
 when I 'm out, to see how you get on, Uncle. And mind. Uncle ! I 'U never 
 believe you again, and never tell you anything more about IVIr. Cai'ker the 
 Junior, if I find out that you have been deceiving me !" 
 
 Solomon Gills laughingly defied him to find out anytliing of the kind ; 
 and Walter, revolving in his thoughts aU 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 hved 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 imder circumstances and in combinations 
 the most completely foreign to its purpose. Dozens of chairs hooked 
 on to washing-stands, which Anth difficulty poised themselves on the 
 shoidders of sideboards, which in their tmii stood upon the wrong side 
 of dining-tables, gymnastic u-ith their legs upward ou the tops of other 
 dining-tables, were among its most reasonable arrangements. A banquet 
 aiTay of dish-covers, wine-glasses, and decanters was generally to be seen, 
 spread forth upon the bosom of a four post bedstead, for the entertain- 
 ment of such genial company as half-a-dozen pokers, and a hall lamp. 
 A set of window cm-tains with no windows belonging to them, 
 would be seen gTac^ fuEy draping a barricade of chests of drawers, loaded 
 with httle jars from chemists' shops ; while a homeless heai-thrug severed 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 8S 
 
 from 'its natui-al companion the fireside, braved the shrewd east wind 
 in its adversity, and trembled in melancholy accord with the shrill com- 
 plainings of a cabinet piano, M^asting away, a string a day, and faintly 
 resounding to the noises of the street in its janghng and distracted brain. 
 Of motioiiless clocks that never stii-red 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. Brogiey's shop ; and various lookhig- 
 glasses accidentally placed at compound interest of reflection and refraction, 
 presented to the eye an eternal perspective of bankiiiptcy and rain. 
 
 Mr, Brogley himseK was a moist-eyed, pink-complexioned, crisp-haired 
 man, of a bidky 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 spuits AveU 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 Avhen 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 sm-prised when he came back in the course of the fore- 
 noon, agreeably to his promise, to find Mr. Brogley sitting in the back parlor 
 with his hands in his pockets, and his hat hanging up behind the door. 
 
 " Well, Uncle Sol!" saidWalter. The old man was sitting ruefully on the 
 opposite side of the table, with his spectacles over Ms 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 catcliing 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 pajinent on a bond 
 debt — three hundi-ed and seventy odd, over due : and I'm in possession." 
 
 " In possession !" cried Walter, looking rormd at the shop. 
 
 *' Ah !" said Mr. Brogley, in confidential assent, and nodding liis head 
 as if he wovdd urge the advisabihty of their aU 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 knoAv 
 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." Push- 
 ing 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 liis 
 tears fell down upon his coffee-colored waistcoat. 
 
 "Uncle Sol! Pray! oh don't!" exclaimed Walter, who really felt a 
 thrill of terror in seeing the old man weep. " Por God's sake don't do 
 that. Mr. Brogley, what shall I do ?" 
 
 " / should recommend you looking up a friend or so," said Mr. Brogley, 
 " and talking it over," 
 
 " To be sm-e !" cried Walter, catching at anything. " Certainly ! 
 Thankee. Captain Cuttle's the man, Uncle. Wait till I ran to Captain 
 Cuttle. Keep your eye upon my uncle, wiU you Mr. Brogley, and make 
 
 g2 
 
84 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 liim as comfortable as you can while I am gone? Don't despaii', •Uncle 
 Sol. Try and keep a good heart, there's a dear fellow !" 
 
 Saying tliis with great fervor, 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, fuU speed, for Captain Cuttle's residence. 
 
 Every tiling seemed altered as he ran along the streets. There was 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 flag 
 staffs, as appm'tenances to public-houses ; then came slopseUers' shops, 
 with Guernsey shnts, sou'wester liats, and canvass pantaloons, at once the 
 tightest and the loosest of their order, hanging up outside. These were 
 succeeded by anchor and chain-cable forges, where sledge hammers were 
 dinging upon ii'on aU day long. Then came rows of houses, with little 
 vane-sm-mounted masts uprearing themselves from among the scarlet beans. 
 Then, ditches. Then, pollard willows. Then, more ditches. Then, unac- 
 coimtable patches of dirty water, hardly to be descried, for the ships that 
 covered them. Then, the air was perfumed Avitli chips; and all other trades 
 were swallowed up in mast, oar, and block making, and boat building. 
 Then, the ground gi-ew marshy and unsettled. Then, there was notliing 
 to be smelt but rum and sugar. Then, Captain Cuttle's lodgings — at once 
 a first floor and a top story, 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 then' di'ess, 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 
 glazed hat abeady on it, and the shirt-coUar hke a sail, and the mde suit 
 of blue, aU 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 di-ew in his head, 
 as if he expected a squall. 
 
 Nor was he mistaken ; for a \ndow 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 wilh 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 85 
 
 "Captain Cuttle's at home,I know," saidWalter.witli a conciliatoiy sniile. 
 
 " Is he ? " replied the widow lady. " In-deed ! " 
 
 " He has just been speaking to me," said Walter, in breatliless ex- 
 planation. 
 
 " Has he ? " replied the widow lady. " Then p'raps you '11 give him 
 Mrs. MacStinger's respects and say that the next time he lowers him- 
 self and his lodgings by talking out of Avinder she'll thank him to come 
 down and open the door too." IVIi's. MacStinger spoke loud, and listened 
 for any observations that might be offered from the first floor. 
 
 " I '11 mention it," said Walter, " if you '11 have the goodness to let me 
 in. Ma'am." 
 
 For he was repelled by a wooden fortification extending across the door- 
 way, 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, con- 
 temptuously, " can get over that, I should hope !" But Walter, taking 
 this as a permission to enter, and getting over it, !Mrs. MacStinger imme- 
 diately 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 infonnation 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 bannisters 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. "VMiew ! " 
 
 " / should go away, Captain Cuttle," said Walter. 
 
 " Durstn't do it, Wal'r," retm-ned the Captain. " She 'd find me out, 
 wherever I went. Sit davra. How 's GiUs ? " 
 
 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 httle 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 hoxrr. 
 
 " How 's GlUs? " 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 teai's. 
 
 No words can describe the Captain's consternation at this sight. Mrs. 
 MacStinger faded into notliing 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-colored 
 suit, buttons, chi'onometer, spectacles, and all. 
 
 But Avhen 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 
 
86 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 of ready money (amounting to thirteen pounds and lialf-a-crown), wliicli he 
 transfeiTed to one of the pockets of his square blue coat ; further enriched 
 that repository Avith the contents of his plate chest, consisting of two 
 withered atomies of teaspoons, 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 assm-e 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. 
 
 Kemembering, 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 thought of 
 escaping by that unusual means of egress, rather than encounter his terrible 
 enemy. He decided, however, in favor of stratagem. 
 
 " Wal'r," said the Captain, with a timid Avink, " go afore, my lad. 
 Sing out, ' good bye. Captain 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 down stairs, 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 fm-ther 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 sudden- 
 ness 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," retm-ned the Captain, mending his pace ; 
 " and walk the same aU the days of yoxu* life. Overhaul the catechism for 
 that advice, and keep it ! " 
 
 The Captain was too busy with his ovm thoughts of Solomon GiUs, 
 mingled perhaps with some reflections on Ids late escape from Mrs. Mac- 
 Stinger, 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 instru- 
 ment 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, hun-ying into the back parlor, and taking 
 him by the hand quite tenderly. " Lay your head well to the wind, and 
 we 'U fight through it. AU you 've got to do," said the Captain, with the 
 solemnity of a man who was deUvering himself of one of the most precious 
 practical tenets ever discovered by human wisdom, " is to lay yom- head well 
 to the wind, and we '11 fight through it !" 
 
 Old Sol retm-ned the pressm'c of his hand, and thanked him. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, then, with a gravity suitable to the natm-e of the occa- 
 sion, put down upon the table the two tea-spoons and the sugar-tongs, the 
 
(^a^/i(^:^^/zy C^i:^^:^^ c<:>i^.ihy€€^ .^^^c^> ^_^2<:^^?2< 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 8T 
 
 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 thi-ee hundred and seventy, odd,"replied the broker. 
 
 "Nevermind," retm-nedthe Captain, though he was evidently dismayed 
 by the fig-m-es : " all 's fish that comes to yom- net, I suppose ? " 
 ' " Certainly," said Mr. Brogley. " But sprats an't whales, you know." 
 
 The philosophy of tliis 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 ? 
 Wlio's the creditor?" 
 
 " Hush !" returned the old man. "Come away. 3>on't speak before 
 WaUy. 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 coiddn'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 T — the 
 little I have got, isn't convertible, Ned ; it can't be got at. I have been 
 ti-jdng to do something with it for WaUy, and I'm old-fasliioned, 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 Avithout a faint hope that he might remember some 
 few hundred pounds concealed up the cliimney, or down in the cellar. 
 But Solomon GOls 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 tliis debt — and I had better 
 go and die somewhere, on the balance. I haven't any energy left. I don't 
 understand things. Tliis had better be the end of it. Let 'em sell the 
 stock and take him down," said the old man, pointing feebly to the Avooden 
 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 doAvn, Gills, sit ye doAvn, 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 Avind," 
 said the Captain, again administering that unanswerable piece of consola- 
 tion, " and you 're aU right ! " 
 
 Old Sol thanked him fi-om his heart, and went and laid it against the 
 back parlor fire-place instead. 
 
 Captain Cuttle walked up and doAvn the shop for some time, cogitating 
 profoundly, and bringing his bushy black eyebroAvs to bear so heavily on 
 his nose, like clouds settling on a mountain, that Walter was afraid to 
 
88 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 inge- 
 nious cast of mind, went, softly whistling ; among the stock; rattling 
 w^eather glasses, shaking compasses as if they were physic, catcliing up 
 keys with loadstones, looking through telescopes, endeavoiu-ing 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, Avith gi'eat animation. 
 
 *' Come this way, my lad," said the Captain. " The stock 's one secu- 
 rity. I 'm another. Tom- governor 's the man to advance the money." 
 
 " Mr. Dombey !" faltered Walter. 
 
 The Captain nodded gi-avely, " Look at him," he said. " Look at Gills. 
 If they was to seU off these things now, he'd die of it. You know he woidd. 
 We mustn't leave a stone untm'ned — and there 's a stone for you." 
 
 " A stone ! — Mr. Dombey !" — faltered Walter. 
 
 •' You run round to the office, first of aU, 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 retm-ned, 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 pre- 
 pared himself for this contingency in his absence. " We 'U go to Brighton. 
 I 'H back you, my boy. I 'U back you, Wal'r. We '11 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 w^ould rather prefer it alone and 
 unassisted, than backed by the personal influence of Captain Cuttle, to 
 which he hardly thought Mr. Dombey woidd 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 GiUs, and returning 
 the ready money, the teaspoons, the sugar-tongs, and the silver watch, to Ids 
 pocket — with a view, as Walter thought, with horror, to making a gorgeous 
 impression on !Mi-. Dombey — bore him off to the coach-office, Avithout a 
 minute's delay, and repeatedly assured him, on the road, that he would stick 
 by him to the last. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CONTAINING THE SEQUEL OF THE MIDSHIPMAN'S DISASTER. 
 
 Ma.jou Baostock, after long and frequent observation of Paul, across 
 Princess's Place, through his double barrelled opera glass ; and after re- 
 ceiving many minute reports, daily, weekly, and monthly, on that subject, 
 from the native who kept himself in constant communication AvithMissTox's 
 maid for that purpose; came to the conclusion that Dombey, Sir, was a 
 man to be knoAvn, and that J. B. was the boy to make his acquaintance. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 89 
 
 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 accom- 
 plishment of his desire in some measm'e to chance, "which," as he was used 
 to observe with chuckles at his club, "has been fifty to one in favor of JoeyB., 
 Sir, ever since his elder brother died of YeUow Jack in the West Indies." 
 
 It was some time coming to his aid in the present instance, but it be- 
 friended him at last. When the dark servant, with fuU particidars, 
 reported Miss Tox absent on Brighton service, the Major was suddenly 
 touched with aifectionate 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 favored 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 intel- 
 ligence, 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 beUeve. 
 
 At length the Major being released from his fit, went one Satm-day ' 
 gi'owHng down to Brighton, with the native behind him : apostrophizing 
 Miss Tox aU 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 vin- 
 dictiveness, 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 ahve. 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-vil-ish sly ! " 
 
 And very tough indeed Master Bitherstone found him, when he took 
 that young gentleman out for a walk. But the Major, with his com- 
 plexion like a Stilton cheese, and his eyes like a prawn's, went roving 
 about, perfectly indifterent to Master Bitherstone's amusement, and drag- 
 ging 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 Paid 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 feUow-sufi'erers. Upon that 
 the Major stopped to notice and admire them ; remembered with amaze- 
 ment that he had seen and spoken to them at his friend Miss Tox's in 
 Princess's Place ; opined that Paid was a devilish fine fellow, and his own 
 little friend ; inquu-ed if he remembered Joey B. the IMajor ; and finally, 
 with a sudden recollection of the conventionalities of life, tunied and 
 apologised to Mr, Dombey, 
 
 "But my httle 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, Su-," 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 cried the Major with sudden wannth, " I envy you." Then he recol- 
 lected 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 bebeve ? " 
 
 " 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 fomly, as if he deiied Mr. Dombey to contradict 
 him, and would feel it his painful duty to bully him if he did, " that is 
 kno'R'Ti and honom*ed 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 Eoyal 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 name, 
 Su-. By the Lord, it's a great name ! " said the Major, solemnly. 
 
 " You are good enough to rate it higher than it deserves perhaps. 
 Major," returned Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " No, Su-," said the Major. "My little friend here. Sir, wiU certify for 
 Joseph Bagstock that he is a thorough-going, downright, plain-spoken, 
 old Tmmp, Sir, and nothing more. That boy, Sir," said the Major in a 
 lower tone, " will live in history. Tliat boy, Sir, is not a common pro- 
 duction. Take care of liim, Mr. Dombey." 
 
 Mr. Dombey seemed to intimate that he would endeavour to do so. 
 
 " Here is a boy here. Sir," pursued the Major, confidentially, and giving 
 him a thrust Avith his cane. " Son of Bitherstone of Bengal. Bill Bither- 
 stone formerly of om-s. That boy's father and myself. Sir, were sworn friends. 
 Wherever you went. Sir, you heard of nothing but BQl Bitherstone and 
 Joe Bagstock. Am I blind to that bov's defects ? By no means. He's 
 a fool. Sir." 
 
 Mr. Dombey glanced at the libelled Master Bitherstone of whom he 
 knew at least as much as the Major did, and said, in quite a complacent 
 manner, " Really? " 
 
 " That is what he is, Sir," said the Major. " He 's a fool. Joe 
 Bagstock never minces matters. The son of my old friend Bill Bither- 
 stone of Bengal, is a bojii fool, Sh-." Here the Major laughed tiU he was 
 almost black. " My Uttle friend is destined for a public school, I pre- 
 sume. Ml-. Dombey ? " said the Major when he had recovered. 
 
 "I am not quite decided," retimied Mr. Dombey. "I think not. 
 He is delicate." 
 
 " If he 's dehcate, Sir," said the Major, " you are right. None but 
 the tough fellows could Hve tlirough it. Sir, at Sandhurst. We put each 
 other to the torture there. Sir. We roasted the new fellows at a slow 
 fii'e, and hung 'em out of a three pair of stairs window, with their heads 
 downwards. Joseph Bagstock, Sir, was held out of window by the heels 
 of his boots, for 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 were, Sir," said the Major, settling liis shirt 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 91 
 
 frill. " We were iron, Sir, and it forged us. Are you remaining here, 
 Mr. Dombey?" 
 
 " I generally come down once a- week, Major," returned that gentleman. 
 " I stay at the Bedford." 
 
 " I shall have the honor of calling at the Bedford, Sir, if you 'R permit 
 me," said the Major. " Joey B., Sir, is not in general a calling man, but 
 Mr. Dombey's is not a common name. I am much indebted to my little 
 friend, Sir, for the honor of this introduction." 
 
 Mr. Dombey made a very gi-acious reply ; and Major Bagstock, having 
 patted Paul on the head, and said of Florence that her eyes would 
 play the Devil with the youngsters before long — " and the oldsters too, 
 Sir, if you come to that," added the Major, chuckling very much — stirred 
 up Master Bitherstone with his walking-stick, and departed with that 
 young gentleman, at a kind of half-trot ; rolling liis head and coughing 
 wdth great dignity, as he staggered away, with his legs very wide 
 asunder. 
 
 In fidfilment of his promise, the Major afterwards called on Mr. 
 Dombey ; and Mr. Dombey, having referred to the army list, afterwards 
 called on the Major. Then the Major called at Mr. Dombey's house in 
 town; and came down again, in the same coach as Mr. Dombey. In 
 short, Mr. Dombey and the Major got on imcommonly well together, 
 and uncommonly fast : and Mr. Dombey observed of the Major, to 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 uncon- 
 nected mth his own profession. 
 
 At length Mr. Dombey, bringing down Miss Tox and Mrs. Chick to see 
 the children, and finding the Major again at Brighton, invited him to 
 dinner at the Bedford, and complimented ^Ii£s Tox liigldy, beforehand, 
 on her neighbour and acquaintance. Notwithstanding the palpitation of 
 the heart which these allusions occasioned her, they were anything but 
 disagreeable to Miss Tox, as they enabled her to be extremely interesting, 
 and to manifest an occasional incoherence and distraction which she was 
 not at all unwiUing to display. The Major gave her abmidant opportu- 
 nities of exliibiting this emotion : being profuse in his complaints, at 
 dinner, of her desertion of hirn and Princess's Place : and as he appeared to 
 derive great enjoyment from making them, they all got on very well. 
 
 None the worse on account of the Major taking charge of the whole 
 conversation, and showing as great an appetite in that respect as in regard 
 of the various dainties on the table, among wliich he may be almost said 
 to have wallowed : greatly to the aggravation of his inflammatory ten- 
 dencies. Mr. Dombey's habitual silence and reserve yielding readily to 
 this usm*pation, the Major felt that he was coming out and shining : 
 and in the flow of spiiits thus engendered, rang such an infinite number 
 of new changes on his own name that he quite astonished himself. In a 
 word, they were all very well pleased. The Major was considered to 
 possess an inexhaustible fund of conversation; and Avhen he took a late 
 farcAveU, after a long rubber, Mr. Dombey again complimented the blushing 
 Miss Tox on her neighbour, and acquaintance. 
 
 But aU the way home to his own hotel, the Major incessantly said to 
 himself, and of himself, " Sly, Sir — sly, Sir — de-vil-ish sly ! " And when 
 he got there, sat down in a chaii", and fell into a silent fit of laughter. 
 
5J 
 
 92 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 with whicli he was sometimes seized, and which was always particularly 
 awftd. It held hhn so long on this occasion that the dark servant, 
 who stood watching him at a distance, but dared not for his life approach, 
 twice or thrice gave liim over for lost. His whole form, but especially his 
 face and head, dilated beyond all former experience ; and presented to 
 the dark man's view, nothing but a heaving mass of indigo. At length 
 he bm'st into a violent paroxysm of coughing, and when that was a httle 
 better burst into such ejaculations as the following : 
 
 " Woidd you, Ma'am, woidd you ? Mrs. Dombey, eh Ma'am? I think 
 not. Ma'am. Not while Joe B. can put a spoke in your wheel, Ma'am. 
 J. B.'s even with you now, Ma'am. He isn't altogether bowled out, 
 yet. Sir, isn't Bagstock, She 's deep Sir, deep, but Josh is deeper. Wide 
 awake is old Joe — broad awake, and staring, Sir!" There was no doubt 
 of this last assertion being true, and to a veiy fearful extent ; as it con- 
 tinued to be diu-ing the greater part of that night, which the Major 
 chiefly passed in similar exclamations, diversified mth fits of coughing 
 and choking that startled the whole house. 
 
 It was on the day after this occasion (being Sunday) Avhen, as Mr. 
 Dombey, IVIi-s. Chick, and Miss Tox were sitting at breakfast, still eulo- 
 gizing the Major, Florence came running in : her face sufli'used Avith a 
 bright color, and 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?" 
 
 "Walter, Papa," said Florence timidly; sensible of having approached 
 the presence Avith too much familiarity. " Who found me when I was lost." 
 
 "Does she mean young Gay, Louisa?" inquired Mr. Dombey, knitting 
 his brows. " Keally, this cluld's manners have become very boisterous. 
 She cannot mean yoimg Gay, I think. See what it is, will you." 
 
 Mrs. Chick hurried into the passage, and returned with the information 
 that it was young Gay, accompanied by a very strange-looking person; 
 and that young Gay said he woidd not take the liberty of coming in, 
 hearing Mr. Dombey was at breakfast, but would wait until Mr. Dombey 
 should signify that he might approach. 
 
 " TeU the boy to come in now," said Mr. Dombey. " Now, Gay, what is 
 the matter ? Who sent you down here ? Was there nobody else to come ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir," returned Walter. " I have not been sent. 
 I have been so bold as to come on my own account, which I hope you 'U 
 pardon when I mention the cause." 
 
 But Mr. Dombey, without attending to what he said, was looking 
 impatiently on either side of him (as if he were a piUar in his way) at 
 some object behind. 
 
 ""^^Tiat's that?" said Mr. Dombey. "Who is that? I think you 
 have made some mistake in the door. Sir." 
 
 "Oh, I'm very soiTy to intrude with any one. Sir," cried Walter, 
 hastily : " but this is — this is Captain Cuttle, Sh'." 
 
 " Wal'r, my lad," observed the Captain in a deep voice : " stand by!" 
 
 At the same time the Captain, coming a little further in, brought out 
 his wide suit of blue, his conspicuous shirt-collar, and his knobby nose in 
 full relief, and stood bowing to Mr. Dombey, and waving his hook pohtely 
 to the ladies, with the liard glazed hat in his one hand, and a red equator 
 round Ids head which it had newly imprinted there. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 93 
 
 IVIr. Dombey regarded tliis plxenomenon with amazement and indigna- 
 tion, and seemed by his looks to appeal to Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox 
 against it. Little Paid, who had come in after Florence, backed towards 
 Miss Tox as the Captain waved his hook, and stood on the defensive. 
 
 " Now, Gay," said Mr. Dombey. " What have you got to say to me ?" 
 
 Again the Captain observed, as a general opening of the conversation 
 that coidd not fad to propitiate aU parties, " Wal'r, stand by !" 
 
 " I am afraid, Su-," began Walter, trembhng, and looking down at the 
 gi'ound, " that I take a very gi-eat Uberty in coming — ^indeed, I am sure I 
 do. I should hardly have had the com'age to ask to see you. Sir, even after 
 coming down, I am afraid, if I had not overtaken Miss Dombey, and" — 
 
 " WeU ! " said Mi'. Dombey, foUomng his eyes as he glanced at the 
 attentive Florence, and fro^vning imconsciously as she encom'aged him with 
 a smile. " Go on, if you please." 
 
 " Aye, aye," observed the Captain, considering it incumbent on liim, as a 
 point of good breeding, to support Mi-.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 this, he closed one eye in reply, and gave Mr. Dombey 
 to understand, by certain significant motions of his hook, that Walter was 
 a httle bashful at first, and might be expected to come out shortly. 
 
 "It is entnely a private and personal matter, that has brought me here, 
 Sir," continued W^alter, faltering, " and Captain Cuttle — ." 
 
 " Here !" interposed the Captain, as an assurance that he was at hand, 
 and might be reUed upon. 
 
 " Who is a very old friend of my poor uncle's, and a most excellent 
 man. Sir," pursued Walter, raising his eyes with a look of entreaty in the 
 Captain's behalf, "was so good as to offer to come with me, which I 
 could hardly refuse." 
 
 " No, no, no," observed the Captain complacently. " Of course not. 
 No call for refusing. Go on, Wal'r." 
 
 "And therefore, Sir," said Walter, venturing to meet ]\Ir. Dombey's 
 eye, and proceeding with better courage in the very desperation of the 
 case, now that there was no avoiding it, " therefore I have come, vfiili 
 him, Su*, to say that my poor old uncle is in very great affliction and dis- 
 tress. That, through the gradual loss of his business, and not being able 
 to make a payment, the apprehension of which has weighed very heavily 
 upon his mind, months and months, as indeed I know, Sir, he has an exe- 
 cution in his house, and is in danger of losing aU he has, and breaking his 
 heart. And that if you would, in your kindness, and in yom- old knowledge 
 of him as a respectable man, do anything to help him out of his difficulty. 
 Sir, we 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 ghstening, though he appeared to look at Walter only. 
 
 " It is a very large sum, Sii-," said Walter. " More than three hundi-ed 
 pounds. My uncle is quite beaten down by his misfortune, it lies so heavy on 
 him ; and is quite unable to do anything for his own rehef. He doesn't even 
 know yet, that I have come to speak to you. You would wish me to say. 
 Sir," added Walter, after a moment's hesitation, "exactly what it is I 
 want. I really don't know. Sir. There is my uncle's stock, on which 
 I beheve I may say, confidently, there are no other demands ; and there is 
 
94 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, wlio would wish to be secm-ity too. I — I hardly like to 
 mention," said Walter, " such earnings as mine ; but if you would allow 
 them — accumidate — payment — advance — uncle — frugal, honorable, old 
 man." Walter trailed off, through these broken sentences, into silence ; 
 and stood, with downcast head, before liis employer. 
 
 Considering this a favom'able moment for the display of the valuables, 
 Captain Cuttle advanced to the table ; and clearing a space among the break- 
 fast-cups at Mr. Dombey's elbow, produced the silver watch, the ready 
 money, the teaspoons, and the sugar-tongs ; and piling them up into a heap 
 that they might look as precious as possible, dehvered himself of these words : 
 
 " Half a loaf's better than no bread, and the same remark holds good 
 with crambs. There 's a few. Annuity of one hundred pound prannum 
 also ready to be made over. If there is a man chock fidl of science in the 
 world, it 's old Sol GiUs. If there is a lad of promise — one flowing," 
 added the Captain, in one of his happy quotations, " with mUk and honey 
 — it 's his nevy ! " 
 
 The Captain then withdrew to his former place, where 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 speak, Mr. Dombey's eyes were attracted to 
 little Paul, Avho, seeing his sister hanging down her head and silently 
 weeping, in her commiseration for the distress she had heard described, 
 went over to her, and tried to comfort her : looking at Walter and his 
 father, as he did so, with a very expressive face. After the momentary 
 distraction of Captain Cuttle's address, which he regarded with lofty indif- 
 ference, IVIr. Dombey again tm-ned his eyes upon his son, and sat steadily 
 regarding the child, for some moments, in silence. 
 
 " What was this debt contracted for ? " asked ]\Ir. Dombey, at lengih. 
 " WTio is the creditor ? " 
 
 " He don't know," replied the Captain, putting his hand on Walter's 
 shoidder. " I do. It came of helping a man that's dead now, and that's 
 cost my friend GUIs many a himdred poimd akeady. More particidars in 
 private, if agreeable." 
 
 "People Avho have enoiigh to do to hold their own way," said Mr. 
 Dombey, unobservant of the Captain's mysterious signs behind Walter, and 
 stiU looking at his son, " had better be content with then- own obligations 
 and difficulties, and not increase them by engaging for other men. It is an 
 act of dishonesty, and presumption too," said Mr. Dombey, sternly; " gTcat 
 presiunption ; for the wealthy coidd do no more. Paul, come here ! " 
 
 The child obeyed : and Mr. Dombey took him on his knee, 
 
 " If you had money now — " said Mi'. Dombey. " Look at me ! " 
 
 Paul, Avhose eyes had Avandered to his sister, and to W^alter, looked his 
 father in the face. 
 
 "If you had money now," said Mr. Dombey; "as much money as 
 young Gay has talked about ; what Avould you do ? " 
 
 " Give it to his old uncle," retmiied Paul. 
 
 "Lend it to his old imcle, eh?" retorted Mr. Dombey. ''Well! 
 \Mien you are old enough, you know, you AviU share mj^ money, and 
 Ave shall use it together." 
 
 " Dombey and Son," interrupted Paid, who had been tutored early in 
 the phrase. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 95 
 
 " Dombey and Son," repeated his father. " Would you like to begin 
 to be Dombey and Son, now, and lend this money to young Gay's unele?" 
 
 " Oh ! if yon please, Papa ! " said Paul : " and so woidd Florence." 
 
 " Grirls," said tii\ Dombey, " have nothing to do with Dombey and Son. 
 Woidd ^ou like it ? " 
 
 " Yes, Papa, yes ! " 
 
 " Then you shall do it," retm-ned his father. "And you see, Paul," he 
 added, dropping his voice, "how powerful money is, and how anxious 
 people are to get it. Young Gay comes all this way to beg for money, and 
 you, who are so grand and gi-eat, having got it, are going to let him have 
 it, as a great favor and obhgation." 
 
 Paid turned up the old face for a moment, in which there was a sharp 
 understanding of the reference conveyed in these words : but it was a 
 young and cliildish face immediately afterwards, when he slipped down 
 from his father's knee, and ran to tell Florence not to cry any more, for he 
 was going to let young Gay have the money. 
 
 Mr. Dombey then turned to a side-table, and wrote a note and sealed it. 
 Dm'ing the interval, Paul and Florence whispered to Walter, and Captain 
 Cuttle beamed on the thi'ee, with such aspii'ing and inelfably presumptuous 
 thoughts as Mr. Dombey never could have believed in. The note being 
 finished, Mr. Dombey tui-ned round to his former place, and held it out to 
 Walter. 
 
 " Give that," he said, " the first thing to-morrow morning, to Mr.* 
 Carker. He wiU immediately take care that one of my people releases 
 your uncle from his present position, by paying the amount at issue; and 
 that such arrangements are made for its repayment as may be consistent 
 with your uncle's cii'cumstances. You will consider that this is done 
 for you by Master Paid." 
 
 Walter, in the emotion of holding in his hand the means of releasing 
 his good uncle from his trouble, would have endeavoured to express some- 
 thing of his gi'atitude 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 him, and he understands it. I wish no more to be said." 
 
 As he motioned towards the door, Walter coidd only bow his head and 
 retne. Miss Tox, seeing that the Captain appeared about to do the same, 
 interposed. 
 
 " My dear Sir," she said, addressing Mr. Dombey, at whose munificence 
 both she and IVIrs. Chick were shedding tears copiously ; " I think you have 
 overlooked something. Pardon me, Mr. Dombey, I think, in the nobility of 
 your character, and its exalted scope, you have omitted a matter of detail." 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Tox !" said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " The gentleman with the Instrument," pursued Miss Tox, glancing 
 
 at Captain Cuttle, " has left upon the table, at yoiu- elbow " 
 
 " Good Heaven !" said Mi-. Dombey, sweeping the Captain's property 
 from him, as if it Avere so much crumb indeed. " Take these things away. 
 I am obhged to you, Miss Tox ; it is hke your usual discretion. Have 
 the goodness to take these things away. Sir !" 
 
 Captain Cuttle felt he had no alternative but to comply. But he was so 
 much struck by the magnanimity of Mr. Dombey, in refusing treasures 
 lying heaped up to his hand, that when he had deposited the teaspoons 
 and sugar-tongs in one pocket, and the ready money in another, and had 
 
96 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 lowered tlie great watch, down slowly into its proper vaidt, he could not 
 refrain from seizing that gentleman's right hand in his own solitary left, 
 and while he held it open Avith his powerful fingers, bringing the hook 
 doAvn upon its palm in a transport of admiration. At tliis touch of warm 
 feeling and cold ii-on, Mr. 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 Paid and 
 Florence, accompanied Walter out of the room. Florence was running 
 after them in the earnestness of her heart, to send some message to old 
 Sol, when Mr. Dombey called her back, and bade her stay where she was. 
 
 " WUl you never be a Dombey, my dear chUd !" said Mi's. Chick, with 
 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 Ms neck if she had 
 dared ; but as she did not dare, she glanced with thankfid eyes towards 
 him, as he sat musing ; sometimes bestowing an uneasy glance on her, but, 
 for the most part, watching Paul, Avho walked about the room with the 
 new-blown dignity of having let young Gay have the money. 
 
 And young Gay — Walter — Avhat of him ? 
 
 He was overjoyed to pm'ge the old man's hearth from bailiffs and 
 brokers, and to hm-ry back to his uncle with the good tidings. He was 
 bverjoyed to have it all arranged and settled next day before noon ; and to 
 sit down at evening in the little back parlor with old Sol and Captain 
 Cuttle ; and to see the instrument-maker already reviving, and hopefid for 
 the future, and feeling that the wooden midshipman was his own again. 
 But "without the least impeachment of his gratitude to Mi*. Dombey, it 
 must be confessed that Walter was humbled and cast down. It is when 
 our budding hopes are nipped beyond recovery by some rough wind, that 
 we are the most disposed to picture to om-selves what flowers they might 
 have borne, if they had flourished; and now, when Walter felt himself cut off 
 from that gi-eat Dombey height, by the depth of a new and terrible tumble, 
 and felt that aU his old wild fancies had been scattered to the winds in the 
 fall, he began to suspect that they might have led him on to harmless 
 Adsions 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 h.e had assisted Avas so 
 very satisfactory and encom-aging, as to be only a step or two removed from 
 a regular betrothal of Florence to Walter; and that the late transaction 
 had immensely forwarded, if not thoroughly established, the Whitting- 
 tonian hopes. Stimulated by this conviction, and by the improvement in 
 the spii-its of his old friend, and by his OAvn consequent gaiety, he even 
 attempted, in favouring them Avith the ballad of "Lovely Peg" for the 
 thii'd time in one evening, to make an extemporaneous substitution of the 
 name " Florence" ; but finding this diflicult, on accoimt of the Avord Peg 
 invariably rhyming to leg (in which personal beauty the original Avas 
 described as having excelled aU competitors), he liit iipon the happy 
 thought of changing it to Fie — e — eg ; Avhich he accordingly did, AA'ith an 
 archness almost supernatural, and a voice quite vociferous, notwithstanding 
 that the time Avas close at hand Avhen he must seek the abode of the 
 di-eadful Mrs. MacStinger, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 97 
 
 CHAPTEE XT. 
 
 Paul's introduction to a new scene. 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin's constitution was made of such hard metal, in spite of 
 its liability to the fleslily weaknesses of standing in need of repose after 
 chops, and of requiring to be coaxed to sleep by the soporific agency of 
 sweetbreads, that it utterly set at naught the predictions of Mrs. Wickani, 
 and showed no symptoms of decline. Yet, as Paid's rapt interest in the; 
 old lady continued unabated, ]VIrs. Wickam woidd not budge an inch 
 from the position she had taken up. Fortifying and entrenching lierself 
 on the strong ground of her imcle's Betsey Jane, she advised Miss Berry, as 
 a friend, to prepare herself for the worst; and forewaiTied her that her aunt 
 might, at any time, be expected to go off suddenly, like a powder-miU. 
 
 Poor Berry took it all in good part, and di'udged and slaved away as 
 usual ; perfectly convinced that IVIi's. Pipcliin was one of the most meri- 
 torious persons in the world, and making every day innumerable sacrifices 
 of herself upon the altar of that noble old-woman. But all these immola- 
 tions of Berry were somehow carried to the credit of Mrs. Pipcliiii, 
 by Mrs. Pipchin's friends and admirers ; and w^ere made to harmonise with, 
 and carry out, that melancholy fact of the deceased Mr. Pipchin having 
 broken his heart in the Peruvian mines. 
 
 For example, there was an honest grocer and general dealer in the 
 retail line of business, between whom and Mrs. Pipchin there w^as a small 
 memorandum book, with a greasy red cover, perpetually in question, and 
 concerning which divers secret councils and conferences Avere continutdly 
 being held between the parties to thQi|pegister, on the mat in the passage, 
 and 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 unsettled, and of a 
 failure, on one occasion within his memory, in the supply of moist sugar 
 at tea-time. This grocer being a bachelor and not a man who looked 
 upon the sm-face for beauty, had once made honom-able offers for the hand 
 of Beny, which ^Irs. Pipchin had, with contumely and scorn, rejected. 
 Everybody said how laudable this Avas in Mrs. Pipchin, relict of a man 
 who had died of the Peruvian mines; and what a staunch, high, independent 
 spirit, the old lady had. But nobody said anything about poor Berry, who 
 cried for six Aveeks (being soundly rated by her good aunt all the time), 
 and lapsed into a state of hopeless spinsterhood. 
 
 "Ben-y's very fond of you, ain't she?" Paid once asked Mrs. Pipchin 
 when they Avere sitting by the fire Avith the cat. 
 
 " Yes,'"' said Mrs. Pipcliin. 
 
 "Why?" asked Paul. 
 
 _" Why ! " returned the disconcerted old lady. " How can you ask such 
 tilings. Sir ! Avhy are you fond of yom- sister Florence ?" 
 
 " Because she 's very good," said Paul. "There 's nobody like Florence." 
 
 " Well !_" retorted Mi-s. Pipchin shortly, " and there 's nobody like mo, 
 I suppose." 
 
 H 
 
98 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "Ain't there really thougli?" asked Paul, leaning forward in his chair, 
 and looking at her veiy hard. 
 
 " No," said the old lady. 
 
 " I am glad of that," observed Paul, rubbing his hands thoughtfully. 
 " That 's a very good thing." 
 
 Mi's. Pipchin didn't dare to ask him why, lest she should receive some 
 perfectly annihilating answer. But as a compensation to her wounded 
 feelings, she harassed Master Bitherstone to that extent until bed-time, 
 that he began that very night to make arrangements for an overland re- 
 tm-n to India, by secreting from his supper a quarter of a round of bread 
 and a fragment of moist Dutch cheese, as the beginning of a stock of pro- 
 vision to support him on the voyage. 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin had kept watch and ward over little Paid and his sister, 
 for nearly twelve months. They had been home twice, but 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 groAvn stronger, and had become able to 
 dispense with his carriage; though he still looked thin, and delicate; and still 
 remained the same old, quiet, di-eamy child, that he had been when first 
 consigned to Mi's. Pipcliin's care. One Satmday afternoon, at dusk, gi'eat 
 consternation was occasioned in the castle by the unlooked-for announce- 
 ment of Mr. Dombey as a visitor to Mrs. Pipchin. The population of the 
 parlour was immediately swept iip-stairs as on the wings of a whirlwind, 
 and after much slamming of bedroom doors, and trampling overhead, and 
 some knocking about of Master Bitherstone by Mrs. Pipchin, as a relief 
 to the perturbation of her spirits, the 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 you. Sir," said Mrs. Pipchin, " I am pretty well, considering." 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin always used that form of words. It meant, considering 
 her virtues, sacrifices, and so forth. 
 
 " I can't expect. Sir, to be very well," said Mrs. Pipchin, taldrig a chair, 
 and fetching her breath ; " but such health as I have, I am grateful for." 
 
 Mr. Dombey inclined his head with the satisfied air of a patron, who 
 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. Pipchin, I have taken the liberty of calling, to considt you in 
 reference to my son. I have had it in my mind to do so for some time 
 past ; but have defended it from time to time, in order that his health 
 might be thoroughly re-estabhshed. You have no misgivings on that sub- 
 ject, Mrs. Pipchin?" 
 
 " Brighton has proved very beneficial, Sii-," returned Mrs. Pipchin. 
 " Very beneficial, indeed." 
 
 " I piu-pose," said Mr. Dombey, "his remaining at Brighton." 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin rubbed her hands, and bent her gi-ey eyes on the fire. 
 
 " But," pursued Mr. Dombey, stretching out his forefinger, " but 
 possibly that he should now make a change, and lead a difi^erent kind of 
 life here. In short, Mrs. Pipchin, that is the object of my visit. My 
 son is getting on, Mrs. Pipchin. Really, he is getting on." 
 
 There was something melancholy in the triumphant air with which Mr. 
 Dombey said this. It shewed how long Paul's childish life hr.d been to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 99 
 
 him, and how his hopes were set upon a later stage of his existence. Pity 
 may appear a strange word to connect with any one so haughty and so 
 cold, and yet he seemed a worthy subject for it at that moment. 
 
 " Six years old !" said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth — ^perhaps to 
 hide an iiTcpressible smile that rather seemed to strike upon the surface 
 of his face and glance away, as finding no resting place, than to play there 
 for an instant. " Dear me, six wiU be changed to sixteen, before we have 
 time to look about us." 
 
 " Ten years," croaked the unsympathetic Pipchin, with a frosty glisten- 
 ing of her hard gi-ey eye, and a dreary shaking of her bent head, " is a 
 long time." 
 
 " It depends on circximstances," returned Mr. Dombey ; " at aU events, 
 Mrs. Pipchin, my son is six years old, and there is no doubt, I fear, that 
 in his studies he is behind many children of his age — or his youth," said 
 Ml-. Dombey, quickly answering what he mistnisted was a shrewd twinkle 
 of the frosty eye, " his youth is a more appropriate expression. Now, 
 Mrs. Pipchin, instead of being behind his peers, my 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 prepared, and 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 undertaken, 
 Mi-s. Pipchin." 
 
 " Well, Sir," said Mrs. Pipchin, " I can say nothing to the contrary." 
 
 " I was quite sm-e, Mi-s. Pipchin," returned Mr. Dombey, approvingly, 
 "that a person of your good sense could not, and would not." 
 
 " There is a gi'eat deal of nonsense — and worse — talked about young 
 people not being pressed too hard at first, and being tempted on, and 
 all the rest of it. Sir," said Mrs. Pipchin, impatiently rubbing her hooked 
 nose. " It never was thought of in my time, and it lias 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 beheve, j\Ii-s. Pipchin, that 
 I am more than satisfied with your excellent system of management, and 
 shall have the gi-eatest pleasure in commending it whenever my poor com- 
 mendation " — Mr. Dombey's loftiness when he affected to disparage his own 
 importance, passed all bounds — "can be of any service. I have been 
 thinking of Dr. Blimber's, ]\Irs. Pipchin." 
 
 " My neighbour, Sir?" said Mrs. Pipchin. " I believe the Doctor's is 
 an excellent establishment. I 've heai'd that it 's very strictly conducted, 
 and that there 's nothing but learning going on from morning to night." 
 
 "And it 's very expensive," added Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "And it 's very expensive. Sir," returned Mrs. Pipchin, catching at the 
 fact, as if in omitting that, she had omitted one of its leading merits. 
 
 " I have had some communication with the Doctor, Mrs. Pipchin," said 
 Mr. Dombey, hitching his chair anxiously a little nearer to the fire, " and 
 he does not consider Paul at all too young for his purpose. He men- 
 tioned several instances of boys in Greek at about the same age. If 
 I have any little uneasiness in my own mind, ^Mrs. Pipchin, on the subject 
 of this change, it is not on that head. My son not having known 
 a mother has gradually concentrated much — too much — of his childish 
 
 II 2 
 
100 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 affection on Hs sister. Wlietlier their separation — " ]\Ir. Donibey said 
 no more, but sat silent. 
 
 " Hoity-toity ! " exclaimed Mrs. Pipcliin, shaking out lier black boni- 
 bazeen skirts, and plucking up all tlie ogress within her. "If she don't 
 like it, Mr. Dombey, slie must be taught to lump it." The good lady 
 apologised immediately afterwards for using so common a figure of speech, 
 but said (and truly) that that was the way slie reasoned with 'em. 
 
 Mr. Dombey waited until Mrs. Pipchin had done bridling and shaking 
 her head, and frowning down a legion of Bitherstones and Pankeys ; and 
 then said qmetly, but correctively, " He, my good madam ; he." 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin's system wovdd have applied very much the same mode of 
 cure to any uneasiness on the part of Paid, too ; but as the hard grey eye 
 was sharp enough to see that the recipe, however Mr. Dombey might 
 admit its efficacy in the case of the daughter, Avas not a sovereign remedy 
 for the son, she argiied the point ; and contended that change, and new 
 society, and the different form of life he would lead at Doctor Blimber's, 
 and the studies he would have to master, would very soon prove siifficient 
 alienations. As this chimed in with Mr. Dombey's own hope and belief, 
 it gave that gentleman a stiU higher opinion of JNIrs. Pipchin's under- 
 standing ; and as Mrs. Pipchin, at the same time, bewailed the loss of her 
 dear little friend (which was not an overwhelming shock to her, as she had 
 long expected it, and had not looked, in the beginning, for 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 consideration, for he had formed a plan, which he 
 announced to the ogress, of sending Paul to the Doctor's as a weekly 
 boarder for the first half year, during which time Florence would remain 
 at the castle, that she might receive her brother ther^,^ on Saturdays. 
 This woidd wean him by degi-ees, Mr. Dombey said : (/'^»eWbly Avith a 
 recollection of his not having been weaned bv 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 son, pending his studies at Brighton ; and having kissed Paul, 
 and shaken hands with Florence, and beheld Master Bitherstone in his 
 collar of state, and made Miss Pankey cry by patting her on the head (in 
 which region she was imcommonly tender, on accomit of a habit Mi's. 
 Pipchin had of sounding it with her knuckles, like a cask), he withdrew to 
 his hotel and dinner : resolved that Paid, now that he was getting so old 
 and Avell, should begin a vigorous course of education forthwith, to qualiiy 
 him for the position in which he was to shine ; and that Doctor Bbmber 
 should take him in hand immediately. 
 
 Whenever a young gentleman was taken in hand by Doctor Blimber, 
 he might consider himself siue of a pretty tight squeeze. The Doctor 
 only undertook the charge of ten young gentlemen, but he had, always 
 ready, a supply of learning for a hundi-ed, on the lowest estimate ; and it 
 was at once the business and delight of his life to gorge the unhappy ten 
 with it. 
 
 In fact, Doctor Blimber's establishment was a great hot-house, in 
 wliich there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work. All the boys 
 blcAv before their time. Mental green-peas were produced at Christmas, 
 and intellectual asparagus all the year round. IMathcniatical goose- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 101 
 
 berries (very sour ones too) were common at untimely seasons, and from 
 mere sprouts of bushes, under Doctor Blimber's cultivation. Every 
 description of Greek and Latin vegetable was got off the driest twigs of 
 boys, under the frostiest circumstances. Natm-e was of no consequence 
 at all. No matter what a young gentleman was intended to bear. Doctor 
 Blimber made him bear to pattern, somehow or other. 
 
 This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system of forcing was 
 attended with its usual disadvantages. There was not the right taste 
 about the premature productions, and they didn't keep well. Moreover, 
 one young gentleman, with a swollen nose and an excessively large head 
 (the oldest of the ten who had " gone through" everything), suddenly 
 left off blowing one dav, and remained in the establishment a mere stalk. 
 And people, did say that the Doctor had rather overdone it with young 
 Toots, and that when he began to have whiskers he left off having brains. 
 
 There young Toots was, at any rate ; possessed of the gruffest of voices 
 and the shrillest of minds ; sticking ornamental pins into his shirt, and 
 keeping a ring in his Avaistcoat pocket to put on his little finger by stealth, 
 when the pupils went out walking ; constantly falling in love by sight with 
 nurserymaids, who 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 stairs, after bed-time, like a greatly overgrown 
 cherub who had sat up aloft much loo long. 
 
 The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black, with strings at 
 his knees, and stockings below them. He had a bald head, higlily 
 polished ; a deep voice ; and a chin so very double, that 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 up, and a mouth that was always half 
 expanded into a grin, as if he had, that moment, posed a boy, and 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 
 liand behind him, and a scarcely percej^tible wag of his head, made the 
 commonest observation to a nervous stranger, it was like a sentiment 
 from the sphynx, and settled his business. 
 
 The Doctor's was a mighty fine house, fronting the sea. Not a joyful 
 style of house within, but quite the contrary. Sad-coloured curtains, 
 whose proportions were spare and lean, hid themselves despondently 
 behind the windows. The tables and chairs were put away in rows, like 
 figures in a sum ; fires were so rarely lighted in the rooms of ceremony, 
 that they felt like weUs, and 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 aU the house 
 but the ticking of a great clock in the ImlL Avhich made itself audible in 
 the. very gairets; and sometimes a duU e^i^^ of young gentlemen at Cf^'y^ 
 their lessons, like the murmurings of an assemblage of melancholy 
 pigeons. 
 
 JN'Iiss Blimber, too, although a slim and graceful maid, did no soft 
 violence to the gi'avity of the house. There was no light nonsense about 
 Miss Blimber. She kept her hair short and crisp, and wore spectacles. 
 She was dry and sandy with working in the graves of deceased languages. 
 None of your live languages for ]\Iiss Bhmber. They must be dead — 
 stone dead — and then Jliss Blimber dug them up like a Ghoide. 
 
102 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Mi's. Blimber, her mama, was not learned herself, but she pretended to 
 be, and that did quite as weU, She said at evening parties, that if she 
 could have known Cicero, she thought she could have died contented. It 
 was the steady joy of her life to see the Doctor's young gentlemen go out 
 walking, unlike aU other young gentlemen, in the largest possible shirt 
 coUars, and the stiffest possible cravats. It was so classical, she said. 
 
 As to Mr. Feeder, B. A., Doctor Blimber's assistant, he was a kind of 
 human barrel-organ, with a little list of tunes at which he was continually 
 working, over and over again, without any variation. He might have 
 been fitted up with a change of barrels, perhaps, in early life, if his destiny 
 had been favourable ; but it had not been ; and he had only one, with 
 which, in a monotonous round, it was his occupation to bewilder the young 
 ideas of Doctor Blimber's young gentlemen. The young gentlemen were 
 prematm'ely fuU of carking anxieties. They knew no rest from the pm*- 
 suit of stoney-hearted verbs, savage noun-substantives, inflexible syntactic 
 passages, and ghosts of exercises that appeared to them in their di'eams. 
 Under the forcing system, a young gentleman usually took leave of Ms 
 spirits in tlu-ee 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 foiu" ; he was an old misanthrope, in five ; envied ^biti^ftitMi 
 Cm'tius that blessed refuge in tlie earth, in six ; and at the end of the first 
 twelvemonth had an'ived at the conclusion, from which he never afterwards 
 departed, that all the fancies of the poets, and lessons of the sages, were 
 a mere collection of words and grammar, and had no other meaning in 
 the world. 
 
 But he went on, blow, blow, blowing, in the Doctor's hothouse, all the 
 time ; and the Doctor's glory and reputation were great, when he took 
 his wintry growth home to his relations and friends. 
 
 Upon the Doctor's door-steps one day, Paul stood with a fluttering 
 heart, and Avith 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 ! 
 
 IMi's. Pipchin hovered behind the victim, with her sable plumage and her 
 hooked beak, like a bird of iU-omen. She Avas out of breath— for IMr. 
 Dombey, full of great thoughts, had walked fast — and she croaked hoarsely 
 as she waited for the opening of the door. 
 
 " Now, Paul," said Mr. Dombey exultingly. " This is the way indeed 
 to be Dombey and Son, and have money. You are abnost a man aheady." 
 
 " Almost," returned the child. 
 
 Even his childish agitation could not master the sly and quaint yet 
 touching look, with which he accompanied the reply. 
 
 It brought a vague expression of dissatisfaction into Mr. Dombey's 
 face ; but the door being opened, it was quickly gone. 
 
 " Doctor Blimber is at home, I believe ?" said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 The man said yes ; and as they passed in, looked at Paul as if he were 
 a little mouse, and the house were a trap. He was a weak-eyed young 
 man, with the first faint streaks or early dawn of a grin on his coimtenance. 
 It was mere imbecility ; but Mrs. Pipchin took it into her head that it 
 was impudence, and made a snap at him directly. 
 
 " How dare you laugh behind the gentleman's back ? " said IMrs. Pip- 
 chin. " And what do you take me for ? " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 103 
 
 " I ain't a laughing at nobody, and I'm sure I don't take you for nothing, 
 Ma'am," returned the young man, in consternation. 
 
 "A pack of idle dogs ! " said Mrs. Pipchin, " only fit to be turnspits. 
 Oo and tell your master that JSIr. Dombey 's here, or it '11 be worse 
 for you!" 
 
 The weak-eyed young man went, very meekly, to discharge himself of 
 this commission ; and soon came back to invite them to the Doctor's study. 
 
 "You're laughing again, Sir," saidMi-s. Pipchin, when it came to her 
 tm-n, bringing up the rear, to pass him in the hall. 
 
 " I amt" returned the young man, grievously oppressed. " I never 
 see such a thing as this ! " 
 
 "What is the matter, Mrs. Pipcliin? " said Sir. Dombey, looking round. 
 " Softly ! Pray ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin, in her deference, merely muttered at the young man, as 
 she passed on, and said, " Oh ! he was a precious feUow " — leaving the 
 young man, who was all meekness and incapacity, affected even to tears 
 by the incident. But Mrs. Pipchin had a way of falling foul of all meek 
 people ; and her friends said who coidd wonder at it, after the Peruvian 
 mines ! 
 
 The Doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe at each 
 knee, books all round him, Homer over the door, and Minerva on the 
 mantel-shelf. "And how do you. Sir," he said to Mr. Dombey, "and 
 how is my little friend? " 'Grave as an organ was the Doctor's speech ; 
 and when he ceased, the great clock in the haU seemed (to Paul at least) 
 to take him up, and to go on saying ' how, is, my, Ut, tie, friend, how, is, 
 my, lit, tie, friend,' over and over and over again. 
 
 The little friend being something too small to be seen at all from where 
 the Doctor sat, over the books on his table, the Doctor made several futile 
 attempts to get a vicAv of him round the legs ; which Mr. Dombey per- 
 ceiving, reheved the Doctor from his embarrassment by taking Paul up in 
 his arms, and sitting him on another little table, over against the Doctor, 
 in the middle of the room. 
 
 " Ha ! " said the Doctor, leaning back in his chair with his hand in his 
 breast. " Now I see my little friend. How do you do, my httle friend?" 
 
 The clock in the hall wouldn't subscribe to this alteration in the form 
 of words, but continued to repeat ' how, is, my, lit, tie, liiend, how, is, my, 
 lit, tie, friend ! ' 
 
 " Very well, I thank you. Sir," returned Paul, answering the clock quite 
 as much as the Doctor. 
 
 " Ha ! " said Dr. Blimber. " Shall we make a man of him ? " 
 
 " Do you hear, Paul ? " added Mr. Dombey ; Paul being silent. 
 
 " ShaU we make a man of him ? " repeated the Doctor. 
 
 " I had rather be a chUd," replied Paul. 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the Doctor. " Why ? " 
 
 The child sat on the table looking at him, with a curious expression of 
 suppressed emotion in his face, and beating one hand proudly on his knee 
 as il' he had the rising tears beneath it, and crushed them. But his other 
 hand strayed a little way the while, a little farther — farther from him yet — 
 until it lighted on the neck of Florence. ' Tliis is why,' it seemed to say, 
 and then the steady look was broken up and gone; the working lip 
 was loosened j and the tears came streaming forth. 
 
104 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "Mrs. Pipehin," said liis father, in a querulous manner, "I am reall/ 
 very sorry to see this." 
 
 " Come away from him, do, Miss Dombey," quoth the matron. 
 
 "Never mind," said the Doctor, blandly nodding his head, to keep 
 Mrs. Pipehin back. " Ne-ver mind ; we shall substitute new cares and 
 new impressions, Mr. Dombey, very shortly. You Avoidd still wish mj 
 little friend to acquire 
 
 " Everything, if you please, Doctor," returned Mr. Dombey, firmly. 
 
 " Yes," said the Doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes, and his usual 
 smile, seemed 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 friend, and bring 
 him quickly forward, I dare say. I dare say. Quite a virgin soil, I believe 
 you said, Mr. Dombey ? " 
 
 " Except some ordinary preparation at home, and from this lady," replied 
 Mr. Dombey, introducing Mrs. Pipehin, who instantly communicated a 
 rigidity to her whole muscular system, and snorted defiance beforehand, in 
 case the Doctor should disparage her ; " except so far, Paul has, as yet, 
 applied himself to no studies at aU." 
 
 Dr. Blimber inclined his head, in gentle tolerance of such insignificant 
 poaching as IMrs. Pipchin's, and said he Avas glad to hear it. It was much 
 more satisfactory, he observed, rubbing his hands, to begin at the founda- 
 tion. And again he leered at Paul, as if he would have liked to tackle 
 him with the Greek alphabet, on the spot. 
 
 " That circumstance, indeed. Doctor Blimber," pursued Mr. Dombey, 
 glancing at his little son, " and the interview I have akeady had the plea- 
 sure of holding with you, renders any further explanation, and conse- 
 quently, any further intrusion on your valuable time, so unnecessary, that — " 
 
 "Now, Miss Dombey !" said the acid Pipehin. 
 
 " Permit me," said the Doctor, " one moment. AUow me to present 
 Mrs. Blimber and my daughter, who wiU be associated with the domestic 
 life of our young PHgrim to Parnassus. Mrs. Blimber," for the lady, who 
 had perhaps been in waiting, opportunely entered, followed by her daugh- 
 ter, that fair Sexton in spectacles, " Mr. Dombey. My daughter Cornelia, 
 Mr. Dombey. Mr. Dombey, my love," pursued the Doctor, turning to his 
 wife, " is so confiding as to — do you see our little friend ? " 
 
 Mrs. Blimber, in an access of politeness, of which Mr. Dombey was the 
 object, apparently did not, for she was backing against the little friend, 
 and very much endangering his position on the table. But, on this hint, 
 she turned to admire his classical and intellectual lineaments, and turning 
 again to Mr. Dombey, said, with a sigh, that she envied his dear son. 
 
 " Like a bee. Sir," said Mrs. Blimber, with uplifted eyes, " about to 
 plunge into a garden of the choicest flowers, and sip the sweets for the first 
 time". Yirgil, Horace, Ovid, Terence, Plautus, Cicero. What a world of 
 honey have we here. It may appear remarkable, Mr. Dombey, in one who 
 is a wife — the wife of such a husband — " 
 
 " Hush, hush," said Doctor Blimber. " Pie for shame." 
 
 " Mr. Dombey wiU forgive the partiality of a Avife," said ISIrs. Blimber, 
 v.ith an engaging smile. 
 
 Mr. Dombey answered " Not at all :" applying those Avords, it is to be 
 presumed, to the partiality, and not to the foj-givencss. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 105 
 
 " — And it may seem remarkable in one wlio is a mother also," resumed 
 Mrs. Blimber. 
 
 " And such a mother," observed Mr. Dombey, bowing with some con- 
 fused idea of being complimentary to Cornelia. 
 
 " But really," pursued Mrs. Blimber, " I think if I could have known 
 Cicero, and been his friend, and talked with him in liis retirement at Tus- 
 culum (beau-ti-ful Tusculum !), I could have died contented." 
 
 A learned enthusiasm is so very contagious, that Mr. Dombey half 
 believed tliis was exactly his case ; and even ]\Irs. Pipchin, who was not, 
 as we have seen, of an accommodating disposition generally, gave utterance 
 to a little sound between a groan and a sigh, as if she w^ould have said 
 that nobody but Cicero could have proved a lasting consolation under that 
 failure of the Peruvian Mines, but that he indeed would have been a very 
 Davy-lamp of refuge. 
 
 Cornelia looked at Mr. Dombey tlirough her spectacles, as if she would 
 liave liked to crack a few quotations with him from the authority in ques- 
 tion. But this design, if she entertained it, was frustrated by a knock at 
 the room-door. 
 
 " Who is that ? " said the Doctor, " Oh ! Come in, To.ots ; come in. 
 Mr. Dombey, Su-." Toots bowed. " Quite a coincidence ! " said 
 Doctor Blimber. " Here w^e have the beginning and the end. Alpha and 
 Omega. Our head boy, Mr. Dombey." 
 
 The Doctor might have called him their head and shoulders boy, for he 
 was at least that much taller than any of the rest. He blushed very much 
 at finding himself among strangers, and chuckled aloud. 
 
 "An addition to oiu- little Portico, Toots," said the Doctor; "Mr. 
 Dombey's son." 
 
 Young Toots blushed again ; and finding, trom a solemn silence which 
 prevailed, that he was expected to say sometliing, said to Paul, " How are 
 you? " in a voice so deep, and a manner so sheepish, that if a lamb had 
 roared it couldn't have been more surprising. 
 
 " Ask Mr. Feeder, if you please. Toots," said the Doctor, " to prepare 
 a few introductory volumes for Mr. Dombey's son, and to allot him a con- 
 venient seat for study. My dear, I believe Mr. Dombey has not seen the 
 dormitories." 
 
 " If Mr. Dombey wiU walk up stairs," said Mrs. Blimber, " I shall be 
 more than proud to show him the dominions of the droAvsy God." 
 
 With that, Mrs. Blimber, who was a lady of great suavity, and a wiry 
 figure, and who wore a cap composed of sky-blue materials, proceeded 
 up stairs with Mr. Dombey and Cornelia ; Mrs. Pipchin following, aud 
 looking out sharp for her enemy the footman. 
 
 While they were gone, Paul sat upon the table, holding Florence by tlie 
 hand, and glancing timidly from the Doctor rovmd and round the room, ' 
 while the Doctor, leaning back in his chair, with his hand in his breast as 
 usual, held a book from him at arm's length, and read. There was some- 
 thing very awful in this manner of reading. It was such a determined, 
 unimpassioned, inflexible, cold-blooded way of going to work. It left 
 . , the Doctor's countenance exposed to view ; and when the Doctor smiled 
 iWj^j^jrbi»i*siy at his author, or knit his brows, or shook his head and made 
 ' >vFy' faces at him, as much as to say, ' Don't teU me, Sir. I know better,* 
 it was terrific. 
 
106 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Toots, too, had no business to be outside the door, ostentatiously 
 examining the wheels in his watch, and counting his half-crowns. But 
 that didn't last long ; for Dr. Blimber, happening to change the position 
 of his tight plump legs, as if he were going to get up, Toots swiftly 
 vanished, and appeared no more. 
 
 Mr. Dombey and his conductress were soon heard coming down stairs 
 again, talking all the way; and presently they re-entered the Doctor's study. 
 
 " I hope, Mr. Dombey," said the Doctor, laying down his book, " that 
 the arrangements meet your approval. 
 
 " They are excellent, Sir," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Very fair, indeed," said Mrs. Pipchin, in a low voice ; never disposed 
 to give too much encouragement. 
 
 " Mrs. Pipchin," said Mr, Dombey, wheeling round, "will, with your 
 permission. Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, visit Paul now and then." 
 
 " Whenever Mrs. Pipchin pleases," observed the Doctor. 
 
 " Always happy to see her," said Mrs. Blimber. 
 
 " I tlnnk," said IVIr. Dombey, " I have now given all the trouble 1 
 need, and may take my leave. Paul, my cluld," he went close to him, as 
 he sat upon the table. " Good bye." 
 
 " Good bye. Papa." 
 
 The limp and careless little hand that Mr. Dombey took in his, was sin- 
 gularly out of keeping with the Avistful face. But he had no part in its 
 sorrowful expression. It was not addressed to him. No, no. To 
 Florence — all to Florence, 
 
 If Mr. Dombey in his insolence of wealth, had ever made an enemy, 
 hard to appease and cruelly vindictive in liis hate, even such an enemy 
 might have received the pang that wrung his proud heart then, as com- 
 pensation for his injury. 
 
 He bent down over his boy, and kissed him. If his sight were dimmed 
 as he did so, by sometliing that for a moment blurred the httle face, and 
 made it indistinct to him, liis mental vision may have been, for that short 
 time, the clearer perhaps. 
 
 " I shaU see you soon, Paul. You are free on Saturdays and Sundays, 
 you know." 
 
 " Yes Papa," returned Paul : looking at lus sister. " On Saturdays and 
 Sundays," 
 
 " And you 'U try and learn a great deal here, and be a clever man," 
 said Mr. Dombey ; " won't you ? " 
 
 " I '11 try," retm-ned the child, wearily. 
 
 " And you '11 soon be grown up now ! " said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Oh ! very soon ! " replied the child. Once more the old, old look, 
 passed rapidly across his features bke a strange hght. It fell on Mrs. 
 Pipcliin, and extmguished itself in her black dress. That excellent ogi-ess 
 stepped fom-ard to take leave and to bear off Florence, which she had 
 long been thirsting to do. The inove on her part roused Mr. Dombey, 
 whose eyes were fixed on Paul. After patting him on the head, and 
 pressing his small hand again, he took leave of Doctor Blimber, Mrs, 
 Blimber, and Miss Bhmber, Avith his usual polite frigidity, and walked 
 out of the study. 
 
 Despite liis entreaty that they would not think of stirring. Doctor 
 Blimber, INIrs. Bhmber, and IVIiss Bhmber aU pressed forward to attend 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 107 
 
 him to the hall ; and thus Mrs. Pipchin got into a state of entanglement 
 with IVIiss Blimber and the Doctor, and was crowded out of the study- 
 before she could clutch Florence. To wliich happy accident Paul stood 
 afterwards indebted for the dear remembrance, that Florence ran back to 
 throw her arms round his neck, and that hers was the last face in the 
 doorway : turned towards him with a smile of encom-agement, the brighter 
 for the tears through which it beamed. 
 
 It made his childish bosom heave and swell when it -was gone ; and 
 sent the globes, the books, bhnd Homer and Minerva, swimming round 
 the room. But they stopped, aU of a sudden ; and then he heard the 
 loud clock in the hall still gravely inqmring ' how, is, my, lit, tie, friend, 
 how, is, my, ht, tie, friend,' as it had done before. 
 
 He sat, with folded hands, upon his pedestal, silently listening. But 
 he might have answered ' weary, weary ! very lonely, very sad ' ! And 
 there, with an aching void in his young heart, and all outside so cold, and 
 bare, and strange, Paul sat as if he had taken life unfurnished, and the 
 upholsterer were never coming. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Paul's education. 
 
 After the lapse of some minutes, which appeared an immense time to 
 little Paul Dombey on the table. Doctor BUmber came back. The Doctor's 
 walk was stately, and calculated to impress the juvenile mind with solemn 
 feehngs. It was a sort of march ; but when ihe Doctor put out his right 
 foot, he gravely turned upon his axis, with a semicircular sweep towards 
 the left ; and when he put out his left foot, he turned in the same manner 
 towards the right. So that he seemed, at every stride he took, to look 
 about him as though he were saying, " Can anybody have the goodness to 
 indicate any subject, in any direction, on which I am uninformed? I 
 rather think not." 
 
 Mrs, BUmber and Miss Blimber came back in the Doctor's company ; 
 and the Doctor, lifting his new pupil off the table, delivered him over to 
 Miss Blimber. 
 
 " Comeha," said the Doctor, " Dombey wiU be your charge at first. 
 Bring him on, Comeha, bring him on." 
 
 Miss BUmber received her young ward from the Doctor's hands ; and 
 Paul, feeUng that the spectacles were surveying him, cast down his eyes. 
 
 " How old are you, Dombey ? " said Miss Blimber. 
 
 " Six," answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at the young 
 lady, why her hair didn't grow long like Florence's, and why she was 
 Uke a boy. 
 
 " How much do you know of yoiu* Latin Grammar, Dombey ? " said 
 Miss BUmber. 
 
 " None of it," answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock to 
 Miss BUmber's sensibility, he looked up at the three faces that were 
 looking down at him, and said : 
 
 " I havn't been weU. I have been a weak child. I couldn't learn a 
 
108 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Latiii Grammar when I was out, eveiy day, with old Glubb. I wish you 'd 
 tell old Glubb to come and see me, if you please." 
 
 " What a dreadfully low name ! " said Mrs. Bhmber. "Unclassioal to 
 a degree ! Who is the monster, child ? " 
 
 " What monster ? " inquired Paul. 
 
 " Glubb," said Mrs. Blimber, with a great disrelish. 
 
 " He 's no more a monster than you are," returned Paid. 
 
 " What ! " cried the Doctor, in a terrible voice. " Aye, aye, ave ? 
 Aha! What's that? 
 
 Paul was dreadfully frightened ; but still he made a stand for the absent 
 Glubb, though he did it trembling. 
 
 " He 's a very nice old man. Ma'am," he said. " He used to draw my 
 couch. He knows all about the deep sea, and the fish that are in it, and 
 the great monsters that come and lie on rocks in the sun, and dive into 
 the water again when they 're startled, blowing and splashing so, that 
 they can be heard for miles. There are some creatures," said Paul, 
 warming with his subject, " I don't know how many yards long, and 
 I forget their names, but Plorence knows, that pretend to be in distress ; 
 and when a man goes near them, out of compassion, tliey open their gi'eat 
 jaws, and attack him. But aU he has got to do," said Paid, boldly tender- 
 ing this information to the very Doctor himself, "is to keep on turniug as 
 lie runs away, and then, as they turn slowly, because they are so long, and 
 can't bend, he 's sine to beat them. And though old Glubb don't know 
 why the sea should make me think of my JMamma that's dead, or what it is 
 that it is always saying — always saying ! — he knows a great deal about it. 
 And I wish," the child concluded, with a sudden faUiug of his coun- 
 tenance, and failing in his animation, as he looked like one forlorn, upon 
 the tlnee strange faces, " that you 'd let old Glubb come here to see me, 
 for I know him very well, and he knows me." 
 
 ■ " Ha ! " said the Doctor, shaking liis head ; " this is bad, but study wiU 
 do much." 
 
 Mrs. Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he Avas an un- 
 accountable child ; and, allowing for the difference of visage, looked at him 
 pretty much as Mrs. Pipchin had been used to do, 
 
 " Take him round the house, Cornelia," said the Doctor, " and familiarise 
 liim with his new sphere. Go with that young lady, Donibey." 
 
 Dombey obeyed; giving his hand to the abstruse Corneha, and looking 
 at her sideways, Avith timid curiosity, as they went away together. Por 
 her spectacles, by reason of the glistening of the glasses, made her so 
 mysterious, that he didn't know where she was looking, and was not 
 indeed quite sure that she had any eyes at aU behind them. 
 
 Cornelia took him tu'st to the schoolroom, which was situated at the 
 back of the hall, and was approached through two baize doors, which 
 deadened and muffled the young gentlemen's voices. Here, there Avere 
 eight young gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration, all very 
 hard at Avork, and very grave indeed. Toots, as an old hand, had a desk 
 to himself in one corner : and a magnificent man, of immense age, he 
 looked, in Paul's young eyes, behind it. 
 
 Mr. Feeder, B.A., avIio sat at another little desk, had his Virgil stop 
 on, and was sloAvly grinding that tune to four young gentlemen. Of the 
 remaining four, tAAO, Avho grasped their foreheads convidsively, Avere 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 109 
 
 engaged in solving mathematical problems ; one with his face like a dirtj 
 window, from much crying, was endeavouring to flounder through a hope- 
 less number of lines before dinner ; and one sat looking at his task in 
 stoney stupefaction and despair — wMch 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. IMr. Feeder, B.A. (who was in the habit of shaving 
 his head for coolness, and had nothing but little bristles on it), gave him 
 a boney hand, and told him he was glad to sec him — which Paid would 
 have been very glad to have told him, if he could have done so with the 
 least sincerity. Then Paid, instructed by Cornelia, shook hands with the 
 foiu- young gentlemen at Mr. Feeder's desk ; then with the two young 
 gentlemen at work on the problems, Avho were very feverish ; then with 
 the young gentleman at work against time, who was very inky ; and 
 lastly with the young gentleman in a state of stupefaction, who was flabby 
 and quite cold. 
 
 Paid having been akeady introduced to Toots, that pupil merely 
 chuckled and breathed hard, as his custom was, and piu'sued the occupa- 
 tion 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 having, as before hinted, left ofi" blowing in his prime, Toots 
 now had license to pursue his own course of study : which was chiefly to 
 write long letters to himself from persons of distinction, addressed 
 ' P. Toots, Esquire, Brighton, Sussex,' and to preserve them in his desk 
 with great care. 
 
 These ceremonies passed, Cornelia led Paul up stairs to the top of the 
 lioiise ; which was rather a slow journey, on account of Paul being obliged 
 to land both feet on every stair, before he mounted another. Put they 
 reached their jomney's end at last ; and there, in a front room, looking 
 over the wild sea, Cornelia shoAved him a nice little bed with white 
 hangings, close to the window, on which there was akeady beautifully 
 written on a card in round text — down strokes very thick, and up strokes 
 very fine — Dombey; Avhile two other little bedsteads in the same room 
 were announced, through like means, as respectively appertaining unto 
 BiiiGGS and TozER. 
 
 Just as they got down stairs again into the hall, Paul saw the weak- 
 eyed young man who had given that mortal oflcnce to Mrs. Pipchin, 
 suddenly seize a very large drumstick, and fly at a gong that was hanging 
 up, as if he had gone mad, or wanted vengeance. Instead of receiving 
 warning, however, or being instantly taken into custody, the young man 
 left oft" unchecked, after having made a dreadfid noise. Then Cornelia 
 Blimber said to Dombey that dinner woidd be ready in a quarter of an 
 hour, and perhaps he had better go into the schooh-oom among his 
 "friends." 
 
 So Dombey, deferentially passing the great clock which was still as 
 anxious as ever to know how he found himself, opened the schoolroom 
 door a very little way, and strayed in like a lost boy : shutting it after him 
 with some difficidty. His friends were aU dispersed about the room 
 except the stoney friend, who remained immoveable. Mr. Feeder was 
 stretching himself in his gi'ey gown, as if, regai'dless of expence, he were 
 resolved to pull the sleeves oil". 
 
110 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Heigh ho hum !" cried Mr. Peeder, shaking himself Hke a cart-horse, 
 " Oh dear me, dear me ! Ya-a-a-ah !" 
 
 Paid was quite alarmed by Mr. Feeder's yawning ; it was done on such 
 a gi-eat scale, and he was so terribly in earnest. All the boys too (Toots 
 excepted) seemed knocked up, and were getting ready for dinner — some 
 newly tying their neckcloths, which were vei-y stiff indeed ; and others 
 washing their hands or brushing their hair, in an adjoining ante-chamber 
 — as if they didn't think they shoidd enjoy it at all. 
 
 Young Toots who was ready beforehand, and had therefore nothing to 
 do, and had leisure to bestow upon Paid, said, Avith heavy good natui'e : 
 
 " Sit down, Dombey." 
 
 *' Thank you. Sir," said Paul. 
 
 His endeavouring to hoist himself on to a very high window-seat, and 
 his shpping down again, appeared to prepare Toots' s mind for the recep- 
 tion of a discovery. 
 
 " You're a very small chap," said Mr. Toots. 
 
 " Yes, Sir, I 'm small," returned Paul. " Thank you. Sir." 
 
 For Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done it kindly too. 
 
 "Who's your tailor?" inquired Toots, after looking at Mm for some 
 moments. 
 
 " It 's a woman that has made my clothes as yet," said Paul. "My 
 sister's di-ess-maker." 
 
 " My tador 's Burgess and Co.," said Toots. " Pash'nable. But very 
 dear." 
 
 Paul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he woidd have said it was 
 easy to see that ; and indeed he thought so. 
 
 " Your father 's regularly rich, ain't he ?" inquired Mr. Toots. 
 
 " Y'es, Sir," said Paul. " He 's Dombey and Son." 
 
 " And which ?" demanded Toots. 
 
 " And Son, Su-," replied Paul. 
 
 Mr. Toots made one or two attempts, in a low voice, to fix the fii-m in 
 his mind ; but not quite succeeding, said he would get Paid to mention the 
 name again to moiTOw morning, as it was rather important. And indeed 
 he pm-posed nothing less than WTiting himself a private and confidential 
 letter from Dombey and Son immediately. 
 
 By this time the other pupils (ahvays excepting the stoney boy) 
 gathered round. They were polite, but pale ; and spoke low ; and they 
 were so depressed in their spirits, that in comparison Avith the general 
 tone of that company. Master Bitherstone was a perfect Miller, or 
 complete Jest Book. And yet he had a sense of injury upon him too, had 
 Bitherstone. 
 
 " You sleep in my room, don't you? " asked a solemn young gentle- 
 man, whose shirt-coUar curled up tlie lobes of his ears. 
 
 " Master Briggs ? " inquired Paul. 
 
 " Tozer," said the young gentleman. 
 \ Paul answered yes ; and Tozer pointing out the stoney pupil, said that 
 was Briggs. Paul had already felt certain that it must be either Briggs 
 or Tozer, though he didn't know why. 
 
 " Is your's a strong constitution ? " inquired Tozer. 
 
 Paid said he thought not. Tozer replied that he thought not also, 
 judging from Paul's looks, and that it was a pity, for it need be. He 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. Ill 
 
 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 gong, which sounding 
 again with great fiuy, there was a general move towards the dining-room ; 
 stdl excepting Briggs the stoney boy, who remained where he was, and as 
 he was ; and on its way to whom Paul presently encountered a round of 
 bread, genteelly served on a plate and napkin, and with a silver fork lying 
 crosswise on the top of it. 
 
 Doctor BUmber was aheady in his place in the dining-room, at the top 
 of the table, with Miss BUmber and Mrs. Blimber on either side of him. 
 Mr. Peeder in a black coat was at the bottom. Paul's chair was next to 
 Miss Blimber ; but it being found, when he sat in it, that his eyebrows 
 were not much above the level of the table-cloth, some books were brought 
 in from the Doctor's study, on which he was elevated, and on which he 
 always sat from that time — carrying them in and out himself on after occa- 
 sions, like a little elephant and castle. 
 
 Grace having been said by the Doctor, dinner began. There was some 
 nice soup; also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables, pie, and cheese. Every 
 young gentleman had a massive silver fork, and a napkin ; and aU the 
 arrangements were stately and handsome. In particidar, there was a 
 butler in a blue coat and bright buttons, who gave quite a winey flavor to 
 the table beer ; he poured it out so superbly. 
 
 Nobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor BKmber, Mrs. Blimber, 
 and Miss Blimber, who conversed occasionally. Whenever a young gentle- 
 man was not actually engaged Avith his knife and fork or spoon, his eye,' 
 with an iiTesistible attraction, sought the eye of Dr. Blimber, Mrs. 
 Blimber, or Miss Blimber, and modestly rested there. Toots appeared to 
 be the only exception to this rule. He sat next IVIi'. Peeder on Paul's side 
 of the table, and frequently looked behind and before the intervening boys 
 to catch a gUmpse of Paul. 
 
 Only once during dinner was there any conversation that included the 
 young gentlemen. It happened at the epoch of the cheese, when the 
 Doctor, having taken a glass of port wine, and hemmed twice or thrice, said : 
 
 " It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder, that the Eomans — " 
 
 At the mention of this terrible people, their implacable enemies, every 
 young gentleman fastened his gaze upon the Doctor, with an assumption 
 of the deepest interest. One of the number who happened to be drink- 
 ing, and who caught the Doctor's eye glaring at him tlu'ough the side of 
 his tumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments, 
 and in the sequel ruined Dr. Blimber's point. 
 
 "It is remarkable, Mr. Peeder," said the Doctor, beginning again 
 sloAvly, "that the Romans, in those gorgeous and profuse entertainments of 
 which we read in the days of the Emperors, when luxiuy had attained a 
 height unknown before or since, and when whole provinces were ravaged 
 to supply the splendid means of one Imperial Banquet " 
 
 Here the offender, who had been swelling and straining, and waiting in 
 vain for a fiill stop, broke out violently. 
 
 "Johnson," said Mr. Peeder, in a low reproachfid voice, "take some 
 water." 
 
 The Doctor, looking very stem, made a pause until the water was 
 brought, and then resumed : 
 
112 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " And wlien, Mr. Feeder — " 
 
 But Mr. Feeder, wlio saw that Jolmson must break out again, and wlio 
 knew that the Doctor would never come to a period before the young gen- 
 tlemen until he had finished all he meant to say, coiddn't keep his eye off 
 Johnson ; and thus was ca\ight in the fact of not looking at the Doctor, 
 who consequently stopped. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Sir," said Mr. Feeder, reddening. " I beg your 
 pardon. Doctor Blim1)er." 
 
 "And when," said the Doctor, raising his voice, "when. Sir, as we 
 read, and have no reason to doubt — incredible as it may appear to the 
 vulgar of our time — the brother of Vitellius prepared for him a feast, in 
 which were served, of fish, two thousand dishes — " 
 
 "Take some water, Johnson — dishes. Sir," said Mr. Feeder. 
 
 " Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes." 
 
 " Or try a crust of bread," said Mr. Feeder. 
 
 " And one dish," pursued Doctor Blimber, raising his voice still higher 
 as he looked all round the table, " called, from its enormous dimensions, 
 the Shield of ]\Iinerva, and made, among other costly ingredients, of the 
 brains of pheasants — " 
 
 " Ow, ow, ow ! " (from Johnson.) 
 
 " Woodcocks," 
 
 "Ow, ow, ow!" 
 
 " The sounds of the fish called scari," 
 
 " You '11 burst some vessel in your head," said Mr. Feeder. " You had 
 better let it come." 
 
 " And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the Carpathian Sea," 
 pursued the Doctor, in his severest voice ; " when we read of costly enter- 
 tainments such as these, and still remember, that we have a Titus," 
 
 " What would be yom- mother's feelings if you died of apoplexy ! " said 
 Mr. Feeder. 
 
 " A Domitian," 
 
 " And you 're blue, you know," said Mr. Feeder. 
 
 " A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligada, a Hehogabalus, and many more," 
 pursued the Doctor ; " it is, Mr. Feeder — if you are doing me the honour 
 to attend — remarkable ; very remarkable. Sir — " 
 
 But Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst at that moment into 
 such an overwhelming fit of coughing, that, although both his iminediate 
 neighbours thumped him on the back, and Mr. Feeder himself held a glass 
 of water to his lips, and the butler Avalkcd him up and down several times 
 between his own chair and the sideboard, like a sentry, it was full five minutes 
 before he was moderately composed. Then there was a profound silence, 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Doctor Blimber, "rise for Grace! Cornelia, lift 
 Dombey down" — nothing of whom but his scalp was accordingly seen 
 above the table-cloth. " Johnson will repeat to me to-morrow morning i 
 before breakfiist, without book, and from the Greek Testament, the first ^K4J\ 
 epistle of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. We will resume our studies, IVIi-. I 
 Feeder, in half-an-hour." 
 
 The Young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr. Feeder did likewise. 
 
 ^*' 'I'll 
 
 Dm-ing the half hour, the youno; e-entlemen, broken into pan-s, loitered arm- 
 in-arm, up and down a small piece of ground belund the house, or endea- 
 voured to kindle a spark of animation in ilie breast of Briggs. But 
 

 
 -iWl-^: 
 
 t 
 
 ■u^ -^ • 
 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 113 
 
 notliing happened so vulgar as play. Punctually at the appointed time, 
 the gong was sounded, and the studies, under the joint auspices of Doctor 
 Blimber and Mr. Feeder, were resumed. 
 
 As the Olympic game of lounging up and down had been cut shorter 
 than usual that day, on Johnson's account, they 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 honor of being taken in tow by the Doctor himself : a distinguished 
 state of things, in which he looked very little arid feeble. 
 
 Tea was served in a style no less polite than the dinner ; and after tea, 
 the young gentlemen rising and bowing as before, withdrew to fetch up 
 the unfinished tasks of that day, or to get up the akeady looming tasks 
 of to-morrow. In the meantime Mr. Peeder withdi'ew to his own room; 
 and Paul sat in a comer wondering whether Plorence was thinking of liim, 
 and what they were all about at Mrs. Pipchin's. 
 
 Mr. Toots, who had been detained by an important letter from the Duke 
 of Wellington, found Paid out after a time ; and ha\dng looked at liim for 
 a long while, as before, inquired if he was fond of waistcoats. 
 
 Paid, said " Yes, Sir." 
 
 " 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 that, and Paul was not in- 
 clined to talk, it answered liis purpose better than conversation. 
 
 At eight o'clock or so, the gong sounded again for prayers in the 
 dining-room, where 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, " Gentlemen^, we will resume om' studies at seven 
 to-morrow ;" and then, for the first time, Paul saw Cornelia BUmber's eye, 
 and saw that it was upon him. When the Doctor had said these words, 
 " Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven to-moiTow," the pupils 
 bowed again, and went to bed. 
 
 In the confidence of their own room up-stairs, Briggs said his head 
 ached ready to spht, and that he should wish himself dead if it wasn't for 
 his mother, and a blackbii'd he had at home. Tozer didn't say much, but 
 he sighed a good deal, and told Paul to look out, for his turn woidd come 
 to-moiTow. After uttering those prophetic words, he undressed himself 
 moodily, and got into bed. Briggs was in his bed too, and Paul in his 
 bed too, before the weak-eyed young man appeared to take away the 
 candle, when he wished them good night and pleasant dreams. But his 
 benevolent wishes were in vain, as far as Briggs and Tozer were concerned j 
 for Paul, who lay awake for a long wliile, and often woke afterwards, 
 found that Briggs was ridden by Ids lesson as a nightmare : and that 
 Tozer, whose mind was aff'ected in his sleep by similar causes, in a minor 
 degree, talked unknown tongues, or scraps of Greek and Latin — it was all 
 one to Paul — which, in the silence of night, had an inexpressibly wicked 
 and gudty effect. 
 
 Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he was walking 
 hand in hand wdth Florence through beautiful gardens, when they came to 
 a brge sunflower which suddenly expanded itself into a gong, and began 
 
 I 
 
114 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 to sound. Opening liis eyes, he found that it was a dark, windy morning, 
 with a di'izzling rain : and that the real gong Avas giving dreadful note of 
 preparation, down in the hall. 
 
 So he got up directly, and found Briggs with hardly any eyes, for niglit- 
 mare and grief had made his face puft'y, putting his boots on; whde Tozer 
 stood shivering and rubbing his shoulders, in a very bad humour. Poor 
 Paul couldn't dress himself easily, not 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 ready, to the next story, where he saw a pretty young 
 woman in leather gloves, cleaning a stove. The yoiing woman seemed 
 surprised at his appearance, and asked him where his mother was. When 
 Paul told her she was dead, she 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 
 much, said he certaiiJy would. He then proceeded softly on his journey 
 down-stau's, towards the room in Avhich the young gentlemen resumed 
 their studies, when, passing by a door that' stood ajar, a voice from within 
 cried " Is that Dombey ?" On Paul replying, " Yes, Ma'am : " for he knew 
 the voice to be Miss Blimber's : Miss Blimber said " Come in, Dombey." 
 And in he went. 
 
 Miss Blimber presented exactly the appearance she had presented yester- 
 day, except that she wore a shawl. Her little light curls were as crisp as 
 ever, and she had ah-eady her spectacles on, wliicli made Paul wonder 
 whether she went to bed in them. She had a cool little sitting-room of 
 her own up there, with some books in it, and no fue. But Miss Bhmber 
 w^as never cold, and never sleepy. 
 
 "Now, Dombey," said Miss Blimber. "I'm going out for a constitutional." 
 
 Paul wondered what that was, and why she didn't send the footman out 
 to get it in such imfavourable weather. But he made no observation on 
 the subject : his attention being devoted to a little pile of new books, on 
 which Miss Blimber appeared to have been recently engaged. 
 
 " These are yours, Dombey," said Miss Bhmber. 
 
 " All of 'em. Ma'am ?" said Paid. 
 
 " Yes," returned Miss Blimber ; " and Mr. Feeder will look you out 
 some more very soon, if you are as studious as I expect you will be, 
 Dombey." 
 
 " Thank you. Ma'am, " said Paul. 
 
 " I am going out for a constitutional," resumed Miss Blimber ; " and 
 whUe I am gone, that is to say in the interval between this and breakfast, 
 Dombey, I wish you to read over what I have marked in these l)ooks, and 
 to tell me if you quite understand what you have got to learn. Don't 
 lose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them down-stairs, 
 and begin directly." 
 
 " Yes, Ma'am," answered Paul. 
 
 There were so many of them, that although Paul put one hand under 
 the bottom book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and 
 hugged them all closely, the middle book shpped out before he reached 
 the door, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber 
 said, " Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless !" and piled them 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 115 
 
 up afresh for him ; and this time, by dint of balancing them with gi-eat 
 nicety, Paul got out of the room, and down a few stairs before two of them 
 escaped again. But he held the rest so tight, that he only left one more 
 on the first floor, and one in the passage ; and when he had got the main 
 body down into the school-room, he set oft" up-stairs again to collect the 
 stragglers. Having at last amassed the whole library, and climbed into 
 his place, he fell to work, encouraged by a remark from Tozer to the 
 effect that he "was in for it now ;" which was the only intermption he 
 received till breakfast time. At that meal, for which he had no appetite, 
 everything was quite as solemn and genteel as at the others ; and when it 
 was finished, he followed Miss Blimber up-stairs. 
 
 " Now, Dombey," said Mss Blimber. " How have you got on with 
 those books?" 
 
 They comprised a httle English, and a deal of Latin — ^names of things, 
 declensions of articles and substantives, exercises thereon, and prelimi- 
 nary rules — a trifle of orthography, a glance at ancient history, a wink or 
 two at modem ditto, a few tables, two or three weights and measures, and 
 a little general information. When poor Paid had spelt out number two, 
 he found he had no idea of number one ; fragments whereof afterwards 
 obtruded themselves into number three, which slided into number foiu-, 
 which grafted itself on to number two. So that \yhether twenty Romiduses 
 made a llemus, or hie hsec hoc was troy weight, or a verb always agreed 
 with an ancient Briton, or thi-ee times four was Taurus a bull, were oi>en 
 questions with him. 
 
 " Oh, Dombey, Dombey! " said Miss Blimber, "this is very shocking." 
 
 " K you please," said Paul, " I think if I might sometimes talk a little 
 to old Grlubb, I should be able to do better." 
 
 " Nonsense, Dombey," said Miss Blimber. " I couldn't hear of it. 
 This is not the place for Glubbs of any kind. You must take the 
 books doAvn, I suppose, Dombey, one by one, and perfect yourself in the 
 day's instalment of subject A, before you turn at all to subject B. And 
 now take away the top book, if you please, Dombey, and return when you 
 are master of the theme." 
 
 IVIiss Blimber expressed her opinions on the subject of Paul's unin- 
 structed state with a gloomy delight, as if she had expected this result, 
 and were glad to find that they must be in constant communication. Paul 
 withdrew with the top task, as he was told, and laboured away at it, 
 down below : sometimes remembering every word of it, and sometimes 
 forgetting it all, and everything else besides : until at last he ventured up 
 stairs again to repeat the lesson, when it was nearly all driven out of his 
 head before he began, by Miss Blimber's shutting up the book, and 
 saying, " Go on, Dombey ! " a proceeding so suggestive of the knowledge 
 inside of her, that Paul looked upon the young lady with consternation, as 
 a kind of learned Guy Paux, or artificial Bogle, stuffed ftdl of scholastic 
 straw. 
 
 He acquitted himself very well, nevertheless ; and Miss BKmber, com- 
 mending him as giving promise of getting on fast, immediately provided 
 him with subject B; from which he passed to C, and even D before dinner. 
 It was hard work, resuming his studies, soon after dinner; and he felt 
 giddy and confused and drowsy and duU. But all the other young gentle- 
 men had similar sensations, and were obKged to resume their studies too, 
 
 i2 
 
116 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 if there were any comfort in that. It was a wonder that the great clock 
 in the hall, instead of being constant to its first enquiry, never said, 
 " Gentlemen, we will now resume our studies," for that phrase was often 
 enough repeated in its neighbourhood. The studies went round like a 
 mighty wheel, and the young gentlemen were always stretched upon it. 
 
 After tea there were exercises again, and preparations for next day by 
 candle-light. And in due course there was bed; where, but for that resump- 
 tion of the studies which took place in dreams, were rest and sweet forget- 
 fulness. 
 
 Oh Saturdays ! Oh happy Saturdays, when Florence always came at 
 noon, and never would, in any weather, stay away, though Mrs. Pipchin 
 snarled and gTowled, and worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays were 
 Sabbaths for at least two little Christians among all the Jews, and 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 nights, whose shadow 
 darkened the first waking burst of light on Sunday mornings — coidd mar 
 those precious Saturdays. Whether it was the great sea shore, where 
 they sat, and stroUed together; or whether it was only Mrs. Pipchin's duU 
 back room, in which she sang to him so softly, with his drowsy head upon 
 her arm; Paul never cared. It was Florence. That was all he thought of. 
 So, on Sunday nights, when the Doctor's dark door stood agape to 
 swaUow him up for another week, the time was come for taking leave of 
 Florence ; no one else. 
 
 Mrs. Wickam had been drafted home to the house in town, and IVIiss 
 Nipper, now a smart yoimg woman, had come down. To many a single com- 
 bat with Mrs. Pipchin, did Miss Nipper gallantly devote herself; and if ever 
 Mi's. Pipchin in all her life had found her match, she had found it now. 
 Miss Nipper tlu'ew away the scabbard the fiirst morning she arose in Mrs, 
 Pipchin's house. She asked and gave no quarter. She said it must be 
 war, and war it was ; and Mrs. Pipchin lived from that time in the midst 
 of surprises, harassings, and defiances ; and skirmishing attacks that came 
 bouncing in upon her from the passage, even in unguarded moments of 
 chops, and caiTied desolation to her very toast. 
 
 Miss Nipper had retm-ned one Sunday night with Florence, from walking 
 back with Paul to the Doctor's, when Florence took from her bosom a 
 little piece of paper, on which she had pencilled down some words. 
 
 " See here, Susan," she said. " These are the names of the little books 
 that Paid brings home to do those long exercises with, when he is so tired. 
 I copied them last night while he was writing." 
 
 " Don't shew 'em to me, IVIiss Floy, if you please," returned Nipper, " I'd 
 as soon see IVIi's. Pipchin." 
 
 " I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, to-morrow morning. 
 I have money enough," said Florence. 
 
 "Why, goodness gracious me. Miss Floy," returned Mss Nipper, "how 
 can you talk like that, when you have books upon books already, and 
 masterses and mississes a teaching of you everytliing continual, though 
 my belief 4s that your Pa, Miss Dombey, never would have learnt you 
 nothing, never would have thought of it, unless you 'd asked liiin — when 
 he couldn't well refuse ; but giving consent when asked, and offering when 
 unasked, Miss, is quite two things ; I may not have my objections to a 
 
oJa^^/J 
 
 6a>i-tc6J/y. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 117 
 
 young man's keeping company with me, and when he puts the question, 
 may say ' yes,' but that 's not saying ' would you be so kind as like me.' " ^ 
 
 " But you can buy me the books, Susan j and you will, when you know i/i/iLct 
 I want them." 
 
 " Well, Mss, and why do you want 'em ?" replied Nipper ; adding, in 
 a lower voice, " If it was to fling at Mrs. Pipchin's head, I 'd buy a cart- 
 load." 
 
 " I think I could perhaps give Paul some help, Susan, if 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 me, dear, and 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 words, or the gentle 
 look of entreaty with which she seconded her petition. Susan put the 
 piu-se in her pocket Avithout reply, and trotted out at once upon her errand. 
 
 The books were not easy to procure; and the answer at several shops 
 was, either that they were just out of them, or that they never kept them, 
 or that they had had a great many last month, or that they expected a 
 great many next week. But Susan was not easily baffled in such an 
 enterprise ; and having entrapped a white-haired youth, in a black calico 
 apron, from a library where she was known, to accompany her in her 
 quest, she led him such a life in going up and down, that he exerted 
 himself to the utmost, if it were only to get rid of her ; and finally enabled 
 her to return home in triumph. 
 
 With these treasm-es then, after her own daily lessons were over, 
 Florence sat down at night to track Paid's footsteps through the thorny 
 ways of learning ; and being possessed of a naturally quick and sound 
 capacity, and taught by that most wonderful of masters, love, it was not 
 long before she gained upon Paul's heels, and caught and passed him. 
 
 Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin : but many a night 
 when they were aU in bed, and when Miss Nipper, with her hair in papers 
 and herself asleep in some uncomfortable attitude, reposed unconscious by 
 her side ; and when the chinking ashes in the grate were cold and grey ; 
 and when the candles were biu-nt down and guttering out ; — Florence tried 
 so hard to be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her fortitude and 
 perseverance might have almost won her a free right to bear the name 
 herself. 
 
 And high was her reward, when one Saturday evening, as little Paul 
 was sitting down as usual to " resume his studies," she sat down by his 
 side, and showed liim all that was so rough, made smooth, and all that 
 was so dark, made clear and plain, before 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 leaped up at this rich payment 
 for her trouble. 
 
 " Oh, Floy ! " cried her brother. " How I love you ! How I love you, 
 Floy!" 
 
 " And I you, dear ! " 
 
 " Oh ! I am sure of that, Floy." 
 
 He said no more about it, but aU that evening sat close by her, very 
 quiet ; and in the night he called out from his little room within hers, 
 three or foiu* times, that he loved her. 
 
118 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 EegTilarly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit down vnth. Paul on ^ * 
 Saturday night, and patiently assist him through so much as they coidd 
 anticipate together, of his next week's work. The cheering thought that 
 he was labouring on where Florence had just toiled before him, woidd, of 
 itself, have been a stimidant to Paid in the perpetual resumption of his 
 studies ; but coupled with the actual lightening of his load, consequent on 
 this assistance, it saved him, possibly, from sinking underneath the burden 
 which the fair Corneha Blimber pded upon his back. 
 
 It was not that Miss Bhmber meant to be too hard upon him, or that 
 Doctor Blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young gentlemen in 
 general. Corneha merely held the faith in which she had been bred ; and 
 the Doctor, in some partial confusion of his ideas, regarded the yoimg 
 gentlemen as if they were all Doctors, and were born gTOwn up. Com- 
 forted by the applause of the young gentlemen's nearest relations, and 
 m'ged on by their bhnd vanity and ill-considered haste, it woidd have 
 been strange if Doctor Blimber had discovered his mistake, or trimmed 
 his swelKng sails to any other tack. 
 
 Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he made great 
 progress, and was naturally clever, Mr. Dombey was more bent than ever 
 on his being forced and crammed. In the case of Briggs, when Doctor 
 Blimber reported that he did not make great progress yet, and was not 
 naturally clever, Briggs senior was inexorable in the same purpose. In 
 short, however high and false the temperature at which the Doctor kept 
 his hothouse, the owners of the plants were always ready to lend a helping 
 hand at the beUows, and to stir the fire. 
 
 Such spirits as he had in the outset, Paul soon lost of coxu'se. But he 
 retained all that was strange, and old, and thoughtful, in his character : 
 and under circumstances so favourable to the development of those 
 tendencies, became even more strange, and old, and thoughtful, than before. 
 
 The only difference was, that he kept his character to himself. He 
 grew more thoughtfid and reserved, every day ; and had no such curiosity 
 in any living member of the Doctor's household, as he had had in Mrs, 
 Pipchin. He loved to be alone; and in those short intervals when he was 
 not occupied with his books, liked nothing so weU as wandering about the 
 house by himself, or sitting on the stairs, listening to the great clock in the 
 hall. He was intimate with all the paper-hanging in the house ; saw things 
 that no one else saw in the patterns ; found out miniature tigers and lions 
 running up the bedroom walls, and squinting faces leering in the squares 
 and diamonds of the floorcloth. 
 
 The sohtary chUd lived on, surrounded by this arabesque work of his 
 musing fancy, and no one understood him. Mi's. 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 subject, to the expression of 
 which he was wholly unequal. Ideas, like ghosts (according to the com- 
 mon 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 been, issuing from that leaden casket, 
 his cranium, which, if it could have taken shape and form, woidd have 
 become a genie ; but it could not; and it oidy so far followed the example 
 of the smoke in the Arabian story, as to roll out in a thick cloud, and 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 119 
 
 there hang and hover. But it left a little figure visible upon a lonely 
 shore, and Toots was always staring at it. 
 
 " How are you ? " he would say to Paul, fifty times a-day. 
 
 " Quite well, Sir, thank you," Paid would answer. 
 
 " Shake hands," woidd be Toots's next advance. 
 
 Which Paul, of coui'se, would immediately do. Mr. Toots generally said 
 again, after a long interval of staring and hard breathing, " How are 
 you ? " To which Paul again replied, " Quite well. Sir, thank you." 
 
 One evening Mr. Toots was sitting at his desk, oppressed by correspon- 
 dence, when a great purpose seemed to flash upon him. He Ifiid down 
 his pen, and went oft' to seek Paid, whom he found at last, after a long 
 search, looking through the A\andow of his little bedi-oom. 
 
 " I say ! " cried Toots, speaking the moment he entered the room, lest 
 he should forget it ; " what do you think about ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I think about a great many tilings," replied Paul. 
 
 " Do you, though ? " said Toots, appearing to consider that fact in 
 itself surprising. 
 
 " If you had to die," said Paul, looking up into his face — 
 
 Mr. Toots started, and seemed much distm'bed. 
 
 " — Don't you tliink you would rather die on a moonlight night, when, 
 the sky was quite clear, and the mnd blowing, as it did last night ? " 
 
 Mr. Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shaking his head, that 
 he didn't know about that. 
 
 "Not blowing, at 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 time, I got up and looked out. There was a boat 
 over there, in the full light of the moon : a boat with a sail." 
 
 The child looked at him so steadfastly, and spoke so earnestly, that Mr. 
 Toots, feeling himself called upon to say something about this boat, said 
 " Smugglers." But with an impartial remembrance of there being two 
 sides to every question, he added " or Preventive." 
 
 " A boat with a sail," repeated Paul, " in the fuU light of the moon» 
 The sail hke an arm, all silver. It went away into the distance, and 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 tliis sudden exclamation, 
 after what had gone before, and cried " Who !" 
 
 " My sister Florence!" cried Paul, "looking up here, and waving her 
 hand. She sees me — she sees me ! Good night, dear, good night, good 
 night!" 
 
 His quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasure, as he stood at 
 his window, kissing and clapping his hands : and the way in which the 
 light retreated from his featiu-es 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. Pipchin, who usually brought her black 
 skirts to bear upon Paul just before dusk, once or twice a week, Toots had 
 no opportunity of improving the occasion ; but it left so marked an im- 
 pression on his mind that he twice returned, after having exchanged the 
 
120 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 usual salutations, to ask Mi's. Pipcliin how she did. This the irascible old 
 lady conceived to be a deeply-devised and long-meditated insult, originat- 
 ing in the diabolical invention of the weak-eyed young man down stall's, 
 against 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 again, he should be obUged to part with liim. 
 
 The evenings being longer now, Paul stole up to his window every 
 evening to look out for Florence. She always passed and repassed at a 
 certain time, until she saw him ; and their nuitual recognition was a 
 gleam of sunshine in Paul's daily life. Often after dark, one other figure 
 walked alone before the Doctor's house. He rarely joined them on the 
 Saturday5now. He could not bear it. He would rather come imrecog- 
 nised, and look up at the windows where his son Avas qualifying for a man ; 
 and Avait, and watch, and plan, and hope. 
 
 Oh ! could he but have seen, or seen as others did, the slight spare 
 boy above, watching the waves and clouds at twilight, Avith his earnest 
 eyes, and breasting the AvindoAV of his solitary cage Avhen bii'ds flew by, as 
 if he would have emulated them, and soared away ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SHIPPING INTELLIGENCE AND OFFICE BUSINESS. 
 
 Mr. Dombey's offices were in a court where there Avas an old-established 
 stall of choice fruit at the corner : Avhere perambulating merchants, of 
 both sexes, oifered for sale at any time betAveen the hours of ten and five, 
 shppers, pocket-books, sponges, dogs' collars, and Windsor soap ; and 
 sometimes a pointer or an oil painting. 
 
 The pointer abvays came that Avay, with a \dew to the Stock Exchange, 
 where a sporting taste (originating generally in bets of new hats) is much 
 in vogue. The other commodities Avere addressed to the general public ; 
 but they Avere never ofi^ered by the vendors to Mr. Dombey. When he 
 appeared, the dealers in those Avares fell oif respectfidly. The principal 
 slipper and dogs' collar man — ^avIio considered himself a pubUc character, ■ 
 and Avhose portrait Avas scrcAved on to an artist's door in Cheapside — 
 threw up his forefinger to the brim of his hat as Mr. Dombey Avent by. 
 The ticket-porter, if he Avere not absent on a job, ahvays ran officiously 
 before, to open Mr. Dombey's office door as Avide as possible, and hold it 
 open, Avith his hat off", Avhile he entered. 
 
 The clerks Avithin Avere not a Avhit behind-hand in their demonstrations 
 of respect. A solemn hush prevailed, as Mr. Dombey passed tlirough 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 AvindoAvs 
 and skylights, leaving a black sediment upon the panes, shoAved the books 
 and papers, and the figm-es bending over them, enveloped in a studious 
 gloom, and as much abstracted in appearance, from the Avorld Avithout, as 
 if they Avere assembled at the bottom of tlie sea ; Avhile a mouldy little 
 strong room in the obscure perspective, Avhere a shaded lamp Avas ahvays 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 121 
 
 burning, might have represented the cavern of some ocean-monster, look- 
 ing on with a red eye at these mysteries of the deep. 
 
 Wlien Perch the messenger, whose place was on a little bracket, like a 
 timepiece, saw Mr. Dombey come in — or rather when he felt that he was 
 coming, for he had usually an instinctive sense of his approach — ^lie hurried 
 into Mr. Dombey's room, stirred the fire, quarried fresh coals from the 
 boAvels of the coal box, himg the newspaper to air upon the fender, put 
 the chair ready, and the screen in its place, and was round upon his heel 
 on the instant of Mr. Dombey's entrance, to take his great coat and hat, 
 and hang them up. Then Perch took the newspaper, and gave it a turn 
 or twQ in his hands before the fire, and laid it, deferentially, at Mr. Dom- 
 bey's elbow. And so little objection had Perch to^jing deferential in the 
 last degree, that if he might have laid himself at Mr. Dombey's feet, or 
 might have called him by some such title as used to be bestowed upon the 
 Caliph Haroun Ah-aschid, he would have been all the better pleased. 
 
 As this honoiu: would have been an innovation and an experiment. Perch 
 was fain to content himself by expressing as well as he coidd, in his 
 manner, Tou are the light of my Eyes. You are the Breath of my Soul, 
 You are the commander of the Paithful Perch ! With this imperfect hap- 
 piness to cheer him, he would shut the door softly, walk away on tiptoe, 
 and leave his great chief to be stared at, through a dome-shaped window 
 in the leads, by ugly chimney pots and backs of houses, and especially by 
 the bold window of a hair-cutting saloon on a first floor, where a waxen 
 effigy, bald as a Mussidman in the morning, and covered, after eleven o'clock 
 in the day, with luxuriant hair and whiskers in the latest Christian fashion, 
 showed hitn the wrong side of its head for ever. 
 
 Between Mr. Dombey and the common world, as 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 damp, or cold air — there 
 were two degrees of descent. Mr. Carker in his own office was the first 
 step ; Mr. Morfin, in his own office, was the second. Each of these gen- 
 tlemen occupied a little chamber like a bath room, opening from the pas- 
 sage outside Mr. Dombey's door. Mr. Carker, as Grand Vizier, inhabited 
 the room that was nearest to the Sultan. Mr. Morfin, as an officer of 
 inferior state, inhabited the room that was nearest to the clerks. 
 
 The gentleman last mentioned was a cheerfid-looking, hazel-eyed elderly 
 bachelor : gravely attired, as to his upper man, in black ; and as to liis 
 legs, in pepper and salt colour. His dark hair was just touched here and 
 there with specks of grey, as though the tread of Time had splashed it ; 
 and his whiskers were already white. He had a mighty respect for Mr. 
 Dombey, and rendered him due homage ; but as he was of a genial temper 
 himself, and never whoUy at liis ease in that stately presence, he was 
 disqideted by no jealousy of the many conferences enjoyed by Mr. 
 Carker, and felt a secret satisfaction in having duties to discharge, wliich 
 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 
 Islington, his place of abode, to a certain club-room hard by the Bank, 
 where 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 old, of a florid 
 
123 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 complexion, and with two unbroken rows of glistening teeth, whose regu- 
 larity and whiteness were quite distressing. It was impossible to escape 
 the observation of them, for he showed them whenever he spoke ; and bor e 
 so wide a smile upon his countenance (a smile, however, very rarely, indeed, 
 extending beyond his mouth), that there was something in it like the 
 snarl of a cat. He affected a stiff white cravat, after the example of his 
 principal, and was always closely buttoned up and tightly dressed. His 
 manner towards Mr. Dombey was deeply conceived and perfectly ex- 
 pressed. He was familiar with him, in the very extremity of his sense of 
 the distance between them. "Mr. Dombey, to a man in your position 
 from a man in mine, there is no show of subservience compatible with the 
 transaction of business between us, that I shoidd think sufficient. I 
 frankly tell you. Sir, I give it up altogether. I feel that I coidd not 
 satisfy my own mind ; and Heaven knows, Mr. Dombey, you can afford to 
 dispense with the endeavour." If he had carried these words about with 
 him printed on a placard, and had constantly offered it to Mr. Dombey's 
 perusal on the breast of his coat, he could not have been more explicit 
 than he was. 
 
 This was Carker the Manager. Mr. Carker the Junior, Walter's friend, 
 was his brother ; two or three years older than he, but 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 stave, 
 or raised his foot to mount one. Young men passed above his head, and 
 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 Manager, enter- 
 ing Mr. Dombey's room soon after his arrival one day : with a bundle of 
 papers in his hand. 
 
 "How do you do, Carker?" said IVIr. Dombey, rising from his chair, 
 and standing with his back to the fire. " Have you anything there 
 for me ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I need trouble you," returned Carker, turning 
 over the papers in his hand. " You have a committee to-day at three, 
 you know." 
 
 " And one at tliree, three quarters," added Mr. Dombey, 
 
 " Catch you forgetting anything ! " exclaimed Carker, still turning 
 over his papers. " If Mr. Paul inherits your memory, he 'U be a trouble- 
 some customer in the house. One of you is enough." 
 
 " You have an accurate memory of your own," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Oh ! /.■' " returned the manager. " It 's the only capital of a man 
 like me." 
 
 Mr. Dombey did not look less pompous or at all displeased, as he stood 
 leaning against the chimney-piece, surveying his (of course unconscious) 
 clerk, from head to foot. The stiffness and nicety of IMr. Carker's dress, 
 and a certain arrogance of manner, either natural to him, or imitated 
 from a pattern not far off, gave great additional effect to his humility. 
 He seemed a man who would contend against the power that vanquished 
 him, if he could, but who was utterly borne down by the greatness and 
 superiority of Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Is Morfin here ? " asked Mr. Dombey after a short pause, during 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 12S 
 
 whicli Mr. Carker had been fluttering liis papers, and muttering little 
 abstracts of their contents to himself. 
 
 " Morfin's here," he answered, looking up with his widest and most 
 sudden smile; "humming musical recollections — of his last night's 
 quartette party, I suppose — through the walls between us, and driving me 
 half mad. I wish he 'd make a bonfire of his violoncello, and bui'u his 
 music books in it." 
 
 " You respect nobody, Carker, I tliink," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " No ? " inquired Carker, with another wide and most feline show of 
 his teeth, " Well ! Not many people I believe. I wouldn't answer 
 perhaps," he murmured, as if he were only thinking it, " for more than one." 
 
 A dangerous quality, if real ; and a not less dangerous one, if feigned. 
 But Mr. Dombey hardly seemed to think so, as he stiU stood with his 
 back to the fu'e, drawn up to his full height, and looking at his head-clerk 
 with a dignified composure, in which there seemed to lurk a stronger 
 latent sense of power than usual. 
 
 " Talking of Morfin," resumed Mr. Carker, taking out one paper from 
 the rest, " he reports a junior dead in the agency at Barbados, and pro- 
 poses to reserve a passage in the Son and Heir — she '11 sail in a month or 
 so — for the successor. You don't care who goes, I suppose ? We have ■ 
 nobody of that sort here." 
 
 Mr. Dombey shook his head with supreme indifference. 
 
 " It 's no very precious appointment," observed Mr. Carker, taking up 
 a pen, with 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 Ms fiddle-playing, if he has a gift that way. Who 's 
 that ? Come in ! " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ]\Ir. Carker. I didn't know you were here, Sir,'^ 
 answered Walter, appearing with some letters in his hand, unopened, and 
 newly arrived, " Mr. Carker the Junior, Sir — " 
 
 At the mention of this name, Mr. Carker the Manager was, or affected 
 to be, touched to the quick with shame and humiliation. He cast his 
 eyes full on Mr. Dombey Avith an altered and apologetic look, abased 
 them on the ground, and remained for a moment without speaking. 
 
 " I thought, Sir," he said suddenly and angrily, turning on Walter, 
 " that you had been before requested not to drag Mr, Carker the Junioi* 
 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 out, or I 
 should not have knocked at the door when you were engaged with Mr. 
 Dombey. These are letters for Mr. Dombey, Sir." 
 
 " Very well, Su-," returned Mr. Carker the Manager, plucking them 
 sharply from his hand. " Go about your business." 
 
 But in taking them with so httlc ceremony, Mr. Carker dropped one on 
 the floor, and 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 
 did, he stopped, came back, picked it up, and 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 report, directed as usual — for 
 Mrs. Pipchin was but an indiflerent pen-woman — ^by Florence, Mr. Dombey, 
 
124 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 liaving his attention silently called to this letter by Walter, started and 
 looked fiercely at liim, as if he believed that he had purposely selected it 
 from aU the rest. 
 
 " You can leave the room, Sir ! " said Mr. Dombey, haughtUy. 
 
 He crushed the letter in his hand ; and having watched Walter out at the 
 door, put it in his pocket without breaking the seal. 
 
 " You want somebody to send to the West Indies, you were saying," 
 observed Mr. Dombey, hurriedly. 
 
 " Yes," replied Carker. 
 
 " Send young Gay." 
 
 " Good, very good indeed. Nothing easier," said Mr. Carker, without 
 any show of sm-prise, and taking up the pen to re-indorse the letter, as 
 coolly as he had done before. " ' Send young Gay.' " 
 
 " Call him back," said IVIi-. Dombey. 
 
 Mr. Carker was quick to do so, and Walter was quick to retiun. 
 
 " Gay," said Mr. Dombey, turning a little to look at him over his 
 shoulder. Here is a — " 
 
 " An opening," said Mr. Carker, with his mouth stretched to the utmost. 
 
 " In the West Indies. At Barbados. I am going to send you," said 
 • Mr. Dombey, scorning to embellish the bare truth, " to fill a junior situ- 
 ation in the counting-house at Barbados. Let your micle know from 
 me, that I have chosen you to go to the West Indies." 
 
 Walter's breath Avas so completely taken away by his astonishment, that 
 he coidd 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 wiU be an interval 
 of a month — or two perhaps." 
 
 " Shall I remain there. Sir ? " inquired Walter. 
 
 " WiU you remain there, Sir ! " repeated ]\Ir. Dombey, turning a little 
 more round towards him. " What do you mean ? What does he mean, 
 Carker ? " 
 
 " Live there. Sir," faltered Walter. 
 
 " Certainly," returned Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Walter bowed. 
 
 "That's all," said Mr. Dombey, resuming his letters. "You wiU 
 explain to him in good time about the usual outfit and so forth, Carker, 
 of course. He needn't wait, Carker." 
 
 " You needn't Avait, Gay," observed Mr. Carker : bare to the gums. 
 
 " Unless," said Mr. Dombey, stopping in his reading without looking 
 off the letter, and seeming to listen. " Unless he has anything to say." 
 
 "No, Sir," returned Walter, agitated and confused, and almost stunned, 
 as an infinite variety of pictures presented themselves to his mind ; among 
 which Captain Cuttle, in his glazed hat, transfixed Avith astonislunent at 
 Mrs. Mac Stinger's, and his uncle bemoaning his loss in the little back 
 parlour, held prominent places. "I hardly know — I — I am much 
 obliged. Sir." 
 
 " He needn't wait, Carker," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 And as Mr. Carker again eclioed the Avords, and also collected his 
 papers as if he were going aAvay too, Walter felt that his lingering any 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 125 
 
 longer would be an unpardonable intrusion— respecially as he had nothing 
 to say — and therefore walked out qiiite confounded. 
 
 Going along the passage, with the mingled consciousness and helpless- 
 ness of a dream, he heard Mr. Dombey's door sluit again, as Mr. Carker 
 came out : and immediately afterwards that gentleman called to him. 
 
 "Bring your friend Mr. Carker the Junior to my room. Sir, if you please." 
 
 Walter went to the outer office and apprised Mr. Carker the Junior of 
 his en'and, who accordingly came out from behind a partition where he 
 sat alone in one corner, and returned with him to the room of ^Ii-. Carker 
 the Manager. 
 
 T^at gentleman was standing with his back to the fire, and his hands 
 under his coat-tails, looking over his white cravat, as 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 Manager, when this was done, turning suddenly 
 upon his brother, with his two rows of teeth bristling as if he would have 
 bitten him, " what is the league between you and this young man, in 
 virtue of which I am haunted and hunted by the mention of your name ? 
 Is it not enough for you, John Carker, that I am your near relation and 
 can't detach myself from that — " 
 
 " Say disgrace, James," interposed the other in a low voice, finding that 
 he stammered for a word, " You mean it, and have reasoi\; say disgrace." 
 
 " From that disgrace," assented his brother with keen emphasis, " but 
 is the fact to be blurted out and trumpeted, and 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 
 confidence, John Carker ? " 
 
 " No," returned the other. " No, James. God knows I have no such 
 thought." 
 
 "What is j'our thought, then?" said his brother, "and why do you 
 thrust yourself in my way ? Haven't you injured me enough already ?" 
 
 " I have never injm-ed you, James, wilfully." 
 
 " You are my brother," said the Manager. " That 's injury enough." 
 
 " I wish I coidd undo it, James." 
 
 " I wish you could and would." 
 
 During this conversation, Walter had looked from one brother to the 
 other, with pain and amazement. He who was the Senior in years, and 
 Junior in the house, stood, with his eyes cast upon the ground, and his 
 head bowed, humbly listening to the reproaches of the other. Though 
 these were rendered very bitter by the tone and look with which they were 
 accompanied, and by the presence of Walter whom they so much surprised 
 and shocked, he entered no other protest against them than by shghtly 
 raising his right hand in a deprecatory manner, as if he woidd have said 
 " Spare me ! " So, had they been blows, and he a brave man, under strong 
 constyatat, and weakened by bodily sufi'ering, he might have stood before 
 the executioner. 
 
 Generous and quick in all his emotions, and regarding himself as 
 the innocent occasion of these taunts, Walter now struck in, with all the 
 earnestness he felt. 
 
 " Mr. Carker," he said, addressing himself to the Manager. " Indeed, 
 
126 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 indeed, tliis is my faidt solely. In a kind of heedlessness, for wliicli I 
 cannot blame my self enough, I have, I have no doubt, mentioned Mr. Carker 
 the Junior much oftener than was necessaiy ; and have allowed his name 
 sometimes to slip through my lips, when it was against your expressed wish. 
 But it has been my own mistake. Sir. We have never exchanged one word 
 iipon the subject — ^very few, indeed, on any subject. And it has not been," 
 added Walter, after a moment's pause, " all heedlessness on my part. Sir ; 
 for I have felt an interest in Mr. Carker ever since I have been here, and 
 have hardly been able to help speaking of him sometimes, when I have 
 thought of him so much !" 
 
 Walter said this from his soul, and with the very breath of honour. For 
 he looked upon the bowed head, and the downcast eyes, and upraised hand, 
 and thought, ' I have felt it : and why should I not avow it in behalf of 
 this unfriended, broken man ! ' 
 
 " In truth, you have avoided me, Mr. Carker," said Walter, with 
 the tears rising to his eyes ; so true was his compassion. " I know it, to 
 my disappointment and regi*et. ^Mien I first came here, and ever since, I 
 am sm-e I have tried to be as much yom* friend, as one of my age could 
 presume to be ; but it has been of no use." 
 
 " And observe," said the Manager, taking him up quickly, " it wiU be 
 of stiU less use, Gay, if you persist in forcing Mr. John Carker's name on 
 people's attention. That is not the way to befriend JVIr. 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 present, which I need not say I could have well 
 spared. No one can be a better friend to me : " he spoke here very 
 distinctly, as if he would impress it upon Walter : " than in forgetting 
 me, and leaving me to go my way, unquestioned and unnoticed." 
 
 " Your memory not being retentive. Gay, of what you are told by 
 others," said Mr. Carker the Manager, warming himself with great and 
 increased satisfaction, "I thoixghtit well that you should be told this from 
 the best authority," nodding towards his brother, "You are not likely 
 to forget it now, I hope. That 's all. Gay. You can go." 
 
 Walter passed out at the door, and was about to close it after him, 
 when, hearing the voice5 of the brothers again, and also tlie mention of his 
 own name, he stood irresolutely, ■with his hand vipon the lock, and the 
 door ajar, uncertain whether to return or go away. In this position he 
 could not help overhearing Avhat followed. 
 
 " Think of me more leniently, if you can, James," said John Carker, 
 " when I ted you I have had — ^how could I help having, with my 
 histoiy, Avritten here " — striking himself upon the breast, " my whole 
 heart awakened by my observation of that boy, Walter Gay. I saw in 
 him when he first came here, almost my other self." 
 
 "Your other self!" repeated the Manager, disdainfidly, 
 
 " Not as I am, but as I was Avhen I first came here too ; as sanguine, 
 giddy, youthful, inexperienced ; flushed with the same restless and adven- 
 turous fancies ; and full of the same qualities, fraught with the same capa- 
 city of leading on to good or evd," 
 
 " I hope not," said his brother, with some hidden and sarcastic mean- 
 ing in his tone. 
 
 " You strike me sharply ; and your hand is steady, and your tlu-ust is 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 127 
 
 very deep," retm-ned the other, speaking (or so Walter thought) as if some 
 ci-uel 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 g\df where so many others walk with 
 equal gaiety, and from which — " 
 
 " The old excuse," interrupted his brotlier as he stirred the fire. " So 
 many. Go on. Say, so many fall." 
 
 " From which ONE traveller fell," returned the other, "who set forward, 
 on his way, a boy like him, and missed his footing more and more, and 
 slipped a httle and a little lower, and went on stimibling still, until he fell 
 headlong and found himself below, a shattered man. Think what I suffered, 
 when I watched that boy." 
 
 " You have only yom-self to thank for it," retm-ned the brother. 
 
 " Only myseK," 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. And, through so many and such close teeth, he could mutter well. 
 
 " Ah James," returned his brother, speaking for the fii-st time in an 
 accent of reproach, and seeming, by the sound of his voice, to have covered 
 his face with his hands, " I have been, since then, a 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 time, Mr. Carker the Manager was heard 
 rustling among his papers, as 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 
 fear, as was some httle punishment to me, until he passed the place where 
 I first fell ; and then, though I had been his father, I believe I never coiild 
 have thanked God more devoutly. I didn't dare to warn him, and advise 
 him ; but if I had seen direct cause, I would have shown him my example, 
 I was afraid to be seen speaking with Ixim, lest it should be thought I did 
 him harm, and tempted him to evil, and corrupted him : or lest I reaUy 
 should. There may be such contagion in me ; I don't know. Piece out 
 my history, in connexion with young Walter Gay, and what he has made 
 me feel ; and tliink of me more leniently, James, if you can." 
 
 With these words he came out to where Walter was standing. He 
 tm-ned a little paler when he saw him there, and paler yet when Walter 
 caught him by the hand, and said in a whisper : 
 
 " Mr. Carker, pray let me thank you ! Let me say how much I 
 feel for you ! How sorry I am, to have been the unhappy cause of all 
 this ! How I almost look upon you now as my protector and guardian I 
 How very, very much, I feel obhged to you and pity you !" said Walter 
 squeezing both his hands, and hardly knowing, in his agitation, what he 
 did or said. 
 
 Mr. Morfin's room being close at hand and empty, and the door wide 
 open, they moved thither by one accord : the passage being seldom free 
 from some one passing to or fro. When they were there, and Walter 
 saw in Mr. Carker' s face some traces of the emotion within, he almost felt 
 as if he had never seen the face before ; it was so greatly changed. 
 
 " Walter," he said, laying his hand on his shoulder. " I am far removed 
 from you, and may I ever be. Do you know what I am ?" 
 
128 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Wliat you are ! " appeared to liang on Walter's lips, as he regarded 
 him attentively. 
 
 " It was begini," said Carker, " before my twenty-first birthday — led up 
 to, long before, but not begun tiU near that time. I had robbed them 
 Avhen I came of age. I robbed them afterwards. Before my twenty-second 
 birthday, it was all found out ; and then, Walter, from all men's society, 
 I died.'' 
 
 Again his last few words hung trembling upon Walter's lips, but he 
 could neither utter them, nor any of his own. 
 
 " The House was very good to me. May Heaven reward the old man 
 for liis forbearance ! This one, too, his son, who was then newly in the 
 firm, where I had held great trust ! I was called into that room which is 
 now his — I have never entered it since — and came out, what you know me. 
 For many years I sat in my present seat, alone as now, but then a known 
 and recognized example to the rest. They were all merciful to me, and I 
 lived. Time has altered that part of my poor expiation; and I think, except 
 the three heads of the House, there is no one here who knows my story 
 rightly. Before the little boy grows up, and has it told to him, my 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 youth, and hope, and good 
 men's company, behind me in that room. God bless you, Walter ! Keep 
 you, and all dear to you, in honesty, or strike them dead !" 
 
 Some recollection of his trembling from head to foot, as if with excessive 
 cold, and of his bursting into tears, was all that Walter could add to this, 
 when he tried to recall exactly what had passed between them. 
 
 When Walter saw him next, he was bending over his desk in his old 
 silent, drooping, humbled way. Then, observing him at his work, and 
 feeling how resolved he evidently was that no further intercourse shoidd 
 arise between them, and thinking again and again on all he had seen and 
 heard that morning in so short a time, in connection with the history of 
 both the Carkers, Walter could hardly believe that he Avas under orders 
 for the West Indies, and would soon be lost to Uncle Sol, and Captain 
 Cuttle, and to glimpses few and far between of Florence Dombey — no, he 
 meant Paul — and to aU he loved, and liked, and looked for, in his daily life. 
 
 But it was true, and the news had already penetrated to the outer office; 
 for while he sat with a heavy heart, pondering on these things, and resting 
 his head upon his arm. Perch the messenger, descending from his mahogany 
 bracket, and jogging his elbow, begged his pardon, but wished to say in his 
 ear, Did he think he coidd arrange to send home to England a jar of 
 preserved Ginger, cheap, for Mrs. Perch's own eating, in the course of her 
 recovery from her next confinement ? 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 129 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 PAUL GROWS MOKE AND MORE OLD-FASHIONED, AND GOES HOME FOE 
 
 THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 When the Midsummer vacation approached, no indecent manifestations 
 of joy were exhibited by the leaden-eyed young gentlemen assembled at 
 Dr. JBlimber's. Any such violent expression as "breaking up," would 
 have been quite inapplicable to that pohte establishment. The young 
 gentlemen oozed aAvay, semi-annually, to their own homes j but they never 
 broke up. They would have scorned the action. 
 
 Tozer, who was constantly galled and tormented by a starched white 
 cambric neck-kerchief, which he wore at the express desire of Mrs. Tozer, 
 his parent, who, designing him for the Church, was of opinion that he 
 couldn't be in that forward state of preparation too soon — Tozer said, 
 indeed, that, choosing between two evils, he thought he would rather stay 
 where he was, than go home. However inconsistent this declaration might 
 appear with that passage in Tozer's Essay on the subject, wherein he had 
 observed " that the thoughts of home and all its recollections, awakened 
 in his mind the most pleasing emotions of anticipation and delight," and 
 had also likened himself to a Koman General, flushed with a recent victory 
 over the Iceni, or laden with Carthaginian spoil, advancing within a few 
 hours' march of the Capitol, presupposed, for the purposes of the simile, 
 to be the dwelling-place of Mrs. Tozer, still it was very sincerely made. 
 For it seemed that Tozer had a di'eadfid uncle, who not only volunteered 
 examinations of him, in the holidays, on abstruse points, but twisted inno- 
 cent events and things, and wrenched them to the same fell purpose. So that 
 if tliis uncle took him to the Play, or, on a similar pretence of kindness, 
 carried him to see a Giant, or a Dwarf, or a Conjuror, or anything, Tozer 
 knew^ he had read up some classical allusion to the subject beforehand, and 
 was thrown into a state of mortal apprehension : not foreseeing where he 
 might break out, or what authority he might not quote against him. 
 
 As to Briggs, Jiis 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 time, that the friends of the family 
 (then resident near Bayswater, London) seldom approached the ornamental 
 piece of water in Kensington Gardens, without a vague expectation of 
 seeing Master Briggs's hat floating on the smface, and an unfinished 
 exercise lying on the bank. Briggs, therefore, was 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 general, that 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 holi- 
 days w^as to witness his separation from Florence, but who ever looked 
 forward to the end of holidays whose beginning was not yet come ! Not 
 Paul, assiu'edly. As the happy time drew^ near, the lions and tigers 
 
 K 
 
130 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 climbing up tlie bedroom walls, became quite tame and frolicsome. The 
 grim sly faces in tlie squares and diamonds of tlie iloor-clotli, relaxed and 
 peeped out at Mm witli less wicked eyes. The gi-ave old clock had more 
 of personal interest in the tone of its formal inquiry ; and the restless sea 
 went rolling on all night, to the sounding of a melancholy strain — ^j^et it 
 was pleasant too — that rose and fell with the waves, and rocked him, as it 
 were, to sleep. 
 
 Mr. Feeder, B.A., seemed to think that he, too, would enjoy the holidays 
 very much. Mr. Toots projected a life of holidays from that time forth ; 
 for, as he regularly informed Paul every day, it was his "last half" at 
 Doctor Blimber's, and he was going to begin to come into his property 
 directly. 
 
 It was perfectly understood between Paul and Mr. Toots, that they 
 were intimate friends, notwithstanding their distance in point of years and 
 station. As the vacation approached, and IVIi-. Toots breathed harder and 
 stared oftener in Paid's society, than he had done before, Paul knew that 
 he meant he was son-y they were going to lose sight of each other, and 
 felt very much obliged to liim for his patronage and good opinion. 
 
 It was even understood by Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, and Miss 
 Blimber, as weU as by the young gentlemen in general, that Toots had 
 somehow constituted himself protector and guardian of Dombey; and the 
 circumstance became so notorious, even to ]\Irs. Pipchin, that the good 
 old creature cherished feehngs of bitterness and jealousy against Toots ; 
 and, in the sanctuary of her own home, repeatedly denounced him as " a 
 chuckleheaded noodle." Whereas the innocent Toots had no more idea 
 of awakening Mrs. Pipchin's wrath, than he had of any other definite pos- 
 sibility or proposition. On the contrary, he was disposed to consider her 
 rather a remarkable character, with many points of interest about her. 
 For this reason he smiled on her with so much urbanity, and asked her 
 how she did, so often, in the coiu'se of her visits to little Paul, that at last 
 she one night told him plainly, she wasn't used to it, whatever he might 
 think ; and she could not, and she would not bear it, either from liimself 
 or any other puppy then existing : at which unexpected acknowledgment 
 of his civilities, Mr. Toots was so alarmed that he secreted himself in a 
 retired spot, until she had gone. Nor did he ever again face the doughty 
 Mi-s. Pipchin, under Doctor Blimber's roof. 
 
 They were within two or thi'ce weeks of the holidays, when, one day, 
 Cornelia Blimber called Paul into her room, and said, "Dombey, I am 
 going to send home your analysis." 
 
 " Thank you. Ma'am," returned Paul. 
 
 " You know what I mean, do you, Dombey? " inquired Miss Blimber, 
 looking hard at him, through the spectacles. 
 
 " No, Ma'am," said Paid. 
 
 " Dombey, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, " I begin to be afraid you 
 axe a sad boy. When you don't know the meaning of an expression, why 
 don't you seek for information ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Pipchin told me I Avasn't to ask qiiestions," retiu-ned Paul. 
 
 " I must beg you not to mention Mrs. Pipchin to me, on any account, 
 Dombey," returned Miss Blimber. "I couldn't think of allomng it. 
 The course of study here, is very far removed from anything of that sort. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 131 
 
 A repetition of such allusions would make it necessary for me to request 
 to liear, without a mistake, before breakfast-time to-morrow morning, from 
 Verhum personale down to simiUma cr/gno." 
 
 " I didn't mean, Ma'am," began little Paul. 
 
 "I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn't mean, if you 
 please, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, who 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 all, so he only looked at Miss 
 Blimber's spectacles. Miss Blimber having shaken her head at him 
 gravely, referred 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 synthesis, is thus defined by Walker. ' The resolution of an object, 
 whether of the senses or of the intellect, into its first elements.' As 
 opposed to synthesis, you observe. Now you know what analysis is, 
 Dombey." 
 
 Dombey didn't seem to be absolutely blinded by the light let in upon 
 his intellect, but 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. Thus, taking eight as our standard' 
 and highest number, I 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 fifteen, or sixpence 
 three farthings, or six foot three, or three quarters past six, or six some- 
 tliings that he hadn't learnt yet, with three unknown something elses 
 over, Paul 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 company, as 
 evinced in the case of a person named Glubb, originally seven, but since 
 reduced. Gentlemanly demeanour four, and improving with advancing 
 years.' Now what I particularly wish to call your attention to, Dombey, 
 is 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 Bhmber, read- 
 ing in a loud voice, and at every second word directing her spectacles 
 towards the little figure before her : " 'that his abilities and inclinations 
 are good, and that he has made as much progi'css as under the circum- 
 stances 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 conduct, and that, without presenting anything in either 
 which distinctly calls for reprobation, he is often very unlike other young 
 gentlemen of his age and social position.' Now Dombey," said Miss Blim- 
 ber, laying down the paper, " do you understand that ? " 
 
 " I think I do, Ma'am," said Paul. 
 
 " This analysis, you see, Dombey," Miss Blimber continued, " is going 
 to be sent home to youi* respected parent. It will naturally be very 
 
 K 2 
 
132 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 painful to him to find that you are singular in your character and conduct. 
 It is naturally -painfid to us ; for we can't like you, you know, Donibey, as 
 well as we could wish." 
 
 She touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly become 
 more and more solicitous from day to day, as the time of his departure 
 di'ew more near, that all the house should like him. For some hidden 
 reason, very imperfectly understood by himself — if understood at all — • 
 he felt a gi'aduaUy increasing impulse of afl'ection, towards almost every- 
 thing and everybody in the place. He could not bear to think that they 
 would be quite indifterent to him when he was gone. He wanted them 
 to remember him kindly ; and he had made it his business even to con- 
 ciliate a great hoarse shaggy dog, chained up at the back of the house, 
 who had previously been the terror of his life : that even he might miss 
 him when he was no longer there. 
 
 Little thinking that in this, he only showed again the diiference between 
 himself and his compeers, poor tiny Paul set it forth to Miss Blimber 
 as well as he coidd, and begged her, in despite of the official analysis, to 
 have the goodness to try and like him. To IVIi's. Blimber, who had 
 joined them, he prefeiTcd the same petition : and when that lady could 
 not forbear, even in his presence, from giving utterance to her often- 
 repeated opinion, that he was an odd child, Paul told her that he was 
 sure she was quite right ; that he thought it must be his bones, but 
 he didn't know; and that he hoped she would overlook it, for he was fond 
 of them all. 
 
 " Not so fond," said Paul, with a mixture of timidity and perfect 
 frankness, which was one of the most peculiar and most engaging qualities 
 of the child, "not so fond as I am of Florence, of course; that could 
 never be. You couldn't expect that, coiddyou. Ma'am?" 
 
 " Oh ! the old-fashioned little soul !" cried Mrs. Blimber, in a whisper. 
 
 "But I like everybody here very much," pursued Paul, " and I should 
 grieve to go away, and think that any one was glad that I was gone, or 
 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 passed, the Doctor did 
 not controvert his wife's opinion. But he said, as he had said before, 
 when Paul first came, that study woidd do much ; and he also said, as 
 he had said on that occasion, "Bring him on, Cornelia! Bring him on!" 
 
 Cornelia had always brought liim on as vigorously as she could ; and 
 Paid had had a hard life of it. But over and above the getting through 
 his tasks, he had long had another purpose always present to him, and to 
 Avhich he stiU held fast. It was, to be a gentle, useful, quiet little feUow, 
 always striving to secm-e the love and attachment of the rest; and though 
 he was yet often to be seen at his old post on the staii's, or watching the 
 waves and clouds from his solitary window, he was oftener found, too, 
 among the other boys, modestly rendering them some little voluntary 
 service. Thus it came to pass, that even among those rigid and absorbed 
 young anchorites, who mortified themselves beneath the roof of Dr. 
 Blimber, Paul was an object of general interest ; a fragile little plaything 
 that they all liked, and that no one would have thought of treating 
 roughly. But he coidd not change his nature, or re-^n-ite the analysis ; 
 and so tliey aU agreed that Dombey was old-fashioned. 
 
\ 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 138 
 
 There were some immunities, however, attaching to the character 
 enjoyed by no one else. They could have better spared a newer-fashioned 
 child, and that alone w^as much. Wlien the others only bowed to 
 Doctor Blimber and family on retiring for the night, Paul would stretch 
 out his morsel of a hand, and boldly shake the Doctor's ; also Mrs. 
 Blimber's; also Cornelia's. If anybody was to be begged off from im- 
 pending punishment, Paid was always the delegate. The weak-eyed 
 young man himself had once consulted him, in reference to a little 
 breakage of glass and china. And it was darkly rumoured that the butler, 
 regarding him with favour such as that stem man had never sho^\ai 
 before to mortal boy, had sometimes mingled porter with his table-beer 
 to make him strong. 
 
 Over and above these extensive privileges, Paul had free right of entry 
 to Mr. Peeder's room, from which apartment he had twice led Mr. Toots 
 into the open air in a state of faintness, consequent 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 
 smuggler, who had acknowledged, in confidence, that two hundred pounds 
 was the price set upon his head, dead or aUve, by the Custom House. 
 It was a snug room, Mr. Feeder's, with his bed in another little room 
 inside of it ; and a flute, which Mr. Peeder couldn't play yet, but was 
 going to make a point of learning, he said, hanging up over the fire- 
 place. There were some books in it, too, and a fishing-rod; for Mr. 
 Feeder said he shoidd certainly make a point of learning to fish, when he 
 coidd find time. Mr. Feeder had amassed, with similar intentions, a 
 beautiful little curly second-hand key-bugle, a chess-board and men, a 
 Spanish Grammar, a 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 learaing, as 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 gi'cen jar of snuff, which 
 Mr. Toots had brought down as a present, at the close of the last vaca- 
 tion ; and for which he had paid a high price, as having been the genuine 
 property of the Prince Regent. Neither Mr. Toots nor Mr. Feeder coidd 
 partake of this or any other snuff, even in the most stinted and moderate 
 degree, without being seized Avith convulsions of sneezing. Nevertheless 
 it Avas their great delight to moisten a box-fuU with cold tea, stir it up 
 on a piece of parchment with a paper-knife, and devote themselves 
 to its consumption then and there. In the course of which cramming 
 of their noses, they endured surprising torments, with the constancy 
 of martyrs : and, drinking table-beer at intervals, felt all the glories of 
 dissipation. 
 
 To little Paul sitting silent in their company, and by the side of his 
 chief patron, Mr. Toots, there Avas a dread charm in these reckless occa- 
 sions; and Avhen IVIi-. Feeder spoke of the dark mysteries of London, and told 
 Mr. Toots that he Avas going to observe it himself closely in aU its ramifi- 
 cations in the approaching holidays, and for that purpose had made 
 arrangements to board Avith two old maiden ladies at Pcckham, Paul 
 regarded him as if he Avere the hero of some book of travels or wild adven- 
 ture, and Avas almost afraid of such a slasliing person. 
 
 Going into this room one evening, when the holidays were very near 
 
134 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Paul found 'Mr. Teeder filliug up the blanks in some printed letters, while 
 some others, already fiUed up and strewn before him, were being folded 
 and sealed by Mr. Toots. Mr. Feeder said, " Aha, Dombey, there you 
 are, ai'e you ? " — for they were always kind to him, and glad to see him — 
 and then said, tossing one of the letters towards him, " And t/ie?'e you are, 
 too, Dombey. That 's yours." 
 
 " Mine, Sii- ? " said Paul. 
 
 " Your invitation," returned ^Ii-. Feeder. 
 
 Paul, looking at it, found, in copper -plate print, with the exception of 
 liis own name and the date, which were in ]\Ii'. Peeder's penmanship, 
 that Doctor and Mrs. Blimber requested the pleasm-e of Mv. P. Dombey's 
 company at an early party on Wednesday Evening the Seventeenth 
 Instant ; and that the houi' was half-past seven o'clock ; and that the 
 object was Quadrilles. Mv. Toots also showed him, by holding up a com- 
 panion sheet of paper, that Doctor and IVIrs. Blimber requested the 
 pleasure of Mr. Toots's company at an early party on Wednesday Evening 
 the Seventeenth Instant, when the hour was half-past seven o'clock, and 
 when the object was Quadrilles. He also found, on glancing at the table 
 where Mr. Feeder sat, that the pleasure of Mr. Briggs's company, and 
 of Mr. Tozer's com]5any, and of every young gentleman's company, was 
 requested by Doctor and IVIi's. Blimber on the same genteel occasion. 
 
 Mr. Feeder then told him, to liis great joy, that his sister was invited, 
 and that it was a half-yearly event, and that, as the holidays began that 
 day, he coidd go away wath his sister, after the party, if he hked, which 
 Paul interrupted him to say he tvoulcl like, very much. Mr. Feeder then 
 gave him to understand that he would be expected to inform Doctor and 
 ]\Irs. Blimber, in superfine small-hand, that M\ P. Dombey would be 
 happy to have the honom* of waiting on them, in accordance with their 
 poHte invitation. Lastly, Mr. Feeder said, he had better not refer to the 
 festive occasion, in the hearing of Doctor and Mrs. Blimber ; as these 
 prehminaries, and the whole of the arrangements, were conducted on 
 principles of classicality and high breeding ; and that Doctor and Mrs. 
 Blimber on the one hand, and the young gentlemen on the other, were 
 supposed, in theii' scholastic capacities, not to have the least idea of what 
 was in the wind. 
 
 Paid thanked IMr. Feeder for these hints, and pocketing liis invitation, 
 sat down on a stool by the side of Mr. Toots, as usual. 13ut Paul's head, 
 which had long been ailing more or less, and was sometimes very heavy 
 and painful, felt so vineasy that night, that he was obliged to support it on 
 his hand. And yet it drooped so, that by little and little it sunk on Mr. 
 Toots's knee, and rested there, as if it had no care to be ever lifted up 
 
 agaui. 
 
 That was no reason why he shoidd be deaf ; but he must have been, he 
 thought, for, by and by, he heard Mv. Feeder calling in his ear, and 
 gently shaking him to rouse his attention. And when he raised his head, 
 quite seared, and looked about him, he found that Doctor Blimber had 
 come into the room ; and that the window was open, and that his forehead 
 was wet with sprinkled water ; though how aU this had been done without 
 his knowledge, was veiy curious indeed. 
 
 "Ah! Come, come! That's well! How is my little friend now ?" 
 said Doctor Blimber, encouragingly. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 135 
 
 " Oh, quite well, thank you Sir," said Paul. 
 
 But there seemed to be something the matter with the floor, for he 
 couldn't stand upon it steadily ; and with the walls too, for they were 
 inclined to turn round and round, and could only be stopped by being 
 looked at very hard indeed. ]\Ir. Toots's head had the appearance of being 
 at once bigger and farther oft" than Avas quite natural ; and when he took 
 Paul in his arms, to carry him up-staii's, Paul observed with astonishment 
 that the door was in quite a dift"erent place from that in which he had 
 expected to find it, and almost thought, at first, that ]\Ii-, 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 that, if he could ; and indeed he did more as it 
 was : for he helped Paul to undress, and helped him to bed, in the kindest 
 manner possible, and then sat down by the bedside and chuckled veiy 
 much; while Mr. Feeder, B.A., leaning over the bottom of the bedstead, 
 set all the little bristles on his head bolt upright with his boney hands, and 
 then made believe to spar at Paul with great science, on account of his 
 being all right again, wliich was so uncommonly facetious, and kind too in 
 Mr, Feeder, that Paul, not 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 away, and Mr. Peeder changed into Mrs. 
 Pipchin, Paul never thought of asking ; neither was he at all curious to 
 know ; but Avhen he saw Mrs. Pipchin standing at the bottom of the bed, 
 instead of Mr. Feeder, he cried out, "Mrs. Pipchin, don't tell Florence !" 
 
 "Don't tell Florence what, my little Paul?" said Mrs. Pipchin, coming 
 round to the bedside, and sitting down in the chair. 
 
 " About me," said Paul. 
 
 " No, no," said Mrs. Pipchin. 
 
 " What do you think I mean to do when I gi'ow up, IVIi-s. Pipchin?" 
 inquired Paul, turning his face towards her on his pillow, and resting his 
 •chin wistfidly 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 more, go away into the country with my darbng Florence, have 
 a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and live there with her all my life !" 
 
 "Indeed?" cried Mrs. Pipchin. 
 
 " Yes," said Paul. " That 's what I mean to do, when 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 aU about the party, about Florence's invitation, about the pride 
 he would have in the admiration that would be felt for her by all the boys, 
 about their being so kind to him and fond of him, about his being so fond 
 of them, and about his being so glad of it. Then he told Mi's. Pipchin 
 <ibout the analysis, and about his being certainly old-fashioned, and took 
 Mrs. Pipchin's oninion on that point, and whether she knew Avhy it was, 
 and what it meant. Mrs. Pipchin denied the fact altogether, as the 
 shortest way of getting out of the difficulty; but Paul was far from satisfied 
 mth that reply, and looked so searchingly at Mrs. Pipchin for a truer answer, 
 that she was obliged to get up and look out of the window to avoid his eyes. 
 
136 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 There was a certain calm Apothecary, who attended at the establish- 
 ment when any of the young gentlemen were iU, and somehow he got into 
 the room and appeared at the bedside, with Mrs. BUmber. How they came 
 there, or how long they had been there, Paul didn't know ; but when he 
 saw them, he sat up in bed, and answered aU the Apothecary's questions 
 at fuU length, and whispered to him that Florence was not to know any- 
 thing about it, if he pleased, and that he had set his mind upon her coming 
 to the party. He was very chatty with the Apothecary, and they parted 
 excellent friends. Lying down again with his eyes shut, he heard the 
 Apothecary say, out of the room and quite a long way off — or he di-eamed 
 it — ^that there was a want of vital power (what Avas that, Paul wondered !) 
 and great constitutional weakness. That as the httle fellow had set his 
 heart on parting with his schoolmates on the seventeenth, it would be 
 better to indulge the fancy if he grew no worse. That he was glad to 
 hear from Mrs. Pipchin, that the Uttle fellow would go to his friends in 
 London on the eighteenth. That he would write to Mr. Dombey, when 
 he should have gained a better knowledge of the case, and before that day. 
 That there was no immediate cause for — ^what ? Paul lost that word. And 
 that the little fellow had a fine mind, but was an old-fashioned boy. 
 
 What old fashion coidd that be, Paul wondered with a palpitating heart, 
 that was so visibly expressed in him ; so plainly seen by so many people ! 
 
 He could neither make it out, nor trouble himself long with the effort. 
 !Mrs. Pipchin was again beside him, if she had ever been away (he thought 
 she had gone out ^vith the Doctor, but it was all a dream perhaps), and 
 presently a bottle and glass got into her hands magically, and she poured 
 out the contents for him. After that, he had some real good jelly, which 
 Mrs. Blimber brought to him herself; and then he was so well, that Mrs. 
 Pipchin went home, at his urgent solicitation, and Briggs and Tozer came 
 to bed. Poor Briggs giamibled terribly about his own analysis, which 
 could hardly have discomposed him more if it had been a chemical process ; 
 but he was very good to Paul, and so was Tozer, and so were all the rest, 
 for they every one looked in before going to bed, and said, "How are 
 you now, Dombey?" "Cheer up, little Dombey!" and so forth. After 
 Briggs had got into bed, he lay awake for a long time, still bemoaning 
 his analysis, and saying he knew it was all Avrong, and they couldn't have 
 analysed a murderer worse, and — how would Doctor Blimber like it if his 
 pocket-money depended on it ? It was very easy, Briggs said, to make 
 a galley-slave of a boy all the half-year, and then score him up idle ; and 
 to crib two dinners a-week out of his board, and then score him up 
 greedy ; but that wasn't going to be submitted to, he believed, was it ? 
 Oh ! Ah ! 
 
 Before the weak-eyed young man performed on the gong next morning, 
 he came up stairs to Paul and told him he was to lie stiU, which 
 Paul very gladly did. Mrs. Pipchin reappeared a little before the Apothe- 
 cary, and a little after the good young woman Avhom Paid had seen clean- 
 ing the stove on that first morning (how long ago it seemed now !) had 
 brought him his breakfast. There was another consultation a long way 
 oft", or else Paul dreamed it again ; and then the Apothecaiy, coming back 
 with Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, said : 
 
 " Yes, I think. Doctor Bhmber, wc may release this young gentleman 
 from his books just now ; the vacation being so very near at hand." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 137 
 
 " By all means," said Doctor Blimber. " My love, you will inform 
 Cornelia, if you please." 
 
 " Assuredly," said Mrs. Blimber. 
 
 The Apothecary bending dowa, looked closely into Paul's eyes, and felt 
 his head, and his pidse, and his heart, with so much interest and care, that 
 Paul said "Thank you, sir." 
 
 " 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 better, sir," returned the Apothecary. 
 
 Paul had begun to speculate, in his own odd way, on the subject that 
 might occupy the Apothecary's mind just at that moment ; so musmgly 
 had he answered the two questions of Doctor Blimber. But the Apothe- 
 cary happening to meet his little patient's eyes, as the latter set off on 
 that mental expedition, and coming instantly out of his abstraction with a 
 cheerfid smde, Paul smiled in return and abandoned it. 
 
 He lay in bed all that day, dozing and dreaming, and looking at Mr. Toots; 
 but got up on the next, and went down stairs. Lo and behold, there 
 Avas something the matter with the great clock ; and a workman on a pair 
 of steps had taken its face off, and was poking instruments into the works 
 by the light of a candle ! This was a great event for Paxd, who sat down 
 on the bottom stair, and watched the operation attentively : now and then 
 glancing at the clock face, leaning all askew, against the wall hard by, and 
 feeling a little confused by a suspicion that it was ogling him. 
 
 The workman on the steps was very civil ; and as he said, when he 
 observed Paid, "How do you do, sir?" Paid got into conversation Avith 
 him, and told him he hadn't been quite well lately. The ice being thus 
 broken, Paul asked him a multitude of questions about chimes and clocks : 
 as, whether peopled watched up in the lonely church steeples by night to 
 make them strike, and how the beUs were rung when people died, and 
 whether those were different bells from wedding bells, or only sounded 
 dismal in the fancies of the living. Finding that his new acquaintance 
 was not very weU informed on the subject of the Curfew Bell of ancient 
 days, Paul gave him an account of that institution; and also asked him, as 
 a practical man, what he thought about King Alfred's idea of measuring 
 time by the burning of candles ; to which the workman replied, that he 
 thought it woidd be the ruin of the clock trade if it was to come up again. 
 In fine, Paul looked on, untd the clock had quite recovered its familiar 
 aspect, and resumed its sedate inquiry ; when the workman, putting away 
 his tools in a long basket, bade him good day, and went away. Though 
 not before he had whispered something, on the door-mat, to the footman, 
 in which there was the phrase " old-fashioned" — for Paul heard it. 
 
 What could that old fashion be, that seemed to make the people sorry ! 
 What coidd it be ! 
 
 Having nothing to learn now, he thought of this frequently ; though 
 not so often as he might have done, if he had had fewer things to think of. 
 But he had a great many ; and was always thinking, all day long. 
 
 First, there 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 him, and that he had become a little favourite among them. 
 
138 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 and then she would always tliink of the time he had passed there, without 
 ueing very sorry. Florence might be aU the happier too for that, perhaps, 
 when he came back. 
 
 When he came back ! Fifty times a-day, his noiseless little feet went up 
 the stairs to his own room, as he collected every book, and scrap, and 
 trifle that belonged to him, and put them all together there, down to the 
 minutest thing, for taking home ! There was no shade of coming back 
 on little Paul ; no preparation for it, or other reference to it, grew out of 
 anything he thought or did, except this slight one in connexion with his 
 sister. On the contrary, he had to think of everything famiUar to him, 
 in his contemplative moods and in his wanderings about the house, as 
 being to be parted with ; and hence the many things he had to think of, 
 all day long. 
 
 He had to peep into those rooms up-stairs, and think how solitary they 
 woidd be when he was gone, and wonder through how many silent days, 
 weeks, months, and years, they would continue just as grave and undis- 
 tm-bed. He had to think — would any other child (old-fasliioned, like him- 
 self) stray there at any time, to whom the same grotesqxie distortions of 
 pattern and furniture would manifest themselves ; and woidd anybody 
 tell that boy of little Dombey, who had been there once. 
 
 He had to think of a portrait on the stairs, which always looked 
 earnestly after him as he went away, eyeing it over his shoulder ; and 
 wliich, when he passed it in the company of any one, still seemed to gaze 
 at him; and not at his companion. He had much to think of, in associa- 
 tion with a print that hung up in another place, where, in the centre of a 
 wondering group, one figure that he knew, a figure with a light about 
 its head — benignant, mild, and merciful — stood pointing upward. 
 
 At his own bedroom window, there were crowds of thoughts that 
 mixed with these, and came on, one upon another, one upon another, like 
 the rolling waves. Where those wild birds lived, that were always hovering 
 out at sea in troubled weather ; where the clouds rose, and first began ; 
 whence the wind issued on its rushing flight, and where it stopped ; 
 whether the spot where he and Florence had so often sat, and watched, 
 and talked about these things, could ever be exactly as it used to be 
 without them ; whether it could ever be the same to Florence, if he were in 
 some distant place, and she were sitting there alone. 
 
 He had to think, too, of Mr. Toots, and Mr. Feeder, B. A. ; of all 
 the boys ; and of Doctor Bhmber, Mrs. Blimber, and Miss BUmber ; of 
 home, and of his aunt and Miss Tox ; of his father, Dombey and Son, 
 Walter with the poor old uncle who had got the money he wanted, and 
 that gruft-voiced Captain with the iron hand. Besides all this, he had a 
 number of little visits to pay, in the course of the day; to the school-room, 
 to Doctor Blimber's study, to Mrs. Blimber's private apartment, to Miss 
 Blimber's, and to the dog. For he Avas free of the Avhole house now, to 
 range it as he chose ; and, in his desire to part with everybody on affec- 
 tionate terms, he attended, in his way, to them all. Sometimes he found 
 places in books for Briggs, who was always losing them ; sometimes he 
 looked up words in dictionaries for other young gentlemen who were in 
 extremity ; sometimes he held skeins of sdk for Mrs. BUmber to wind ; 
 sometimes he put Cornelia's desk to rights ; sometimes he would even 
 creep into the Doctor's study, and, sitting on the carpet near his learned 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 139 
 
 feet, turn tlie globes softly, and go round tlie world, or take a flight among 
 the far-off stars. 
 
 In those days immediately before the holidays, in short, when the other 
 young gentlemen were labouring for dear life tlu'ough a general resump- 
 tion of the studies of the whole half year, Paid 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 every one. Doctor Blimber was so 
 pai'ticular about him, that he requested Johnson to rethe from the dinner- 
 table one day, for having thoughtlessly spoken to him as " poor little 
 Dombey;" which Paid thought rather hard and severe, though he had 
 flushed at the moment, and wondered why Johnson should pity him. It 
 was the more questionable justice, Paul thought, in the Doctor, from his 
 having certaiidy overheard that gTeat authority give his assent on the 
 previous evening, to the proposition (stated by Mrs. BUmber) that poor 
 dear little Dombey was more old-fasliioned than ever. And now it was 
 that Paul began to tliink it must surely be old-fashioned, to be very tliin, 
 and light, and easily tired, and soon disposed to lie down anywhere and 
 rest ; for he coiddn'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, 
 " Gentlemen, we Avill resmne our studies on the twenty-fifth of next 
 month." Mr. Toots immediately threw ofl" liis allegiance, and put on his 
 ring : and mentioning the Doctor in casual conversation shortly after- 
 wards, spoke of him as "Blimber"! This act of freedom inspired the 
 older pupils Avith admiration and envj^; but the younger spirits were 
 appalled, and 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 day, 
 and in the course of liis perambulations, Paul made acquaintance with 
 various strange benches and candlesticks, and met a harp in a green great- 
 coat standing on the landing outside the drawing-room door. There was 
 something queer, too, about IVIrs. Blimber's head at dinner-time, as if she 
 had screwed her hair up too tight ; and though Mss BUmber showed a 
 gTacefid bunch of plaited hair on each temple, she seemed to have her 
 own little cmls in paper underneath, and in a playbUl too ; for Paul read 
 " Theatre Koyal " over one of her sparkling spectacles, and " 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 
 hair, that Doctor Blimber sent up the footman with his compliments, and 
 wished to know if the house was on fire. But it was only the hair- 
 dresser cm-ling the young gentlemen, and over-heating his tongs in the 
 ardour of business. 
 
 When Paul was di'cssed — which was very soon done, for he felt unwell 
 and drowsy, and 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 dressed, but with a dignified and unconcerned 
 demeanour, as if he thought it barely possible that one or two people 
 might drop in by and bye. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Blimber appeared, 
 looking lovely, Paul thought ; and attired in such a number of skirts that 
 
140 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 it was quite an excursion to walk round her. IVIiss Blimber came down 
 soon after her mamma ; a little squeezed in appearance, but very charming-. 
 
 Mr. Toots and IVIi-. Feeder were the next arrivals. Each of these 
 gentlemen brought his hat in his hand, as if he lived somewhere else ; 
 and when they were announced by the butler. Doctor Blimber said, 
 " Aye, aye, aye ! God bless my soul!" and seemed extremely glad to 
 see them. Mi\ Toots was one blaze of jewellery and buttons ; and he 
 felt the circumstance so strongly, that when he had shaken hands with the 
 Doctor, and had bowed to Mrs. Blimber and Miss Blimber, he took Paid 
 aside, and said " What do you think of this, Dombey !" 
 
 But notwithstanding this modest confidence in himself, ]Mi*. Toots 
 appeared to be involved in a good deal of uncertainty Avhether, on the 
 whole, it was judicious to button the bottom button of his waistcoat, and 
 whether, on a calm revision of all the circumstances, it was best to wear 
 his wristbands turned up or turned down. Observing that Mr. Feeder's 
 were turned up, Mr. Toots turned liis up ; but the wristbands of the next 
 arrival being turned down, Mr. Toots turned his down. The differences 
 in point of waistcoat-buttoning, not only at the bottom, but at the top 
 too, became so numerous and complicated as the arrivals thickened, that 
 Mr. Toots was continually fingering that article of dress, as if he were 
 performing on some instrument; and appeared to find the incessant execu- 
 tion it demanded, quite bewildering. 
 
 All the young gentlemen tightly cravatted, curled, and pumped, and 
 Avith their best hats in their hands, having been at different times 
 announced and introduced, Mr. Baps, the dancing-master, came, accom- 
 panied by Mrs. Baps, to whom Mrs. Blimber was extremely kind and 
 condescending. Mr. Baps was a very grave gentleman, with a slow and 
 measm'cd manner of speaking ; and before he had stood under the lamp 
 five minutes, he began to talk to Toots (who had been silently comparing 
 pumps with him) about what you Avere to do with your raw materials 
 when they came into your ports in return for yom* drain of gold. Mr. 
 Toots, to whom the question seemed perplexing, suggested " Cook 'em." 
 But Mr. Baps did not appear to think that would do. 
 
 Paul now slipped away from the cushioned corner of a sofa, which had 
 been his post of observation, and went down-stairs into the tea room to 
 be ready for Florence, whom he had not seen for nearly a fortnight, as he 
 had remained at Doctor Blimber's on the previous Satxu-day and Sunday, 
 lest he should take cold. Presently she came : looking so beautiful in her 
 simple ball dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, that when she knelt 
 down on the gromid to take Paul round the neck and kiss him (for there 
 was no one there, but his friend and another young woman waiting to 
 serve out the tea), he could hardly make up his mind to let her go again, 
 or take away her bright and loving eyes from his face. >: .**>.vv-''»/. 
 
 "But what is the matter, Floy ?" asked Paul, almost sure that he saw 
 a tear there. 
 
 " Nothing, darling ; notliing," returned Florence. 
 
 Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger — and it teas a tear! 
 "Why, Floy!" said he. 
 
 " We '11 go home together, and I '11 nurse you, love," said Florence, 
 
 " Nui-se me ! " echoed Paid. 
 
 Paul couldn't understand what that had to do with it, nor why the two 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 141 
 
 young women looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her 
 face for a moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles. 
 
 " Floy," said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand. 
 " Tell me, dear. Do you think I have grown old-fashioned?" 
 
 His sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him " No." 
 
 "Because I know they say so," returned Paul, "and I want to know 
 what they mean, Ploy." 
 
 But a loud double knock coming at the door, and Florence hurrying to 
 the table, there was no more said between them. Paul wondered again 
 when he saw his friend whisper to Florence, as if she were comforting her; 
 but a new arrival put that out of his head speedily. 
 
 It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Master Skettles. Master 
 Skettles was to be a new boy after the vacation, and Fame had been busy, 
 in Mr. Feeder's room, with his father, who was in the House of Commons, 
 and 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 woidd rather touch up the Eadicals. 
 
 "And what room is this now, for instance?" said Lady Skettles to 
 Paul's friend, 'Melia. 
 
 " Doctor Blimber's study. Ma'am," was the reply. 
 
 Lady Skettles took a panoramic survey of it through her glass, and said 
 to Sir Barnet Skettles, with a nod of approval, " Very good." Sir Barnet 
 assented, but Master Skettles looked suspicious and doubtful. 
 
 " And this little creature, now," said Lady Skettles, turning to Paul. 
 " Is he one of the " — 
 
 " Young gentlemen. Ma'am ; yes. Ma'am," said Paid's friend. 
 
 " And what is your name, my pale child ?" said Lady Skettles. 
 
 "Dombey," answered Paul. 
 
 Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said that he had had 
 the honour of meeting Paid's father at a public dinner, and 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 teU your good Papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to 
 hear that he was very weU, and sent him his best compliments ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Paul. 
 
 "That is my brave boy," said Sir Barnet Skettles. "Barnet," to 
 Master Skettles, who was revenging himself for the studies to come, on the 
 plum-cake, "this is a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a 
 young gentleman you may know, Barnet," said Sir Barnet Skettles, 
 with an emphasis on the permission. 
 
 "What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!" exclaimed Lady 
 Skettles softly, as she looked at Florence through her glass. 
 
 " My sister," said Paul, presenting her. 
 
 The satisfaction of the Skettleses was noAV complete. And as Lady 
 Skettles had conceived, at first sight, a liking for Paid, they aU went up- 
 stairs together : Sir Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence, and young 
 Barnet foUomng. 
 
 Young Barnet did not remain long in the back-ground after they had 
 reached the drawing-room, for Dr. Bhmber had him out in no time, dancing 
 with Florence. He did not appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or 
 particularly anything but sulky, or to care much what he was about ; but 
 
142 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 as Paul lieard Lady Skettles say to Mrs. Blimber, Tvhile she beat time with 
 her fan, that her dear boy was evidently smitten to death by that angel 
 of a child, Miss Dombey, it would seem that Skettles Junior was in a 
 state of bhss, without showing it. 
 
 Little Paul thought it a singidar coincidence that nobody had occupied 
 his place among the piUows ; and that when he came into the room again, 
 they should all make way for him to go back to it, remembering it was 
 his. Nobody stood before him either, wlien they observed that he liked to 
 see Florence dancing, but they left the space in front quite clear, so that 
 he might follow her with his eyes. They were so kind, too, even the 
 strangers, of whom there were soon a great many, that they came and 
 spoke to him every now and then, and asked him how he was, and if his 
 head ached, and whether he was tired. He was very much obHged to them 
 for all theii- kindness and attention, and reclining propped up in Ids corner, 
 with Mrs. BHm])er and Lady Skettles on the same sofa, and Florence 
 coming and sitting by his side as soon as every dance w^as ended, he 
 looked on very happily indeed. 
 
 Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced 
 at aU of her own accord, but Paid made her, by telling her how much 
 it pleased him. And he told her the truth, too ; for his small heart 
 swelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her, 
 and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room. 
 
 From his nest among the pillows, Paul could see and hear almost every- 
 thing that passed, as if the whole were being done for his amusement. 
 Among other little incidents that he observed, he observed Mr. Baps the 
 dancing-master get into conversation with Sir Barnet Skettles, and very 
 soon ask him, as he had asked IVIr. Toots, what you were to do with your raw 
 materials, when 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 question, and said it; but it did not appear to solve the question, 
 for Mr. Baps retorted. Yes, but supposing Eussia stepped in with her tal- 
 lows ; which struck Sir Barnet almost dumb, for he could only shake his 
 head after that, and say, why then you must fall back upon yoiir cottons, 
 he supposed. 
 
 Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mi-. Baps when he went to cheer up 
 Mrs. Baps (avIio, being quite deserted, was pretending to look over the 
 music-book of the gentleman who played the hai-p), as if he thought him a 
 remarkable kind of man ; and shortly after\vards he said so m those words 
 to Doctor Blimber, and inquired if he might take the liberty of asking who 
 he was, and whether he had ever been in the Board of Trade. Doctor 
 Blimber answered no, he believed not; and that in fact he was a Professor of — • 
 
 "Of something connected with statistics, I 'U swear?" observed Sir 
 Barnet Skettles. 
 
 " Why no, Sii- Barnet," replied Dr. Blimber, rubbing his chin. "No, 
 not exactly." 
 
 "Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet," said Sir Barnet Skettles. 
 
 " Why yes," said Dr. Blimber, " yes, but not of that sort. Mr. Baps 
 is a very worthy sort of man. Sir Barnet, and — in fact he 's our professor 
 of dancing." 
 
 Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite altered Sir 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 143 
 
 Bamet Skettles' opinion of Mr. Baps, and that Sir Barnet flew into a per- 
 fect rage, and glowered at Mi-. Baps over on the other side of the room. 
 He even went so far as to D Mr. Baps to Lady Skettles, in telling her 
 what had happened, and to say that it was like his most con-sum-mate 
 and con-foun-ded impudence. 
 
 There was another thing that Paid observed. Mr. Peeder, after imbibing 
 several custard-cups of negiis, began to enjoy himself. The dancing in 
 general was ceremonious, and the music rather solemn — a little like church 
 music in fact — but after the custard-cups, Mr. Peeder told Mr. Toots that 
 he was going to throw a little spirit into the thing. After that, Mr. 
 Peeder not only began to dance as if he meant dancing and nothing else, 
 but secretly to stimidate the music to perform wild tunes. Purther, he 
 became particidar in his attentions to the ladies ; and dancing with Miss 
 Blimber, whispered 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 !" 
 
 This, Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies, in succession. Well he 
 might say to Mr. Toots, that 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 music, which, beginning to comprehend low melodies that were 
 popular in the streets, might not unnaturally be supposed to give off"ence 
 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. 
 Peeder's spirits sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these occa- 
 sions, with the gi'eatest com-tesy and politeness; observing, that he seemed 
 a very nice sort of person for his situation, and that she particvdarly liked 
 the unassuming style of his hair — which (as abeady hinted) was about a 
 quarter of an inch long. 
 
 Once, when there was a pause in the dancing, Lady Skettles told Paul 
 that he seemed very fond of music. Paul replied, that he was ; and if she 
 was too, she ought to hear his sister, Plorence, sing. Lady Skettles pre- 
 sently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have that gratifica- 
 tion; and though Plorence was at first very much frightened at being 
 asked to sing before so many people, and begged earnestly to be excused, 
 yet, on Paul calling her to him, and saying, " Do, Ploy! Please ! Por me, 
 my dear ! " she Avent straight to the piano, and began. When they all 
 drew a little away, that Paul might see her : and when he saw her sitting 
 there alone, so young, and good, and beautifid, and kind to him; and 
 heard her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such a golden link 
 between him and all his Life's love and happiness, rising out of the silence; 
 he turned his face away, and hid his tears. Not, as he told them when 
 they spoke to him, not that the music was too plaintive or too soiTowful, 
 but it was so dear to him. 
 
 They all loved Plorence. How could they help it ! Paul had known 
 beforehand that they must and would; and sitting in his cushioned 
 corner, with calmly folded hands, and one leg loosely doubled imdcr him, 
 few would have thought what triiunph and delight expanded his childish 
 
144 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 bosom while he watched her, or what a sweet tranqviillity 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 him, 
 constantly ; and, as if borne in upon the air of the summer night, there 
 was a half-intelligible sentiment ditfused around, referring to Plorence and 
 himself, and breathing sympathy for both, that soothed and touched him. 
 
 He did not know wdiy. For all that the child observed, and felt, and 
 thought, that night — the present and the absent ; what was then and what 
 had been — were blended like the colours in the rainbow, or in the plumage 
 of rich birds when the sun is shining on them, or in the softening sky 
 when the same sim is setting. The many things he had had to think of 
 lately, passed before him in the music ; not as claiming his attention over 
 again, or as likely ever more to occupy it, but as peacefully disposed of 
 and gone. A solitary window, gazed through years ago, looked out upon 
 an ocean, miles and miles away ; upon its waters, fancies, busy with him 
 only yesterday, were hushed and lulled to rest like broken waives. The 
 same mysterious mm'uiur he had wondered at, when lying on his couch 
 upon the beach, he thought he still heard sounding through his sister's 
 song, and through the hum of voices, and the tread of feet, and having 
 some part in the faces flitting by, and even in the heavy gentleness of Mr. 
 Toots, who frequently came up to shake him by the hand. Through the 
 imiversal kindness he still thought he heard it, speaking to him; and even 
 his old-fashioned reputation seemed to be allied to it, he knew not how. 
 Thus little Paul sat musing, listening, looking on, and di'caming ; and was 
 very happy. 
 
 Until the time arrived for taking leave : and then, indeed, there was a 
 sensation in the party. Sir Barnet Skettles brought up Skettles Junior 
 to shake hands with him, and asked him if he would remember to tell 
 his good Papa, Avith his best compliments, that he, Sir Barnet Skettles, 
 had said he hoped the two young gentlemen would become intimately 
 acquainted. Lady Skettles kissed him, and parted his hair upon his 
 brow, and held him in her arms ; and even Mrs. Baps — poor Mi's. Baps ! 
 Paid was glad of that — came over from beside the music-book of the 
 gentleman who played the harp, and took leave of him quite as heartily 
 as anybody in the room. 
 
 " Good bye. Doctor Blimber," said Paul, stretching out his hand. 
 
 " Good bye, my little friend," returned the Doctor. 
 
 " I'm very much obUged to you. Sir," said Paul, looking innocently up 
 into his awful face. " Ask them to take care of Diogenes if you please." 
 
 Diogenes was the dog : who had never in his life received a friend into his 
 confidence, before Paul. The Doctor promised that every attention should 
 be paid to Diogenes in Paul's absence, and Paul having again thanked 
 him, and shaken hands with him, bade adieu to Mrs. Blimber and 
 Cornelia with such heartfelt earnestness that Mrs. Blimber forgot from 
 that moment to mention Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had fully 
 intended it, all the evening. Cornelia taking both Paul's hands in hers, 
 said, " Dombey, Dombey, you have always been my favom-ite pupil. 
 God bless you ! " And it shewed, Paul thought, how easily one might 
 do injustice to a person ; for Miss Blimber meant it — though she wa^ a 
 Forcer — and felt it. 
 

 Q^^^6/■f.■<^€^ d^^m^/^-mti' A<rua^p/. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 145 
 
 A buzz then went round among the young gentlemen, of " Dombey's 
 going ! " " Little Dombey's going ! " and tliere was a general move 
 after Paul and Florence down the staircase and into the hall, in which 
 the whole Blimber family were included. Such a circumstance, Mr. 
 Feeder said aloud, as 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 servants with the butler 
 at their head, had all an interest in seeing Little Dombey go ; and even the 
 weak-eyed young man, taking 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 all, to a boy, doted on Florence — could restrain them from 
 taking quite a noisy leave of Paul ; waving hats after him, pressing down 
 stairs to shake hands with him, crying individually " Dombey, don't 
 forget me ! " and indulging in many such ebullitions of feeling, uncommon 
 among those young Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florence, as she 
 wrapped him up before the door was opened. Did 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. 
 
 Once, for a last look, he turned and gazed upon the faces thus 
 addressed to him, surprised to see how sliining and how bright, and 
 numerous they were, and how they were all piled and heaped up, as 
 faces are at crowded theatres. They swam before him, as he looked, 
 like faces in an agitated glass ; and next moment he was in the dark coach 
 outside, holding close to Florence. From that time, whenever he thought 
 of Doctor Blimber's, it came back as he had seen it in this last view ; and 
 it never seemed to be a real place again, but always a dream, fuU of eyes. 
 
 This was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber's, however. There was 
 something else. There was Mr. Toots. Who, unexpectedly letting down 
 one of the coach-windows, and looking in, said, with a most egregious 
 chuckle, " Is Dombey there ? " and immediately put it up again, 
 without waiting for an answer. Nor was this quite the last of Mr. 
 Toots, even; for before the coachman could drive oft', he as suddenly let 
 down the other window, and looking in with a precisely similar chuckle, 
 said in a precisely similar tone of voice, " Is Dombey there ? " and dis- 
 appeared precisely as before. 
 
 How Florence laughed ! Paul often remembered it, and laughed him- 
 self whenever he did so. 
 
 But there was much, soon afterwards — next day, and after that — 
 which Paul could only recoUect confusedly. As, why they stayed at Mrs. 
 Pipchin's days and nights, instead of going home ; why he lay in bed, 
 with Florence sitting by his side ; whether that had been his father in 
 the room, or only a tall shadow on the wall ; whether he had heard his 
 doctor say, of some one, that if they had removed liim before the occa- 
 sion on which he had built up fancies, strong in proportion to his own 
 weakness, it was very possible he might have pined away. 
 
 He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, 
 " Oh Floy, take me home, and never leave me ! " but he thought he had. 
 He fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, " Take me home, 
 Floy ! take me home ! " 
 
 But he could remember, Avhen he got home, and was carried up the 
 
146 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 .^«ll-reniembered stairs, ttat there tad been tlie rumbling of a coach for 
 many hoiu's together, while he lay npon the seat, with Florence stiU 
 beside him, and old Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his 
 old bed too, when they laid him down in it : his aunt. Miss Tox, and 
 Susan: but there was sometliing else, and recent too, that still perplexed him. 
 
 " I want to speak to Florence, if you please," he said. " To Florence 
 by herself, for a moment ! " 
 
 She bent dovra oyer him, and the others stood away. 
 
 " Floy, my pet, wasn't that Papa in the hall, when they brought me 
 from the coach ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 " He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, wh.en he sa\r me 
 coming in ? " 
 
 Florence shook her head, and 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 XV. 
 
 AMAZING ARTFULNESS OF CAPTAIN CUTTLE, AND A NEW PURSUIT 
 
 FOB WALTER GAY. 
 
 Walter eould not, for several days, decide what to do in the Barbados 
 business ; and even cherished some faint hope that Mr. Dombey might not 
 have meant what he had said, or that he might change his mind, and teU 
 him he was not to go. But as nothing occurred to give this idea (which 
 was sufficiently improbable in itself) any touch of confirmation, and as time 
 was slipping by, and he had none to lose, he felt that he must act, without 
 hesitating any longer. 
 
 Walter's chief difficulty was, how to break the change in Ids affairs to Uncle 
 Sol, to whom he was sensible it would be a terrible blow. He had the 
 greater diificidty in dashing Uncle Sol's spirits with such an astounding 
 piece of intelligence, because they had lately recovered very much, and the 
 old man had become so cheerful, that the Httle back parlour was itself 
 again. Uncle Sol had paid the first appointed portion of the debt to Mi*. 
 Dombey, and was hopeful of working his way through the rest ; and to 
 cast him down afresh, when he had sprung up so manfully from his 
 troubles, was 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 going, Walter 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 expressed, in the glance with which he had accompanied that 
 reminder, that 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. Dombey, wliich was of Walter's own soliciting. He might have 
 begun in secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman's favour, and 
 might have thought that he was now and then disposed to put a shght upon 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 147 
 
 him, wliich was hardly just. But what would have been duty without that, 
 was still duty with it — or Walter thought so — and duty must be done. 
 
 When Mr. Dombey had looked at him, and told him he was young, and 
 that his imcle's circumstances were not good, there 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 man, wliich stung 
 the boy's generous soul. Determined to assm'C Mr. Dombey, in so far 
 as it was possible to give him the assurance without expressing it in words, 
 that indeed he mistook his nature, Walter had been anxious to show 
 even more cheerfulness and activity after the West-Indim 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 think, that possibly 
 this very quality in him was not agreeable to Mr. Dombey, and that it was ' 
 no stepping-stone to his good opinion to be elastic and hopeful of pleasing 
 under the shadow of his powerful displeasure, whether 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 spirit, and pur- 
 posed to bring it down. 
 
 " Well ! at last and at least. Uncle Sol must be told," thought Walter 
 with a sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice might per- 
 haps quaver a Kttle, and that his countenance might not be quite as hopeful 
 as he could wish it to be, if he told the old man liimself, and saw the first 
 effects of his communication on his wrinkled face, he resolved to avail 
 liimself of the services of that powerful mediator. Captain Cuttle. Sunday 
 coming round, he set off, therefore, after breakfast, once more to beat up 
 Captain Cuttle's quarters. 
 
 It was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither, that Mrs. JMac 
 Stinger resorted to a great distance every Sunday morning, to attend the 
 ministry of the Eeverend Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one day 
 discharged from the West India Docks on a fake suspicion (got up 
 expressly against him by the general enemy) of screwing gimlets into 
 pmicheons, and applying liis lips to the orifice, had announced the destruc- 
 tion of the world for that day two years, at ten in the morning, and opened 
 a front parlour for the reception of ladies and gentlemen of the Banting 
 persuasion, upon whom, on the first occasion of their assemblage, the 
 admonitions of the Eeverend Melchisedech had produced so powerful an 
 effect, that, in their rapturous performance of a sacred jig, which closed the 
 service, the whole flock broke through into a kitchen below, and disabled 
 a mangle belonging to one of the fold. 
 
 This the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided 
 to Walter and his uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the night 
 whenBrogley the broker was paid out. The Captain himself was punctual 
 in his attendance at a church in his own neighbourhood, which hoisted the 
 union jack every Sunday morning ; and where he was good enough — the 
 lawful beadle being infirm — to keep an eye upon the boys, over whom he 
 exercised great power, in virtue of his mysterious hook. Knowing the 
 regularity of the Captain's habits, Walter made all the haste he could, 
 that he might anticipate his going out ; and he made such good speed, 
 that he had the pleasm-e, on tuiTiing into Brig Place, to behold the broad 
 blue coat and waistcoat hanging out of the Captain's open window, to air 
 in the sun. 
 
 l2 
 
148 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by 
 mortal eyes without the Captain ; biit he certainly was not in them, other- 
 wise his legs — the houses in Brig Place not being lofty — would have 
 obstructed the street door, which was perfectly clear. Quite wondering at 
 this discovery, Walter gave a single knock. 
 
 " Stinger," he distinctly heard the Captain say, up in his room, as if 
 that Avere no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks. 
 
 "Cuttle," he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately 
 afterwards the Captain, in his clean sliirt and braces, with his neckerchief 
 hanging loosely round his tlu'oat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat 
 on, appeared at the window, leaning out over the broad blue coat and 
 waistcoat, 
 
 " Wal'r!" cried the Captain, looking down upon him in amazement. 
 
 " Ay, ay. Captain Cuttle," returned Walter, " only me." 
 
 "What's the matter, my lad?" inquired the Captain, Avith great 
 concern, " Gills an't been and sprung nothing again ?" 
 
 "No, no," said Walter. " My uncle's aU right. Captain Cuttle." 
 
 The Captain expressed his gratification, and said he would come down 
 below and open the door, which he did. 
 
 " Though you're early, Wal'r," said the Captain, eyeing him still 
 doubtfully, when they got up -stairs. 
 
 "Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle," said Walter, sitting down, "I was 
 afraid you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your friendly 
 counsel." 
 
 " So you shall," said the Captain ; " what'll you take ?" 
 
 " I want to take your opinion. Captain Cuttle," returned Walter, 
 smiling. " That 's the only thing for me." 
 
 " Come on then," said the Captain. " With a will, my lad ! " 
 
 Walter related to him what had happened ; and the difficulty in which 
 he felt respecting his uncle, and the relief it would be to him if Captain 
 Cuttle, in his kindness, would help him to smooth it away ; Captain 
 Cuttle's infinite consternation and astonishment at the prospect unfolded 
 to him, gradually swallowing that gentleman up, until it left his face quite 
 vacant, and the suit of blue, the glazed hat, and the hook, apparently 
 without an owner. 
 
 "You see. Captain Cuttle," pursued Walter, "for myself, I am young, 
 as Mr. Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way 
 tlu'ough the world, I know ; but there are two points I was thinking, as 
 I came along, that I should be very particular about, in respect to my uncle. 
 I don't mean to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight of his life 
 — you beheve me, I know — but I am, Noav, don't you think I am ? " 
 
 The Captain seemed to make an endeavour to rise from the depths of 
 his astonishment, and get back to lu's face ; but the effort being ineffectual, 
 the glazed hat merely nodded with a mute, unutterable meaning. 
 
 " If I live and have my health," said Walter, " and I am not afraid of 
 that, still, when I leave England I can hardly hope to see my uncle 
 again. He is old. Captain Cuttle j and besides, his hfe is a life of 
 custom — " 
 
 " Steady, Wal'r ! Of a want of custom? " said the Captain, suddenly 
 reappearing. 
 
 " Too true," retiunied Walter, shaking his head] "but I meant a life of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 149 
 
 habit, Captain Cuttle — that sort of custom. And if (as you very truly 
 said, I am s\u-e) lie would have died the sooner for the loss of the stock, 
 and all those objects to which he has been accustomed for so many years, 
 don't you think he might die a little sooner for the loss of — " 
 
 " Of liis Nevj%" interposed the Captain. " Eight ! " 
 
 "Well then," said Walter, trying 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 better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and as I 
 have so many reasons for regarding him with affection, and duty, and 
 honom-, I am afraid I should make but a very poor hand at that, if 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 Captain, in a contemplative 
 voice. 
 
 " What did you say. Captain Cuttle? " inquired Walter. 
 
 " Stand by ! " returned the Captain, thoughtfully. 
 
 Walter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular information 
 to add to this, but as he said no more, went on. 
 
 " Now, the second point. Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not 
 a favourite with Mr. Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and 
 I have always done it ; but he does not like me. He can't help his likings 
 and dislikings, perhaps. 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 disdains to represent it as being better than it is ; and I doubt 
 very much if it AviU ever lead me to advancement in the House — whether 
 it does not, on the contrary, dispose of me for ever, and put me out of the 
 way. Now, we must say nothing of this to my uncle, Captain Cuttle, 
 but must make it out to be as favourable and promising as w^e can ; and 
 when I teU you wdiat it reaUy is, I only do so, that in case any means 
 should ever arise of lending me a hand, so far off, I may have one friend 
 at home who knows my real situation. 
 
 " Wal'r, my boy," replied the Captain, "in the Proverbs of Solomon 
 you will find the following words, ' May we never want a friend in need, 
 nor a bottle to give liim !' When found, make a note of." 
 
 Here the Captain stretched out his hand to Walter, with an air of down- 
 right good faith that spoke volumes ; at the same time repeating (for he 
 felt proud of the accuracy and pointed application of his quotation), 
 *' When found, make a note of." 
 
 " Captain Cuttle," said Walter, taking the immense fist extended to 
 him by the Captain in both his hands, which it completely tilled, " next to 
 my uncle Sol, I love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more 
 safely trust, I am sm-e. As to the mere going away. Captain Cuttle, I 
 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 w^orld — I would 
 gladly go ! I would have gladly gone, years ago, -and taken my chance of 
 what might come of it. But it was against my uncle's wishes, and against 
 the plans he had formed for me ; and there was an end of that. But what 
 I feel, Captain Cuttle, is that we have been a little mistaken all along, 
 and that, so far as any improvement in my prospects is concerned, I am 
 no better off now than I was when I first entered Dombev's House — 
 
150 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 perhaps a little worse, for tlie House may have been kindly inclined 
 towards me then, and it certainly is not now." 
 
 " Tui-n again, Whittington," muttered the disconsolate Captain, after 
 looking at Walter for some time. 
 
 " Aye !" replied Walter, laughing, "and turn a great many times, too> 
 Captain Cuttle, I'm afraid, before such fortune as liis ever turns up again. 
 Not that I complain," he added, in his lively, animated, energetic way. 
 " I have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I can live. When 
 I leave my uncle, I leave him to you ; and I can leave him to no one better, 
 Captain Cuttle. I haven't told you all this because I despair, not I ; it's 
 to convince you that I can't pick and choose in Dombey's House, and 
 that where I am sent, there I must go, and what I am offered, that I must 
 take. It's better for my uncle that I should be sent away; for Mr. 
 Dombey is a valuable friend to him, as he proved himself, you know when. 
 Captain Cuttle ; and I am persuaded he won't be less valuable when he 
 hasn't mc there, every day, to awaken his dislike So hurrah for the West 
 Indies, Captain Cuttle ! How docs that tune go that the sailors sing ? 
 
 " For the Port of Barbados, boys ! 
 
 Cheerily ! 
 Leaving old England behind us, boys ! 
 
 Cheerily!" 
 
 Here the Captain roared in chorus 
 
 " Oh cheerily, cheerily ! 
 
 « Oh cheer— i—ly ! " 
 
 The last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent skipper not quite 
 sober, who lodged opposite, and who instantly spnmg out of bed, threw 
 up his window, and joined in, across the street, at the top of his voice, 
 produced a fine effect. When it was impossible to sustain the concluding 
 note any longer, the skipper bellowed forth a terrific "ahoy!" intended 
 in part as a h-iendly greeting, and in part to show that he was not at aU 
 breathed. That done, he shut down his window, and went to bed again. 
 
 "And now, Captain Cuttle," said Walter, handing him the blue coat and 
 waistcoat, and bustling very much, " if you'll come and break the news 
 to Uncle Sol (which he ought to have known, days upon days ago, by 
 rights) I'll leave you at the door, you know, and walk about untU the 
 afternoon." 
 
 The Captain, however, scarcely appeared to relish the commission, or 
 to be by any means confident of his powers of executing it. He had 
 arranged the futm'c life and adventures of Walter so very differently, and 
 so entirely to liis own satisfaction ; he had felicitated himself so often on 
 the sagacity and foresight displayed in that arrangement, and had found 
 it so complete and perfect in all its parts ; that to suffer it to go to pieces 
 all at once, and even to assist in breaking it up, required a great effort 
 of his resolution. The Captain, too, found it difficult to unload his old 
 ideas upon the subject, and to take a perfectly new cargo on board, with 
 that rapidity which the circumstances required, or without jumbling and 
 confounding the two. Consequently, instead of putting on his coat and 
 waistcoat with anytliing like the impetuosity that could alone have kept 
 pace with Walter's mood, he declined to invest himself Anth those gar- 
 ments at aU at present ; and informed Walter that on such a serious 
 matter, he must be allowed to "bite his nails a bit." 
 
m 
 
Q-y-^'fVjx^^ ^^^.^Sii^;^' ^' QaA-^^^i 
 
 r<^. 
 
 7iP(x/?^^. 
 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 151 
 
 " It 's an old habit of mine, Wal'r," said the Captain, " any time these 
 fifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle bite Ms nails, Wal'r, then you may 
 know that Ned Cuttle's aground." 
 
 Thereupon the Captain put his iron hook between liis teeth, as if it 
 were a hand ; and with an air of msdom and profundity that was the very 
 concentration and sublimation of all philosophical reflection and grave 
 inquiry, applied himself to the consideration of the subject in its various 
 branches. 
 
 "There's a friend of mine," murmui-ed the Captain, in an absent 
 manner, "but he's at present coasting round to "VMiitby, that would 
 deliver such an opinion on tliis subject, or any other that could be named, 
 as would give Parliament six and beat 'em. Been knocked overboard, 
 that man," said the Captain "twice, and none the worse for it. Was 
 beat in his apprenticeship, for tliree weeks (off and on), about the head 
 with a ringbolt. And yet a clearer-minded man don't walk." 
 
 In spite of his respect for Captain Cuttle, Walter could not help 
 inwardly rejoicing at the absence of this sage, and devoutly hoping that 
 his limpid intellect might not be brought to bear on his difliculties 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 liim his opinion of it, Wal'r, 
 he 'd give you an opinion that was no more like that buoy than your 
 uncle's buttons are. There an't a man that walks — certainly not on two 
 legs — that can come near him. Not near him ! " 
 
 "Wliat's his name, Captain Cuttle?" inquired Walter, determined to 
 be interested in the Captain's friend. 
 
 "His name's Bunsby," said the Captain. "But Lord, it might be 
 any tiling for the matter of that, with such a mind as his ! " 
 
 The exact idea which the Captain attached to this concluding piece of 
 praise, he did not further elucidate ; neither did Walter seek to draw it 
 forth. For on his beginning to review, with the vivacity natural to him- 
 self and to his situation, the leading points in his own affairs, he soon 
 discovered that the Captain had relapsed into his former profound state of 
 mind ; and that wlule he eyed him stedfastly from beneath liis bushy eye- 
 brows, he evidently neither saw nor heard him, but remained immersed 
 in cogitation. 
 
 In fact. Captain Cuttle was labouring with such great designs, that 
 far from being aground, he soon got off;" into the deepest of water, and 
 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 
 imdoubtedly much more likely to be Walter's mistake than his ; that if 
 there were reaUy any West India scheme afoot, it was a very difl^erent one 
 from what Walter, who was young and rash, supposed ; and could only be 
 some new device for making his fortune with unusual celerity. " Or if 
 there should be any little liitch between 'em," thought the Captain, 
 meaning between Walter and Mr. Dombey, "it only wants a word in 
 season from a friend of both parties, to set it right and smooth, and 
 make all taut again." Captain Cuttle's deduction from these consider- 
 ations was, that as he already enjoyed the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dom- 
 bey, from having spent a very agreeable half hour in his company at 
 Brighton (on the morning when they borrowed the money) ; and that, as 
 
15£ DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 a couple of men of tlie world, wlio understood each other, and were 
 mutually disposed to make things comfortable, could easily arrange any 
 little difficulty of this sort, and come at the real facts ; the friendly thing 
 for him to do would be, without saying anything about it to Walter at 
 present, just to step up to Mr. Dombey's house — say to the servant 
 " Would ye be so good, my lad, as 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 triiunphant ! 
 
 As these reflections presented themselves to the Captain's mind, and by 
 slow degrees assumed this shape and form, his visage cleared like a doubtful 
 morning when it gives place to a bright noon. His eyebrows, which had 
 been in the highest degree portentous, smoothed their rugged bristling 
 aspect, and became serene ; his eyes, which had been nearly closed in the 
 severity of his mental exercise, opened freely; a smile which had been at 
 first but three specks — one at the right-hand corner of his mouth, and one 
 at the corner of each eye — gradually overspread his whole face, and, rip- 
 pling up into his forehead, lifted the glazed hat : as if that too had been 
 agroimd with Captain Cuttle, and were now, like him, happily afloat again. 
 
 Finally, the Captain left oft" biting his nails, and said, " Now Wal'r, my 
 boy, you 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 arrange- 
 ment of his cravat, as to twist the pendant ends into a sort of pigtail, and 
 pass them through a massive gold ring with a picture of a tomb upon it, 
 and a neat iron railing, and a tree, in memory of some deceased friend. 
 Nor why the Captain pulled up his shirt collar to the utmost limits allowed 
 by the Irish linen below, and by so doing decorated himself with a com- 
 plete pair of bhnkers ; nor why he changed his shoes, and put on an un- 
 paralleled pair of ankle-jacks, which he only wore on extraordinary occa- 
 sions. The Captain being at length attired to his own complete satisfac- 
 tion, and having glanced at himself from head to foot in a shaving-glass 
 which he removed from a nail for that purpose, took up his knotted stick, 
 and 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- 
 jacks, and took little heed of. Before they had gone very far, they encoun- 
 tered a woman selHng flowers ; when the Captain stopping short, as if 
 struck by a happy idea, made a purchase of the largest bundle in her 
 basket : a most glorious nosegay, fan-shaped, some two feet and a half 
 round, and composed of all the joUiest-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 door, before which they both paused. 
 
 "You're going in ?" said Walter. 
 
 "Yes;" returned the Captain, who felt that Walter must be got rid of 
 before he proceeded any further, and that he had better time his projected 
 visit somewhat later in the day. 
 
 " And you won't forget anything? " said Walter. 
 
 " No," returned the Captain. 
 
 " I '11 go upon my walk at once," said Walter, " and then I shall be out 
 of the way. Captain Cuttle," 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 153 
 
 "Take a good long 'un, my lad! " replied the Captain, calling after him. 
 Walter waved his hand in assent, and went his way. 
 
 His way was nowhere in particular; but he thought he would go out into 
 the fields, where he could reflect upon the unknown life before him, and 
 resting under some tree, ponder quietly. He knew no better fields than 
 those near Hampstead, and no better means of getting at them than by 
 passing Mi*. Dombey's house. 
 
 It was as stately and as dark as ever, when he went by and glanced up 
 at its frowning front. The blinds were all pulled down, but the upper 
 windows stood wide open, and 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 passed, and 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 cluld, years ago ; and looked especially at 
 those upper windows. While he was thus engaged, a chariot drove to the 
 door, and a portly gentleman in black, with a heavy watch-chain, alighted, 
 and went in. When he afterwards remembered this gentleman and his 
 equipage together, Walter had no doubt he was a physician ; and then he 
 wondered who was iU ; but the discovery did not occm" to him until he 
 had walked some distance, thinking hstlessly of other tilings. 
 
 Though stiU, of what the house had suggested to him; for Walter pleased 
 himself with thinking that perhaps the time might come, when the beauti- 
 ful chUd who was liis old friend and had always been so grateful to him 
 and so glad to see him since, might interest her brother in his behalf and 
 influence his fortunes for the better. He Uked to imagine this — more, at 
 that moment, for the pleasure of imagining her continued remembrance 
 of him, than for any worldly profit he might gain : but another and more 
 sober fancy whispered to him that if he were aUve then, he would be beyond 
 the sea and forgotten ; she married, rich, proud, happy. Tliere was no 
 more reason why she should remember him with any interest in such an 
 altered state of things, than any plaything she ever had. No, not so much. 
 
 Yet Walter so idealised the pretty child whom he had found wander- 
 ing in the rough streets, and so identified her with her innocent gratitude 
 of that night and the simphcity and truth of its expression, that he blushed 
 for himself as a libeller when he argued that she could ever grow proud. 
 On the other hand, his 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 artless, gentle, winning little crea- 
 ture, that she had been in the days of good Mrs. Brown. In a word, 
 Walter found out that to reason with himself about Florence at all, was to 
 become very unreasonable indeed; and that he could do no better than pre ^ 
 serve her image in his mind as something precious, unattainable, unchange- 
 able, and indefinite — indefinite in aU but its power of giving him pleasure, 
 and 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 birds, and the Sunday bells, and the softened miu-mur 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 
 thought, even of going away, distinctly ; and seemed to put off reflection 
 
154) DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 idly, from hour to hour, and from minute to minute, while he yet went on 
 reflecting aU the time. 
 
 Walter had left the fields behind him, and was plodding homeward in 
 the same abstracted mood, when he heard a shout from a man, and then 
 a woman's voice calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his 
 surprise, he saw that a hackney-coach, going in the contraiy direction, 
 had 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 window, and beckoning with immense 
 energy. Eunning up to this coach, he found that the young woman was 
 Miss Mpper, and that Miss Nipper was in such a flutter as to be almost 
 beside herself. 
 
 "Staggs's Gardens, Mr. Walter!" said Miss Nipper; "if you please, 
 oh do!" 
 
 " Eh?" cried Walter; " what is the matter ? " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Walter, Staggs's Grardens, if you please!" said Susan. 
 
 " There ! " cried the coachman, appealing to Walter, with a sort of 
 exulting despair ; " that 's the way the young lady 's been a goin' on for 
 up'ards of a mortal hour, and me continivaUy backing out of no-thorough- 
 fares, where she woidd drive up. I've had a many fares in this coach first 
 and last, but never such a fare as her." 
 
 "Do you want to go to Staggs's Gardens, Susan ?" inquired Walter. 
 
 " Ah ! She wants to go there ! Wheue is it ?" growled the coachman. 
 
 "I don't know where it is !" exclaimed Susan, wildly. "Mr. Walter, 
 I was there once myself, along with Miss Floy and our own poor darling 
 Master Paul, on the very day when you found Miss Ploy in the city, for 
 we lost her coming home, Mrs. Eichards and me, and a mad ]pull, and 
 Mrs. Eichards's eldest, and though I went there afterwards, I can't 
 remember where it is, I think it's sunk into the ground. Oh, Mr. 
 Walter, don't desert me, Staggs's Gardens, if you please ! Miss Ploy's 
 darling — all our darbngs — ^little, meek, meek Master Paul! Oh IVIr. Walter ! " 
 . " Good God !" cried Walter. " Is he very ill ?" 
 
 " The pretty flower !" cried Susan, wringing her hands, " has took the 
 fancy that he'd like to see his old nurse, and I've come to bring her to his 
 bedside, Mrs. Staggs, of Polly Poodle's Gardens, some one pray!" 
 
 Greatly moved by what he heai'd, and catching Susan's earnestness 
 immediately, Walter, now that he understood the nature of her errand, 
 dashed into it vai\\ such ardour that the coachman had enough to do to 
 follow closely as he ran before, inquiring here and there and everywhere, 
 the 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 stood, palaces 
 now reared their heads, and granite columns of gigantic girth opened a 
 vista to the railway world beyond. The miserable waste ground, where 
 the refuse-matter had been heaped of yore, was swallowed up and gone ; 
 and in its frowsy stead were tiers of warehouses, crammed 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-ruts, formed towns within themselves, originating 
 wholesome comforts and conveniences belonging to themselves, and never 
 tried nor thought of imtil they sprung into existence. Bridges that had led to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 155 
 
 nothing, led to villas/gardens, churclies, healthy public walks. The carcasses 
 of houses, and beginnings of new thoroughfares, had started off upon the 
 line at steam's own speed, and shot away into the country in a monster train. 
 
 As to the neighbourhood which had hesitated to acknowledge the rail- 
 road in its struggling days, that had grown wise and penitent, as any 
 Clu-istian might in such a case, and now boasted of its powerful and pros- 
 perous relation. There were railway patterns in its drapers' shops, and 
 railway journals in the windows of its newsmen. There were railway 
 hotels, coffee-houses, lodging-houses, boarding-houses ; railway plans, 
 maps, views, wrappers, bottles, sandAvich-boxes, and time tables ; railway 
 hackney-coach and cab-stands ; railway omnibuses, railway streets and 
 buildings, railway hangers-on and parasites, and flatterers out of all cal- 
 culation. There was even railway time observed in clocks,, as if the sun 
 itself had given in. Among the vanquished, was the master chimney- 
 sweeper, wliilolm incredulous at Staggs's Gardens, who now lived in a 
 stuccoed house three stories high, and gave himself out, with golden 
 flourishes upon a varnished board, as contractor for the cleansing of the 
 railway chimneys by machinery. 
 
 To and from the heart of this great change, all day and night, throbbing 
 currents rushed and returned incessantly like its life's blood. Crowds of 
 people and mountains of goods, departing and arriving scores upon scores 
 of times in every four-and-twenty hours, produced a fermentation in the 
 place that was always in action. The veiy houses seemed disposed to 
 pack up and take trips. Wonderful Members of Parliament, who, little 
 more than twenty years before, had made themselves meny with the wild 
 raili'oad theories of engineers, and given them the hvehest rubs in cross- 
 examination, went down into the north with their watches in their hands, 
 and sent on messages before by the electric telegraph, to say that they 
 were coming. Night and day the conquering engines rumbled at their 
 distant work, or, advancing smoothly to their joiuney's end, and ghding 
 like tame dragons into the allotted comers grooved out to the inch for 
 their reception, stood bubbling and trembling there, making the walls 
 quake, as if they were dilating with the secret knowledge of great powers 
 yet unsuspected in them, and 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 Enghsh ground" — laid out in Staggs's Gardens 
 — is secure ! 
 
 At last, after much fruitless inquiry, Walter, followed by the coach and 
 Susan, found a man who had once resided in that vanished land, and who 
 was no other than the master sweep before referred to, grown stout, and 
 knocking a double knock at his own door. He knowed Toodle, he said, 
 weU. Belonged to the Eaili-oad, didn't he ? 
 
 " Yes, sir, yes !" cried Susan Nipper from the coach window. 
 
 Where did he live now ? hastily inquired Walter. 
 
 He lived in the Company's own Buildings, second tm'ning to the right, 
 down the yard, cross over, and take the second on the right again. It 
 was immber eleven ; they couldn't mistake it ; but if they did, they had 
 only to ask for Toodle, Engine Rreman, and any one would show them 
 which was his house. At this unexpected stroke of success, Susan Nipper 
 dismounted from the coach with aU speed, took Walter's arm, and set off 
 at a breathless pace on foot j leaving the coach there to await their retrnm. 
 
156 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Has tlie little boy been long- ill, Susan?" inquired Walter, as tliey 
 hiuTied on. 
 
 " Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how much," said Susan; 
 adding, with excessive sharpness, " Oh them Blimbers !" 
 
 "Blimbers?" echoed Walter. 
 
 " I couldn't forgive myself at such a time as this, !Mi-. Walter," said 
 Susan, "and when there's so much serious distress to think about, if I 
 rested hard on any one, especially on them that httle darling Paul speaks 
 weU of, but 1 7na7/ wish that the family was set to work in a stony soil to 
 make new roads, and that Miss Bhmber went in front, and had the 
 pickaxe!" 
 
 Miss Nipper then took breath, and went on faster than before, as if this 
 extraordinary aspiration had relieved her. Walter, who had by this time 
 no breath of his own to spare, hurried along without asking any more 
 questions ; and they soon, in their impatience, burst in at a little door and 
 came into a clean parlour full of children. 
 
 "Where's Mrs. Eichards!" exclaimed Susan Nipper, looking round. 
 " Oh Mrs. Eichards, Mrs. Eichards, come along with me, my dear creetur!" 
 
 "Why, if it an't Susan !" cried Polly, rising with her honest face and 
 motherly figure from among the group, in great surprise. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Eichards, it's me," said Susan, "and I Avish it wasn't, 
 though I may not seem to flatter when I say so, but little Master Paul is 
 very iU, and told his Pa to-day that he would hke to see the face of his 
 old nurse, and him and Miss Ploy hope you'U come along with me — and 
 Mr. Walter Mrs. Eichards — forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to 
 the sweet dear that is withering away. Oh, Mrs. Eichards, withering 
 away ! " Susan Nipper crying, Polly shed tears to see her, and to hear 
 what she had said ; and all the children gathered round (including 
 numbers of new babies) ; and Mr. Toodle, who had just come home from 
 Birmingham, and was eating his dinner out of a basin, laid down his 
 knife and fork, and put on his wife's bonnet and shaAvl for her, which 
 were hanging up behind the door; then tapped her on the back; and 
 said, with more fatherly feeling than eloquence, " Polly ! cut away ! " 
 
 So they got back to the coach, long before the coachman expected them ; 
 and Walter putting Susan and Mrs. Eichards inside, took his seat on the 
 box himself that there might be no more mistakes, and deposited them safely 
 in the hall of ]\Ii-. Dombey's house — where, by the bye, he saw a mighty 
 nosegay lying, which reminded him of the one Captain Cuttle had purchased 
 in his company that morning. He would have lingered to know more of 
 the young invaUd, or waited any lengtli of time to see if he could render 
 the feast service ; but, painfully sensible that such conduct would be looked 
 upon by Mr. Dombey as presumptuous and forwai'd, he turned slowly, sadly, 
 anxiously, away. 
 
 He had not gone five minutes' walk from the door, when a man came 
 running after him, and begged him to retm-n. Walter retraced his steps 
 as quickly as he could, and entered the gloomy house with a sorrowful 
 foreboding. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 157 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "WHAT THE WAVES WERE ALWAYS SAYING. 
 
 Paul had never risen from tis little bed. He lay there, listening to 
 the noises in the street, quite tranquilly ; not caring much how the time 
 went, but 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 hke golden water, he knew that evening 
 was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflec- 
 tion died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it 
 deepen, deepen, deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long 
 streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining 
 overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, 
 which he knew was flowing through the great city ; and now he thought 
 how black it was, and how deep it woidd look, reflecting the hosts of stars 
 — and more than aU, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea. 
 
 As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare 
 that he could hear them coming, count them as they paused, and lose them 
 ia the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring 
 about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was, the 
 swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it — to 
 stem it Avith his childish hands — or choke its way with sand — and when 
 he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out ! But a word from Florence, 
 who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning liis poor 
 head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled. 
 
 When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun ; and when its 
 cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself — 
 pictured ! he saw — the high church towers rising up into the morning sky, 
 the toAvn reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river gUstening 
 as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. 
 Famihar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below ; the 
 servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door, 
 and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered 
 for himself, " I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you ! Tell 
 Papa so!" 
 
 By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise 
 of carriages and carts, and people passing and re-passing ; and would fall 
 asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again — the child coidd 
 hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments — of 
 that rushing river. " Why, wiU it never stop, Floy?" he would some- 
 times ask her. " It is bearing me away, I think !" 
 
 But Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and it was his daily 
 delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest. 
 
 "You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, now!" 
 They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there 
 he woidd rechne the while she lay beside him : bending forward often- 
 times to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she was 
 tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him. 
 
158 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would 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 down-stairs, and 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 difi^erence in the sound of their 
 watches. But his interest centered in Sir Parker Peps, who always took 
 his seat on the side of the bed, For Paul had heard them say long ago, 
 that that gentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence 
 in her arms, and died. And he could not forget it, now. He liked him 
 for it. He was not afraid. 
 
 The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night 
 at Dr. Blimber's — except Florence ; Florence never changed — and what 
 had been Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with his head upon 
 his hand. Old Mrs. Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed 
 to Miss Tox, or his aunt : and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes 
 again, and see what happened next, without emotion. But this figure 
 with its head upon its hand returned so often, and remained so long, and 
 sat so still and solemn, never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely 
 lifting up its face, that Paul began to wonder languidly, if it were real; 
 and in the night-time saw it sitting there, with fear. 
 
 " Floy ! " he s^d. " What is that ? " 
 
 " Where, dearest ? " 
 
 "There! at the bottom of the bed." 
 
 " There 's notliing there, except Papa ! " 
 
 The figm'e lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside, said: 
 
 " My own boy ! Don't you know me? " 
 
 Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his father ? But the 
 face, so altered to liis thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain; 
 and before he coidd reach out both his hands to take it between them, and 
 draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, 
 and went out at the door. 
 
 Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he knew -what she 
 was going to say, and stopped her with liis face against her hps. The 
 next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he 
 called to it. 
 
 " Don't be so sorry for me, dear 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 Mm round the neck, and 
 repeated those words to him several tunes, and veiy earnestly ; and Paul 
 never saw him in his room again at any time, whether it were day or night, 
 but he called out, "Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed I am qidte happy!" 
 This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a 
 great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so. 
 
 How many times the golden water danced upon the wall ; how many 
 nights the dark dark river roUed towards the sea in spite of him ; Paid 
 never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness or his sense of 
 it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more gi-ateful 
 every day ; but whether there were many days or few, appeared of little 
 moment now, to the gentle boy. 
 
 One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 159 
 
 ch-awiug-iX)om down staks, and had thought she must have loved sweet 
 Florence better than Ms father did, to have held her in her arms when she 
 felt that she was dying — ^for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for 
 her, could 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 him yes, or no, the river running very 
 fast, and confusing his mind, 
 
 "Floy, did I ever see mamma? " 
 
 " No, darhng, why ? " 
 
 " Did I never see any kind face, like a mamma's, looking at me when I 
 was a baby, Floy?" 
 
 He asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before liim. 
 
 " Oh ves, dear ! " 
 
 "Whose, Floy?" 
 
 " Your old nurse's. Often." 
 
 " And where is my old nurse ? '* said Paul. " Is she dead too ? Floy, 
 are we all dead, except you ? " 
 
 There was .a hurry in the room, for an instant — ^longer, perhaps ; but 
 it seemed no more — then aU was still again ; and Florence, with her face 
 quite coloiu'less, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm 
 trembled very much. 
 
 " Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please ! " 
 
 " She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow." 
 
 " Thank you, Floy ! " 
 
 Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke, 
 the sun was liigh, and the broad day was clear and warm. He lay a 
 little, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling 
 in the air, and wa\dng to and fro : then he said, " Floy, is it to-morrow ? 
 Is she come ? " 
 
 Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul 
 thought he heard her teUing liim when he had closed liis 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 tiling that hap- 
 pened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul Avoke — woke 
 mind and body — and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about 
 him. There was no gray mist before them, as there had been sometimes 
 in the night. He knew them every one, and called them by their names. 
 
 " And who is this? Is this my old nm'se ? " said the child, regarding 
 with a radiant smde, a figure coming in. 
 
 Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight 
 of liim, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor 
 blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, 
 and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her Ups and breast, as one 
 who had some right to fondle it. No other woman woidd have so for- 
 gotten everybody there but him and Floy, and 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 away, old nurse ! Stay here !" 
 
 His senses were aU quickened, and he heard a name he knew. 
 
 " Who was that, who said ' Walter?'" he asked, looking round. "Some 
 one said Walter. Is he here ? I should like to see him very much." 
 
160 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Nobody replied directly ; but bis father soon said to Susan, " Call him 
 back, then : let him come up ! " After a short pause of expectation, 
 duiing which he looked with smiling interest and wonder, on his nurse, 
 and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the 
 room. His open face and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always 
 made him a favourite with Paul ; and when Paul saw him, he stretched out 
 his hand, and said, " Good-bye ! " 
 
 " Good-bye, my child!" cried Mrs. PipcMn, hm-rying to his bed's head. 
 "Not good-bye?" 
 
 For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with wliich he 
 had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. " Ah, Yes," he said, 
 placidly, "good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye!" — turning his head to 
 where he stood, and putting out his hand again. " Where is Papa? " 
 
 He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted 
 from his lips. 
 
 "Eemember Walter, dear Papa," he whispered, looking in his face. 
 " Eemember Walter. I was fond of Walter ! " The feeble hand waved 
 in the air, as if it cried, ' good-bye ! ' to Walter once again. 
 
 " Now lay me down," he said; " and Ploy, come close to me, and let 
 me see you ! " 
 
 Sister and brother woimd their arms around each other, and the 
 golden light came streaming in, and feU upon them, locked together. 
 
 " How fast the river runs, between 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 that the motion of the boat upon the stream 
 w^as lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright 
 the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat 
 was out at sea, but ghding smoothly on. And now there was a shore 
 before him. Who stood on the bank ! — 
 
 He put his hands together, as he had been used to do, at his prayers. 
 He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw hun fold them so, 
 behind her neck. 
 
 " Mamma is like you, Floy. 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 again, and nothing else 
 stirred in the room. The old, old, fashion ! The fashion that came in 
 with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run 
 its coui'se, and the wide firmament is roUed up like a scroll. The old, old 
 fashion — Death ! 
 
 Oh thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of 
 Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards 
 not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean ! 
 
 " Dear me, dear me ! To think," said Miss Tox, bursting out afresh 
 that night, as if her heart were broken, " that Dombey and Son should 
 be a Daughter after all ! " 
 
DOMBKY AND SON. 161 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 CAPTAIN CUTTLE DOES A LITTLE BUSINESS FOK THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, in the exercise of that surprising talent for deep-laid 
 and unfathomable scheming, with which (as is not unusual in men of 
 transparent simplicity) he sincerely believed himself to be endowed by 
 nature, had gone to Mr. Dombey's house on the eventful Sunday, 
 winking all the Avay as a vent for his superfluous sagacity, and had pre- 
 sented himself in the full lustre of the ankle-jacks before the eyes of Tow- 
 linson. Hearing from that individual, to his great concern, of the 
 impending calamity, Captain Cuttle, in his delicacy, sheered off again 
 confounded ; merely handing in the nosegay as a small mark of his solici- 
 tude, and leaving "his respectful compUments for the family in general, 
 which he accompanied with an expression of his hope that they would lay 
 theii- heads well to the wind under existing circumstances, and a friendly 
 intimation that he would " look up again " to-morrow. 
 
 The Captain's compliments were never heard of any more. The Cap- 
 tain's nosegay, after lying in the hall all night, was swept into the dust- 
 binn next morning ; and the Captain's sly arrangement, involved in one 
 <^tastrophe with gi-eater hopes and loftier designs, was crushed to pieces. 
 So, when an avalanche bears down a moimtain-forest, twigs and bushes 
 suffer with the trees, and aU perish together. 
 
 When Walter retumed home on the Sunday evening from his long walk, 
 and its memorable close, he was too much occupied at first by the tidings 
 he had to give them, and by the emotions natm-ally awakened in his breast 
 by the scene througli which he had passed, to observe either that his uncle 
 was evidently unacquainted with the intelligence the Captain had under- 
 taken to impart, or that the Captain made signals with his hook, warning 
 him to avoid the subject. Not that the Captain's signals ^'were calculated 
 to have proved very comprehensible, however attentively observed ; for, 
 like those Chinese sages who are said in their conferences to write certain 
 learned words in the air that are wholly impossible of pronunciation, the 
 Captatia made such waves and flourishes as nobody without a previous 
 knowledge of his mystery, would have been at all likely to understand. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, however, becoming cognizant of what had happened, 
 relinquished these attempts, as 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 himself, with 
 a disappointed and crest-fallen countenance, that Sol GUIs must be told, 
 and that Walter must go — taking the case for the present as he foimd it, 
 and not having it enlightened or improved beforehand by the knowing 
 management of a friend — the Captain still felt an unabated confidence 
 that he, Ned Cuttle, was the man for Mr. Dombey ; and that, to set 
 Walter's fortunes quite square, nothing was wanted but that they two 
 should come together. For the Captain never could forget how well he 
 
 M 
 
162 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 and Mr. Dombey had got on at Brigliton ; 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 resom-ce in 
 the first extremity, and had brought the interview to the desired termina- 
 tion. 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 present, Ned wovdd fetch up with a wet sail in 
 good time, and carry all before him. 
 
 Under the influence of this good-natured delusion. Captain Cuttle even 
 went so far as to revolve in his own bosom, Avhile he sat looking at Walter 
 and Hstening with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he related, whether it 
 might not be at once genteel and politic to give Mr. Dombey a verbal 
 invitation, whenever they should meet, to come and cut his mutton in 
 Brig Place on some day of Ms own naming, and enter on the question of 
 his young friend's prospects over a social glass. But the uncertain temper 
 of Mi-s. Mac Stinger, and the possibility of her setting up her rest in the 
 passage during such an entertainment, and there delivering some homily 
 of an uncomplimentaiy nature, operated as a check on the Captain's 
 hospitable thoughts, and rendered him timid of giving them encourage- 
 ment. 
 
 One fact was quite clear to the Captain, as Walter, sitting thoughtfidly 
 over his untasted dinner, dwelt on all that had happened ; namely, that 
 however Walter's modesty might stand in the way of his perceiving it 
 himself, he was, as one might say, a member of Mr. Dombey's family. 
 He had been, in his own person, connected with the incident he so patheti- 
 cally 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 conclusions, he had not the least doubt that they were good con- 
 clusions 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 old friend, as a piece of extraordinary preferment ; declar- 
 ing that for his part he would fi'eely give a hundi-ed thousand pounds (if 
 he had it) for Walter's gain in the long-nm, and that he had no doubt such 
 an investment woidd yield a handsome premium. 
 
 Solomon Gills was at first stunned by the communication, which fell 
 upon the little back-parlour like a thunderbolt, and tore up the hearth 
 savagely. But the Captain flashed sxich 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 predictions, and a great advance 
 towards the realisation of the romantic legend of Lovely Peg : that he 
 bewildered the old man. Walter, for his part, feigned to be so fuU of 
 hope and ardour, and so sure of coming home again soon, and backed iip 
 the Captain with such expressive shakings of his head and rubbings of his 
 hands, that Solomon, looking first at him and then at Captain Cuttle, 
 began to think he ought to be transported with joy. 
 
 " But I'm behind the time, you understand," he obseiwed, in apology, 
 passing his hand nervously down the whole row of bright buttons on his 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 163 
 
 coat, and then up again, as 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 notion, I dare say. He was always fond of the sea. He's " — 
 and he looked wistfully at Walter — " he's glad to go." 
 
 " Uncle Sol ! " cried Walter, quickly, " if you say that, I worCt go. 
 No, Captain Cuttle, I won't. If ray uncle thinks I could be glad to leave 
 liim, though I was going to be made Governor of all the Islands in the 
 West Indies, that 's enough. I 'm a fixture." 
 
 " Wal'r, my lad," said the Captain. " Steady ! Sol Gills, take 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 Captain, with 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 Captain, raising his voice as much as to say, observe the 
 point of this, "is it The GiUs." 
 
 "Ned," said the old man, drawing Walter to his side, and 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 go, I mean I hope he is. Eh ? look you, Ned, 
 and you too, Wally, my dear, this is new and unexpected to me ; and I'm 
 afraid my being behind the time, and poor, is at the bottom of it. Is it 
 really good fortune for him, do you teU me, now ? " said the old man, 
 looking anxiously from one to the other. " EeaUy and truly ? Is it ? I 
 can reconcile myself to almost anything that advances WaUy, but I won't 
 have Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for me, or keeping any- 
 thing from me. You, Ned Cuttle ! " said the old man, fastening on the 
 Captain, to the manifest confusion of that diplomatist ; " are you dealing 
 plainly by your old friend ? Speak out, Ned Cuttle. Is there anything 
 behind ? Ought he to go ? How do you know it first, and why ? " 
 
 As it was a contest of affection and self-denial, Walter struck in with 
 infinite effect, to the Captain's relief; and between them they tolerably 
 reconciled old Sol Gills, by continued talking, to the project ; or rather so 
 confused him, that nothing, not even the pain of separation, was distinctly 
 clear to his mind. 
 
 He had not much time to balance the matter ; for on the very next 
 day, Walter received from Mr. Carker the Manager, the necessary creden- 
 tials for his passage and outfit, together with the information that the Son 
 and Heir would sail in a fortnight, or within a day or two afterwards at 
 latest. In the huriy of preparation : which Walter purposely enhanced 
 as much as possible : the old man lost what little self-possession he ever 
 had ; and so the time of departure drew on rapidly. 
 
 The Captain, who "did not fail to make himself acquainted with aU that 
 passed, through inquiries of Walter from day to day, found the time still 
 tending on towards his going away, without any occasion oftering itself, or 
 seeming likely to oft'er itself, for a better understanding of his position. 
 It was after much consideration of this fact, and much pondering over 
 such an unfortunate combination of circumstances, that a bright idea 
 
 M 2 
 
164 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 occuiTed to the Captain. Suppose lie made a call on Mr. Carker, and 
 tried to find out from him liow the land really lay ! 
 
 Captain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came upon him in a mo- 
 ment of inspiration, as he was smoking an early pipe in Brig Place after 
 breakfast ; and it was worthy of the tobacco. It would quiet his conscience, 
 which was an honest one, and was made a little uneasy by what Walter 
 had confided to him, and what Sol GiUs had said ; and it would be a deep, 
 shrewd act of friendship. He would sound Mr. Carker carefully, and say 
 much or little, just as he read that gentleman's character, and discovered 
 that they got on well together or the reverse. 
 
 Accordingly, without the fear of Walter before his eyes (who he knew 
 was at home packing), Captain Cuttle again assumed his ankle-jacks and 
 mourning brooch, and issued forth on this second expedition. He purchased 
 no propitiatory nosegay on the present occasion, as 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 coimtry ; and with this, and the knobby stick, 
 and 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 by, to 
 collect his thouglits, the Captain made a rush down the court, lest its 
 good effects should evaporate, and appeared suddenly to Mr. Perch. 
 
 " Matey," said the Captain, in persuasive accents. " One of your 
 Governors is named Carker." 
 
 Mr. Perch admitted it ; but gave him to understand, as in official duty 
 bound, that all his Grovernors were engaged, and never expected to be dis- 
 engaged any more. 
 
 "Look'ee here, mate," said the Captain in his ear; " mv name's 
 Cap'en Cuttle." 
 
 The Captain wovdd have hooked Perch gently to him, but Mr. Perch 
 eluded the attempt ; not so much in design, as in starting at the sudden 
 thought that such a weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs. Perch might, 
 in her then condition, be destructive to that lady's hopes. 
 
 " If you 'U be so good as just report Cap'en Cuttle here, when you get 
 a chance," said the Captain, "I'll wait." 
 
 Saying which, the Captain took his seat on Mr. Perch's bracket, and 
 drawing out his handkerchief from the crown of the glazed hat, wliich he 
 jammed between his knees (without injury to its shape, for nothing human 
 could bend it), rubbed his head well all over, and appeared refreshed. He 
 subsequently arranged his hair with his hook, and sat looking round the 
 office, contemplating the clerks with a serene respect. 
 
 The Captain's equanimity was so impenetrable, and he was altogether 
 so mysterious a being, that Perch the messenger was daunted. 
 
 " AATiat name was it you said ? " asked Mr. Perch, bending down over 
 him as he sat on the bracket. 
 
 " Cap'en," in a deep hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Perch, keeping time with his head. 
 
 " Cuttle." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mr. Perch, in the same tone, for he caught it, and couldn't 
 help it ; the Captain, in his diplomacy, was so impressive. " I '11 see if 
 he 's disengaged now, I don't know. Perhaps he may be for a minute." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 165 
 
 "Aye, aye, my lad, I won't detain liim longer than a minute," said the 
 Captain, nodding with all the weighty importance that he felt within liim. 
 Perch, soon returning, said, " Will Captain Cuttle walk this way ? " 
 
 Mr. Carker the manager, standing on the hearth-rug before the empty 
 fire-place, which was ornamented with a castellated sheet of brown paper, 
 looked at the Captain as he came in, with no very special encouragement. 
 
 " Mr. Carker ? " said Captain Cuttle. 
 
 " I believe so," said Mr. Carker, showing all his teeth. 
 
 The Captain hked his answering with a smile ; it looked pleasant. 
 "You see," began the Captain, rolling his eyes slowly round the little 
 room, and taking in as much of it as his shirt coUar permitted ; " I 'm 
 a seafaring man myself, Mr. Carker, and Wal'r, as is on your books here, 
 is a'most a son of mine." 
 
 "Walter Gay?" said Mr. Carker, showing 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. Carker, with a stiU wider demonstration than before. 
 
 "Well," resumed the Captain, "I've the pleasure of his acquaintance. 
 I waited upon him down on the Sussex coast there, with my young friend 
 Wal'r, when, — in short, when there was a little accommodation wanted." 
 The Captain nodded his head in a manner that was at once comfortable, 
 easy, and expressive. " You remember, I dare say ?" 
 
 "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. Carker, smiling. 
 
 " Thank'ee," returned the Captain, availing himself of the oifer. " A 
 man does get more way upon himself, perhaps, in his conversation, when 
 he sits down. Won't you take a cheer yourself? " 
 
 " No thank you," said the manager, standing, perhaps from the force of 
 winter habit, with his back against the chimney-piece, and looking down 
 upon the Captain mth an eye in every tooth and gum. " You have taken 
 the liberty, you were going to say — though it 's none — " 
 
 "Thank'ee kindly, my lad," returned the Captain: " of coming here, on 
 account of my friend Wal'r. Sol Gills, his uncle, is a man of science, and 
 in science he may be considered a clipper ; but he ain't what I should 
 altogether call a able seaman — not a man of practice. Wal'r is as trim a 
 lad as ever stepped ; but he 's a little down by the head in one respect, 
 and that is, modesty. Now what I should wish to put to you," said the 
 Captain, lowering his voice, and speaking in a kind of confidential growl, 
 " in a friendly way, entirely between you and me, and for my own private 
 reckoning, 'till your head Governor has wore round a bit, and I can come 
 alongside of him, is this. — Is everything right and comfortable here, and 
 is Wal'r out'ard bound with a pretty fail- wind ? " 
 
 "What do you think now. Captain Cuttle," retm-ned Carker, gathering 
 up his skirts and settling himself in his position. " You are a practical 
 man ; what do you think ? " 
 
166 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Tlie acuteness and significance of the Captain's eye, as lie cocked it in 
 reply, no words short of those unutterable Chinese words before referred 
 to could describe. 
 
 " Come ! " said the Captain, \mspeakably encouraged, " what do you 
 say ? Am I right or ^vroIlg ? " 
 
 So much had the Captain expressed in his eye, emboldened and incited 
 by Mr. Carter's smiling urbanity, that he felt himself in as fair a condition 
 to put the question, as if he had expressed his sentiments with the utmost 
 elaboration. 
 
 "Eight," said Mr. Carker, " I have no doubt." 
 
 " Out'ard bound with fair weather, then, I say," cried Captain Cuttle. 
 
 Mr. Carker smiled assent. 
 
 " Wind right astarn, and plenty of it," pursued the Captain. 
 
 Mr. Carker smiled assent again. 
 
 "Aye, aye!" said Captain Cuttle, greatly relieved and pleased. "I 
 know'd how she headed, Avell enough ; I told Wal'r so, Thank'ee, 
 thank'ee." 
 
 " Gay has brilliant prospects," observed Mr. Carker, stretching his 
 mouth wider yet ; " all the world before him." 
 
 "All the world and his wife too, as the saying is," returned the 
 delighted Captain. 
 
 At the word " Avife," (which he had uttered without design), the Captain 
 stopped, cocked his eye again, and putting the glazed hat on the top of 
 the knobby stick,' gave it a twirl, and looked sideways at his always- 
 smiling friend. 
 
 " I 'd bet a giU of old Jamaica," said the Captain, eying him atten- 
 tively, "that I know what you're a smiling at." 
 
 Mr. Carker took his cue, and smiled the more. 
 
 " It goes no farther?" said the Captain, making a poke at the door with 
 the knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut. 
 
 " Not an inch," said Mr. Carker. 
 
 "You're a thinking of a capital F perhaps ?" said the Captain. 
 
 Mr. Carker didn't deny it. 
 
 " Anything about a L," said the Captain, " or a ?" 
 
 Mr. Carker still smiled. 
 
 " Am I right, again ? " inquired the Captain in a whisper, with the 
 scarlet circle on his forehead, swelling in his triumphant joy. 
 
 Mr. Carker, in reply, still smiling, and now nodding assent. Captain 
 Cuttle rose and squeezed him by the hand, assuring hun, warmly, that they 
 were on the same tack, and that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid his course 
 that way all along. " He know'd her first," said the Captain, with 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 since, and she him, as much as two 
 such youngsters can. We 've always said, Sol GUIs and me, that they 
 was cut out for each other." 
 
 A cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death's-head, coiild not have shown 
 the Captain more teeth at one time, than Mr. Carker showed him at this 
 period of their interview. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 167 
 
 There's a general in-draught tliat way," observed the happy Captain. 
 " Wind and water sets in that direction, you 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!" pui'sued 
 the Captain. "Why what can cut him adrift now?" 
 
 " Nothing," replied Mr. Carker. 
 
 "You're right again," returned the Captain, giving liis hand another 
 squeeze. " Nothing it is. So ! steady ! There 's a son gone : pretty 
 little creetur'. Ain't there ? " 
 
 " Yes, there 's a son gone," said the acquiescent Carker. 
 
 " Pass the word, and there 's another ready for you," quoth the Captain. 
 " Nevy of a scientific uncle ! Nevy of Sol GiUs ! Wal'r ! Wal'r, as is 
 akeady in your business ! And" — said the Captain, rising gi-adually to a 
 quotation he was preparing for a final biu'st, " who — comes from Sol 
 Gills's daily, to your business, and your buzzums." 
 
 The Captain's complacency as he gently jogged Mr. Carker with his 
 elbow, on concluding each of the foregoing short sentences, coidd be sur- 
 passed 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 gi'cat blue waistcoat heaving with the throes of such a masterpiece, 
 and his nose in a state of violent inflammation from the same cause. 
 
 " Am I right ?" said the Captain. 
 
 " Captain Cuttle," said Mr. Carker, bending down at the knees, for a 
 moment, in an odd manner, as 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." 
 
 " Honom- !" interposed the Captain. " Not a word." 
 
 " To him or any one ?" 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 kindly, I am sure," said the Captain, listening with great 
 attention. 
 
 " I have no hesitation in saying, that '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. Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated " Time enough." 
 Not articulating the words, but bowing his head aftably, and forming 
 them with liis tongue and lips. 
 
 " And as I know now — 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 repeated, in the same dmnb 
 manner. 
 
 " And as Wal'r 's going on this little voyage is, as I may say, in his 
 day's work, and a part of his general expectations here," said the Captain. 
 
 " Of his general expectations here," assented Mr. Carker, dumbly as 
 before. 
 
168 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 ""Why, so long as I know that," pursued the Captain, "there's no 
 hurry, and my mmd 's at ease." 
 
 IVIr. 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 met, and that even Mr. Dombey might 
 improve himself on such a model. With great heartiness, therefore, the 
 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 tattoo'd. 
 
 "Farewell ! " said the Captain. " I an't a man of many words, but I take 
 it very kind of you to be so friendly, and above-board. You 'U excuse me 
 if I 've been at all intruding, will you ?" said the Captain. 
 
 " Not at aU," returned the other. 
 
 " Thank'ee. My berth an't very roomy," said the Captain, turning back 
 again, " but it's tolerable snug ; and if you was to find yourself near Brig 
 Place, number nine, at any time — will you make a note of it ? — and woidd 
 come up stairs, without minding what was said by the person at the door, 
 I should be proud to see you." 
 
 With that hospitable invitation, the Captain said " Good day ! " and 
 Avalked out and shut the door ; leaving Mr. Carker still reclining against 
 the chimney-piece. In Avhose sly look and watchfid manner ; in whose 
 false mouth, stretched but not laughing ; in whose spotless cravat and 
 very whiskers ; even in whose silent passing of his soft hand over his 
 white hnen and his smooth face ; there was something desperately cat-Uke. 
 
 The unconscious Captain walked out in a state of self-glorification that 
 imparted quite a new cut to the broad blue suit. " Stand by, Ned ! " 
 said the Captain to himself " You 've done a little business for the 
 youngsters to-day, my lad ! " 
 
 In his exultation, and in his familiarity, present and prospective, with 
 the House, the Captain, when he reached the outer office, could not 
 refrain from rallying Mr. Perch a little, and asking him whether he 
 thought everybody was stiU engaged. But not to be bitter on a man 
 who had done liis duty, the Captain whispered in his ear, that if he felt 
 disposed for a glass of rum-and-water, and would follow, he woidd be 
 happy to bestow the same upon him. 
 
 Before leaving the premises, the Captain, somewhat to the astonish- 
 ment of the clerks, looked round from a central point of view, and took a 
 general survey of the office as part and parcel of a project in which his 
 young friend was nearly interested. The strong-room excited his especial 
 admiration ; but, that he might not appear too particidar, he limited 
 himself to an approving glance, and, with a graceful recognition of the 
 clerks as a body, that was fuU of politeness and patronage, passed out 
 into the court. Being promptly joined by ]\Ir. Perch, he conveyed that 
 gentleman to the tavern, and fulfilled his pledge — ^hastUy, for Perch's time 
 was precious. 
 
 " I'U give you for a toast," said the Captain, "Wal'r !" 
 
 " Who ?" submitted Mr. Perch. 
 
 " Wal'r !" repeated the Captain, in a voice of thunder. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 169 
 
 Mr. Perch, who seemed to remember having heard in infancy that there 
 was once a poet of that name, made no objection ; but he was much 
 astonished at the Captain's coming into the City to propose a poet ; indeed 
 if he had proposed to put a poet's statue up — say Shakespeare's for 
 example — in a civic thoroughfare, he could hardly have done a greater 
 outrage to Mr. Perch's experience. On the whole, he was such a myste- 
 rious and incomprehensible character, that Mr. Perch decided not to 
 mention him to Mrs. Perch at all, in case of giving rise to any disagree- 
 able consequences. 
 
 Mysterious and incomprehensible the Captain, with that lively sense 
 upon him of having done a little business for the youngsters, remained all 
 day, even to his most intimate friends ; and but that Walter attributed 
 his winks and grins, and other such pantomimic reliefs of himself, to his 
 satisfaction in the success of their innocent deception upon old Sol GiEs, 
 he would assuredly have betrayed himself before night. As it was, how- 
 ever, he kept his own secret ; and went home late from the Instrument- 
 maker's house, wearing the glazed hat so much on one side, and carrying- 
 such a beaming expression in his eyes, that Mrs. MacStinger (who might 
 have been brought up at Doctor Blimber's, she was such a Koman matron) 
 fortified herself, at the first glimpse of him, behind the open street-door, 
 and refused to come out to the contemplation of her blessed infants, until 
 he was secm'ely lodged in his own room. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 FATHEK AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 There is a hush through Mr. Dombey's house. Servants gliding up 
 and down stairs rustle but make no sound of footsteps. They talk 
 together constantly, and sit long at meals, making much of their meat and 
 drink, and enjoying themselves after a grim urdioly fashion. Mrs. Wickam, 
 with her eyes suffused with tears, relates melancholy anecdotes ; and tells 
 them how she always said at IVIrs. Pipchin's that it would be so, and 
 takes more table-ale than usual, and is very sorry but sociable. Cook's 
 state of mind is similar. She promises a little fry for supper, and strug- 
 gles about equally against her feehngs and the onions. Towlinson begins 
 to think there 's a fate in it, and wants to know if anybody can teU him 
 of any 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 lies, 
 calm and beautiful, upon his little bed. 
 
 After dark there come some visitors — noiseless visitors, with 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 time, the 
 bereaved father has not been seen even by his attendant ; for he sits in an 
 inner corner of his own dark room when any one is there, and never 
 seems to move at other times, except to pace it to and fro. But in the 
 morning it is whispered among the household that he was heard to go 
 
170 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 up stairs in the dead night, and that he stayed there — in the room — until 
 the sun was shining. 
 
 At the offices in the city, the gTOund-glass windows are made more 
 dim by sliuttcrs ; and wliile tlie lighted lamps upon the desks are half 
 extinguished by the day that wanders in, the day is half extinguished 
 by the lamps, and 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 afternoon, and go up the river. Perch, the 
 messenger, stays long upon his errands ; and finds himself in bars of 
 pubhc houses, invited thither by friends, and holding forth on the uncer- 
 tainty of human affairs. He goes home to Ball's Pond earlier in the 
 evening than usual, and treats Mrs. Perch to a veal cutlet and Scotch ale. 
 Ml'. Carker the manager treats no one ; neither is he treated ; but alone in 
 his o\vn room he shows his teeth all day ; and it would seem that there 
 is something gone from Mr. Carker's path — some obstacle removed — 
 Avhich clears his way before him. 
 
 Now the rosy children living opposite to Mr. Dombey's house, 
 peep from their nursery windows down into the street ; for there are 
 four black horses at his door, with feathers on their heads ; and feathers 
 tremble on the carriage that they draw ; and these, and an array of men 
 with scarves and staves, attract a crowd. The juggler who was going to 
 twirl the basin, puts his loose coat on again over his fine dress ; and his 
 trudging wife, one-sided with her heavy baby in her arms, loiters to 
 see the company come out. But closer to her dingy breast she presses 
 her baby, Avhen the bm'den that is so easily carried is borne forth ; and 
 the youngest of the rosy children at the high window opposite, needs no 
 restraining hand to check her in her glee, when, pointing Avith her 
 dimpled finger, she looks into her nurse's face, and asks " What 's that ! " 
 
 And now, among the knot of servants dressed in mourning, and the 
 weeping women, Mr. Dombey passes through the hall to the other 
 carriage that is waiting to receive him. He is not " brought down," 
 these observers think, by 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 handkerchief, and looks before him. But that his face is something 
 sunk and rigid, and is pale, it bears the same expression as of old. He 
 takes his place within the carriage, and thi'ee other gentlemen follow. 
 Then the grand funeral moves slowly down the street. The feathers 
 are yet nodding in the distance, when the juggler has the basin spinning 
 on a cane, and has the same crowd to admire it. But the juggler's wife 
 is less alert than usual with the money-box, for a child's burial has set 
 lier thinking that perhaps the baby underneath her shabby shawl may 
 not grow up to be a man, and wear a sky-blue fillet round his head, and 
 salmon-coloured worsted drawers, and tumble in the mud. 
 
 The feathers wind their gloomy way along the streets, and come within 
 the sound of a church bell. In this same church, the pretty boy received 
 all that will soon be left of him on earth — a name. All of him that is 
 dead, they lay there, near the perishable substance of his mother. It is 
 well. Their ashes lie where Florence in her walks — oh lonely, lonely 
 walks ! — may pass them any day. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 171 
 
 The service over, and the clergyman withdrawn, Mr. Dombey looks 
 round, demanding in a low voice, whether the person who has been re- 
 quested to attend to receive instructions for the tablet, is there ? 
 
 Some one comes forward, and savs " Yes." 
 
 Mr. Dombey intimates where he would have it placed ; and shows him, 
 with his hand upon the wall, the shape and size ; and how it is to follow 
 the memorial to the mother. Then, with his pencil, he writes out the 
 inscription, and gives it to him : adding, "I wish to have it done at once." 
 
 " It shall be done immediately, sir." 
 
 " There is reaUy notliing to inscribe but name and age, you see." 
 
 The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr. Dombey 
 not observing his hesitation, tm*ns away, and leads towards the porch. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir ;" a touch falls gently on his mourning cloak ; 
 " but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be put in hand when I 
 get back — " 
 
 " WeU ? " 
 
 " Will you be so good as read it over again ? I think there 's a 
 mistake." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 The statuary gives him back the paper, and points out, with his pocket 
 rule, the words " beloved and only child." 
 
 " It should be ' son,' I think, sir ? " 
 
 " You are right. Of course. Make the coiTCction." 
 
 The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to the coach. When 
 the other three, who follow closely, take their seats, his face is hidden for 
 the fii'st time — shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any more that 
 day. He alights first, and passes immediately into his own room. The 
 other mourners (who are only Mr. Chick, and two of the medical attend- 
 ants) proceed up-stairs to the drawing-room, to be received by Mrs. Chick 
 and Miss Tox. And what the face is, in the shut-up chamber underneath : 
 or what the thoughts are : what the heai't is, what the contest or the 
 suftering : no one knows. 
 
 The chief thing that they know, below-stau's, in the kitchen, is that 
 " it seems Uke Sunday." They can hardly persuade themselves but that 
 there is something unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the peo- 
 ple out of doors, who pursue their ordinary occupations and wear their 
 every-day attire. It is quite a novelty to have the blinds up, and the 
 shutters open ; and they make themselves dismally comfortable over 
 bottles of wine, which are freely broached as on a festival. They are much 
 inclined to moralize. Mr. Towlinson proposes with a sigh, "Amendment 
 to us aU ! " for which, as Cook says Avith another sigh, " There 's room 
 enough, God knows." In the evening, Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox take 
 to needlework again. In the evening also, Mr. Towbnson goes out to 
 take the air, accompanied by the housemaid, who has not yet tried her 
 moimiing bonnet. They are very tender to each other at dusky street- 
 comers, and Towlinson has visions of leading an altered and blameless 
 existence as a serious green-grocer in Oxford Market. 
 
 There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr. Dombey's house to-night, 
 than there has been for many nights. The morning sun awakens the old 
 
172 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 household, settled 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 busy, the loss of one weak 
 creature makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep that nothing but the 
 width and depth of vast eternity can fill it up ! Florence, in her innocent 
 affliction, might have answered " Oh my brother, oh 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 grave, or 
 give birth to the softened sorrow that is springing into life beneath this 
 rain of tears !" 
 
 " My dear child," said Mrs. Chick, who held it as a duty incumbent 
 on her, to 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. Chick, gently squeezing Miss Tox's 
 hand, in acknowledgment of her friendly remark, " you will then know 
 that aU grief is unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit." 
 " I will try, dear aunt. I do try," answered Florence, sobbing. 
 " I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Chick, " because, my love, as our 
 dear Miss Tox — of whose sound sense and excellent judgment, there can- 
 not possibly be two opinions — " 
 
 " My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon," said Miss Tox. 
 — " will tell you, and confirm by her experience," pm"sued Mrs. Chick, 
 " we are called upon on all occasions to make an elfort. It is required of 
 ns. If any — my dear," turning to Miss Tox, " I want a word. Mis — 
 Mis—" 
 
 " Demeanour?" suggested Miss Tox. 
 
 " No, no, no," said Mrs. Chick. " How can you ! Goodness me, it 's 
 on the end of my tongue. Mis — " 
 
 " Placed afl^ection ?" suggested Miss Tox, timidly. 
 " Good gracious, Lucretia!" returned Mrs. Chick, "How very mon- 
 strous ! Misanthrope, is the word I want. The idea ! Misplaced 
 affection ! I say, if any misanthrope were to put, in my presence, the 
 question 'Why were we born?' I should reply, ' To make an effort.' " 
 
 " Very good indeed," said Miss Tox, much 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 suppose, my dear child, that 
 if an effort had been made in time, in this family, a train of the most 
 trying and distressing circumstances might have been avoided. Nothing 
 shall ever persuade me," observed the good matron, with a resolute air, 
 " but that if that effort had been made by poor dear Fanny, the poor dear 
 darling child would at least have had a stronger constitution." 
 
 Mi-s. Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half a moment ; but, 
 as a practical illustration of her doctrine, brought herself up short, in the 
 middle of a sob, and went on again. 
 
 " Therefore, Florence, pray let us see that you have some strength of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 173 
 
 mind, and do not selfishly aggravate the distress in wliicli your poor papa 
 is phiiiged." 
 
 "Dear aunt!" said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her, that 
 she might the better and more earnestly look into her face. " Tell me 
 more about Papa. Pray tell me about him ! Is he quite heart-broken?" 
 
 Miss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was something in this 
 appeal that moved her very much. Whether she saw in it a succession, 
 on the part of the neglected cliild, to the affectionate concern so often 
 expressed by her dead brother — or a love that sought to twine itself about 
 the heart that had loved him, and that could not bear to be shut out from 
 sympathy with such a sorrow, in such sad community of love and grief — 
 or whether she only recognised the earnest and devoted spirit which, 
 although discarded, and repulsed, was wrung with tenderness long unre- 
 tumed, and in the waste and solitude of this bereavement cried to him 
 to seek a comfort in it, and to give some, by some small response — what- 
 ever may have been her understanding of it, it moved Miss Tox. Por the 
 moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs. Cliick, and, patting Florence 
 hastily on the cheek, turned aside and suffered the tears to gush from her 
 eyes, without waiting for a lead from that wise matron. 
 
 Mrs. Chick herself lost, for a moment, the presence of mind on which 
 she so much prided herself; and remained mute, looking on the beautiful 
 young face that had so long, so steadily, and patiently, been turned 
 towards the little bed. But recovering her voice — which was synony- 
 mous with her presence of mind, indeed they Avere one and the same 
 thing — she replied with dignity : 
 
 " Florence, my dear child, your poor papa is peculiar at times ; and to 
 question me about him, is to question me upon a subject which I reaUy do 
 not pretend to understand. I believe I have as much influence with your 
 papa as anybody has. Still, aU I can say is, that he has said, very httle 
 to me ; and that I have only seen him once or twice for a minute at a 
 time, and indeed have hardly seen him then, for his room has been dark. 
 I have said to your papa ' Paul ! ' — that is the exact expression I used — 
 ' Paul ! why do you not take something stimulating ? ' Your papa's 
 reply has always been, ' Louisa, have the goodness to leave me. I want 
 nothing. I am better by myself.' If I was to be put upon my oath 
 to-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate," said Mrs. Chick, " I have no 
 doubt I could ventm*e to swear to those identical words." 
 
 Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, ." My Louisa is ever 
 methodical ! " 
 
 " In short, Florence," resumed her aunt, " literally nothing has passed 
 between your poor papa and myself, until 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 notes, proposing 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 tliis invitation. He said, 'No 
 Louisa, not the least ! ' " 
 
174 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Florence raised her tearful eyes. 
 
 " At tlie same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to 
 paying this visit at present, or to going home with me— — ■" 
 
 " I should much prefer it, aunt," was the faint rejoinder. 
 
 "Why then, child," said Mrs. Chick, "you can. It 's a strange choice, 
 I must say. But you always icere strange. Anybody else at your time of 
 life, and after what has passed — my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my pocket- 
 handkerchief again — would be glad to leave here, one would suppose." 
 
 " I shovdd not like to feel," said Florence, " as if the house was avoided. 
 I should not like to think that the — his — the rooms up-stairs were quite 
 empty and dreaiy, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the present. Oh 
 my brother ! oh my brother ! " 
 
 It was a natural emotion, not 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 sometimes have that vent, 
 or the poor wounded solitary heart within it would have fluttered like a 
 bird with broken wings, and sunk down in the dust. 
 
 " Well, child ! " said Mrs. Chick, after a pause. " I wouldn't on any 
 account say anything unkind to you, and that I 'm sure you know. You 
 will remain here, then, and do exactly as you like. No one will interfere 
 with you, Florence, or wish to interfere with you, I '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 '11 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 yours my dear — that may occupy him for one or two evenings in lus 
 own room. Your papa 's a Dombey, child, if ever there was one," said 
 Mrs. Chick, drying both her eyes at once with gi-eat care on opposite corners 
 of Miss Tox's handkerchief. " He '11 make an effort. There 's no fear 
 of him." 
 
 "Is there nothing, aunt," asked Florence, trembling, " I might 
 
 do to " 
 
 " Lord, my dear child," interposed Mrs. Chick, hastily, " what are you 
 talking about ? If your papa said to Me — I have given you his exact 
 words, ' Louisa I want nothing ; I am better by myself — what do you 
 think he 'd say to you? You mustn't show yourself to him, child. Don't 
 (b-eam of such a thing." 
 
 " Aunt," said Florence, " I will go and lie down in my bed." 
 Mrs. Chick approved of this resolution, and dismissed her with a kiss. 
 But Miss Tox, on a faint pretence of looking for the mislaid handkerchief, 
 went up-stairs after her ; and tried in a few stolen minutes to comfort her, 
 in spite of great discouragement from Susan Nipper. For Miss Nipper, 
 in her burning zeal, disparaged Miss Tox as a crocodile ; yet her sympathy 
 seemed genuine, and had at least the vantage-ground of disinterestedness 
 — there was little favom* to be won by it. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 175 
 
 And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan, to uphold the 
 striving heart in its anguish ? Was there no other neck to chasp ; 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 Paul, that first and greatest loss fell heavily upon her — this 
 was the only help she had. Oh, who can tell how much she needed help 
 at first ! 
 
 At first, when the house subsided into its accustomed course, and they 
 had all gone away, except the servants, and her father shut up in his own 
 rooms, Florence could do nothing but weep, and wander up and down, 
 and sometimes, in a sudden pang of desolate remembrance, fly to her own 
 chamber, wring her hands, lay her face down on her bed, and know no 
 consolation : nothing but the bitterness and cruelty of grief. This com- 
 monly ensued upon the recognition of some spot or object very tenderly 
 associated with him ; aud it made the miserable house, at fii'st, a 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 sacred fu-e from 
 heaven, is as gentle in the heart, as when it rested on the heads of the 
 assembled twelve, and showed each man his brother, brightened and 
 unhurt. The image conjured up, there soon returned the placid face, the 
 softened voice, the loving looks, the quiet trustfulness and peace ; and 
 Florence, thoiigh she wept still, wept more tranquilly, and courted the 
 remembrance. 
 
 It was not very long before the golden water, dancing on the wall, in the 
 old place at the old serene time, had her calm eyes fixed upon it as it 
 ebbed away. It was not very long before that room again knew her, often ; 
 sitting there alone, as patient and as mild as when she had watched beside 
 the little bed. When any sharp sense of its being empty smote upon her, 
 she could kneel beside it, and 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, before, in tlie midst of the dismal house so wide 
 and dreary, her low voice in the twibght, slowly and stopping sometimes, 
 touched the old air to which he had so often listened, with his drooping 
 head upon her arm. And after that, and when it was quite dark, a little 
 strain of music trembled in the room : so softly played and sung, that it 
 was more like the mournfid recollection of what she had done at his 
 request on that last night, than the reality repeated. But it was repeated, 
 often — very often, in the shadowy solitude ; and broken murmurs of the 
 strain still trembled on the keys, when the sweet voice was hushed in 
 tears. 
 
 Thus she gained heart to look upon the Avork 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 it, as 
 if it had been sentient and had known him ; and, sitting in a window, 
 near her mother's picture, in the unused room so long deserted, Avore aAvay 
 the thoughtful hours. 
 
176 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work to where the rosy 
 childi'en lived ? They were not immediately 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 home, for 
 the elder child was always dressed and waiting for him at the drawing- 
 room window, or in the balcony ; and when he appeared, her expectant 
 face lighted up with joy, while the others at the high window, and always 
 on the watch too, clapped their hands, and drummed them on the sill, and 
 called to him. The elder child would come down to the hall, and put her 
 hand in his, and lead him up the stairs ; and Florence would see her after- 
 wards sitting by his side, or on his knee, or hanging coaxingly about his 
 neck and talking to him : and though they were always gay together, 
 he would often watch her face as if he thought her like her mother that was 
 dead. Florence would sometimes look no more at this, and bursting into 
 tears would hide behind the curtain as if she were frightened, or would 
 hm-ry from the window. Yet she could not help returning ; and her Avork 
 would soon fall unheeded from her hands again. 
 
 It was the house that had been empty, years ago. It had remained so 
 for a long time. At last, and while she had been away fi'om home, this 
 family had taken it ; and it was repaired and newly painted ; and there 
 w'ere bii'ds 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. 
 
 \\lien he had dined, she could see them, through the open windows, go 
 down with their governess or nurse, and cluster rou.nd the table ; and in 
 the still summer weather, the sound of their childish voices and clear 
 laughter woidd come ringing across the street, into the drooping air of 
 the room in which she sat. Then they would climb and clamber up stairs 
 with him, and romp about him on the sofa, or groupe themselves at his 
 knee, a very nosegay of little faces, Avhile he seemed to teU them some 
 story. Or they would come running out into the balcony ; and then Flo- 
 rence would hide herself quickly, lest it should check them in their joy, 
 to see her in her black dress, sitting there alone. 
 
 The elder child remained with her father when the rest had gone away, 
 and made his tea for him — happy little housekeeper she was then ! — and 
 sat conversing with him, sometimes at the window, sometimes in the room, 
 until the candles came. He made her his companion, though she was 
 some years younger than Florence; and she could be as staid and 
 pleasantly demiu-e with her little book or work-box, as a woman. When 
 they had candles, Florence from her own dark room was not afraid to look 
 again. But when the time came for the child to say " Good night, 
 papa," and go to bed, Florence would sob and tremble as she raised her 
 face to him, and could look no more. 
 
 Though still she would turn, again and again, before going to bed 
 herself, from the simple air that had hdled him to rest so often, long ago, 
 and from the other Ioav soft broken strain of music, back to that house. 
 But that she ever thought of it, or watched it, was a secret which she kept 
 within her own young breast. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 177 
 
 And did that breast of Florence — Florence, so ingenuous and true — 
 so worthy of the love that he had borne her, and had whispered in his 
 last faint words — whose guileless heart was mirrored in the beauty of her 
 face, and breathed in every accent of her gentle voice — did that young 
 breast hold any other secret ? Yes. One more. 
 
 "VMien no one in the house was stirring, and the lights were all 
 extinguished, she would softly leave her own room, and with noiseless 
 feet descend the stair-case, and approach her father's door. Against it, 
 scarcely breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press her lips, 
 in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone floor 
 outside it, every night, to listen even for his breath ; and in her one 
 absorbing wish to be allowed to show him some affection, to be a consola- 
 tion to him, to win him over to the endurance of some tenderness from 
 her, his solitary child, she would have knelt down at his feet, if she had 
 dared, in humble supplication. 
 
 No one knew it. No one thought of it. The door was ever closed, 
 and he shut up within. He went out once or twice, and it was said in 
 the house that he was very soon going on his country journey ; but he 
 lived in those rooms, and hved alone, and never saw her, or inquired for 
 her. Perhaps he did not even know that she Avas in the house. 
 
 One day, about a week after the funeral, Florence was sitting at her 
 work, when Susan appeared, with a face half laughing and half crying, to 
 announce a visitor. 
 
 " A visitor ! To me, Susan !" said Florence, looking up in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Well, it w a wonder, ain't it now Miss Floy," said Susan ; " but I 
 wish you had a many visitors, I do, indeed, for you'd be all the better 
 for it, and it 's my opinion that the sooner you and me goes even to them 
 old Skettleses, Miss, the better for both, I may not wish to live in crowds, 
 JVIiss Floy, but still I 'm not a oyster." 
 
 To do Miss Nipper justice, she spoke more for her young mistress than 
 herself; and her face showed it. 
 
 " But the visitor, Susan," said Florence. 
 
 Susan, with an hysterical explosion that was as much a laugh as a sob, 
 and as much a sob as a laugh, answered, 
 
 " Mr. Toots !" 
 
 The smile that appeared on Florence's face passed from it in a moment, 
 and her eyes filled with tears. But at any rate it was a smile, and that 
 gave great satisfaction to Miss Nipper. 
 
 " My own feelings exactly. Miss Floy," said Susan, putting her apron 
 to her eyes, and shaking her head. " Immediately I see that Innocent in 
 the Hall, Miss Floy, I burst out laughing first, and then I choked." 
 
 Susan Nipper involuntarily proceeded to do the like again on the spot. 
 In the meantime Mr. Toots, who had come up stairs after her, all uncon- 
 scious of the effect he produced, annomiced himself with his knuckles on 
 the door, and walked in very briskly. 
 
 " How dy'e do, Miss Dombey ?" said Mr. Toots. " I'm very well I 
 thank you ; how are you ?" 
 
 Ml'. Toots — than whom there were few better fellows in the world, though 
 
 N 
 
178 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 tliere may have been one or two brighter spirits— had laboiiously invented 
 this long burst of discoui'se with the view of relieving the feelings both of 
 Florence and liimself. But finding that he had run through his property, 
 as it were, in an injudicious manner, by squandering the whole before taking 
 a chair, or before Florence had uttered a Avord, or before he had well got 
 in at the door, he deemed it advisable to begin again. 
 
 •' How dy'e do. Miss Dombey ?" said JVtr. Toots. " I 'm very well, I 
 thank you ; how are you?" 
 
 Florence gave him her hand, and said she was very well. 
 
 " I 'm very well indeed," said Mr. Toots, taking a chair. " Very well 
 indeed, I am. I don't remember," said Mr. Toots, after reflecting a little, 
 " that I was ever better, thank you." 
 
 " It 's very kind of you to come," said Florence, taking up her work. 
 " I am very glad to see you." 
 
 Mr. Toots responded with a chuckle. Thinking that might be too lively, 
 he corrected it with a sigh. Thinking that might be too melancholy, he 
 corrected it with a chuckle. Not thoroughly pleasing himself with either 
 mode of reply, he breathed hard. 
 
 " You were very kind to my dear brother," said Florence, obeying 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. "Warm, ain't it ?" 
 
 "It is beautifid weather," replied Florence. 
 
 " It agrees with me ! " said Mr. Toots. " I don't think I ever was so 
 well as I find myself at present, I'm obliged to you." 
 
 After stating this curious and unexpected fact, Mr. Toots feU into a deep 
 well of silence. 
 
 " You have left Doctor Blimber's, I think ?" said Florence, trying to 
 help him out. 
 
 " I should hope so," returned Mr. Toots. And tumbled in again. 
 
 He remained at the bottom, apparently drowned, for at least ten mi- 
 nutes. At the expii-ation of that period, he suddenly floated, and said, 
 
 " Well ! Good morning, Miss Dombey." 
 
 " Are you going ?" asked Florence, rising. 
 
 " I don't know, though. No, not just at present," said Mr. Toots, 
 sitting down again, most unexpectedly. " The fact is — I say. Miss 
 Dombey ! " 
 
 " Don't be afraid to speak to me," said Florence, with a quiet smile. 
 " I should be veiy glad if you would talk about my brother." 
 
 " Would you, though," retorted Mr. Toots, with sympathy in every 
 fibre of his otherwise expressionless face. " Poor Dombey ! I'm sure I 
 never thought that Burgess & 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 veiy much at last. I thought you'd like to 
 have him, perhaps, as a sort of keepsake. You remember his remember- 
 ing Diogenes ?" 
 
» 
 
 \M^y CL^m/^ Cl'^4^n^. 
 
 Cl/£>(>t'' O-^aM' 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 179 
 
 " Oh yes ! oh yes !" cried Elorence. 
 
 " Poor Dombey ! So do I," said Mr. Toots. 
 
 Mr. Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great difficulty in getting be- 
 yond this point, and 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 shiUings, if they hadn't given him up : and I would : but they 
 were glad to get rid of him, I think. If you'd Uke to have him, he's at 
 the door. I brought him on purpose for you. He ain't a lady's dog, 
 you know," said '^h:. Toots, " but you won't mind that, will you?" 
 
 In fact, Diogenes was at that moment, as they presently ascertained, 
 from looking down into the street, staring through the window of a 
 hackney cabriolet, into which, for conveyance to that spot, he had been 
 ensnared, on a false pretence of rats among the straw. Sooth to say, he 
 was as unlike a lady's dog as dog might be ; and in his gruff anxiety to 
 get out presented an appearance sufficiently unpromising, as he gave short 
 yelps out of one side of his mouth, and overbalancing himself by the in- 
 tensity of every one of those efforts, tumbled down into the straw, and 
 then sprung panting up again, putting out his tongue, as 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 blundering, ill-favoured, clumsy, bullet-headed dog, 
 continually acting on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the neigh- 
 bourhood, whom it was meritorious to bark at ; and though he was far from 
 good-tempered, and certainly was not clever, and had hair all over his 
 eyes, and a comic nose, and an inconsistent tail, and a gi'uff voice ; he was 
 dearer to Florence, in virtue of that parting remembrance of him and 
 that request that he might be taken care of, than the most valuable and 
 beautiful of his kind. So dear, indeed, was this same ugly Diogenes, 
 and so welcome to her, that she took the jewelled hand of Mr, Toots and 
 kissed it in her gi-atitude. And when Diogenes, released, came tearing 
 up the stairs and bouncing into the room (such a business as there 
 was, first, to get him out of the cabriolet !), dived under all the forai- 
 ture, and wound a long iron chain, that dangled from his neck, round legs 
 of chairs and tables, and then tugged at it until his eyes became unnatu- 
 rally visible, in consequence of their nearly starting out of his head ; and 
 when he groAvled at Mr. Toots, who affected familiarity ; and went peU- 
 meU at Towlinson, morally 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 present, and was so 
 delighted to see Florence bending down over Diogenes, smoothing his coarse 
 back with her little dehcate hand — ^Diogenes graciously allowing it from the 
 first moment of their acquaintance — that he felt it difficult to take leave, 
 and would, no doubt, have been a much longer time in making up his 
 mind to do so, if he had not been assisted by Diogenes himself, who sud- 
 denly took it into his head to bay Mr. Toots, and to make short runs at 
 him with his mouth open. Not exactly seeing his way to the end of these 
 demonstrations, and sensible that they placed the pantaloons constructed 
 
 N 2 
 
180 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 by the art of Burgess & Co. in jeopardy, Mr. Toots, with chuckles, 
 lapsed out at the door : by which, after looking in again two or three times 
 without any object at all, and being on each occasion greeted with a fresh 
 mn from Diogenes, he finally took himself oif and got away. 
 
 " Come, then, Di 1 Dear Di ! Make friends with yoiu- new mistress. 
 Let us love each other, Di ! " said Florence, fondling his shaggy head. 
 And Di, the rough and gruif, as if his hairy hide were pervious to the tear 
 that dropped upon it, and his dog's heart melted as it fell, put his nose up 
 to her face, and swore fideUty. 
 
 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 cheerfully, and devoted himself to her sendee. A banquet 
 was immediately provided for him in a comer ; and when he had eaten and 
 drunk his fiU, he went to the window where Florence was sitting, looking 
 on, rose up on his hind legs, with his awkward fore paws on her shoul- 
 ders, licked her face and hands, nestled his great head against her heart, 
 and wagged his tail till he was tired. Finally, Diogenes coiled liimself up 
 at her feet, and went to sleep. 
 
 Although Miss Nipper was nervous in regard of dogs, and felt it neces- 
 saiy to come into the room with her skirts carefully collected about her, as 
 if she were crossing a brook on stepping-stones ; also to utter little 
 screams and stand up on chairs when Diogenes stretched himself j she was 
 in her own manner aifected by the kindness of Mr, Toots, and could not 
 see Florence so ahve to the attachment and society of this rude friend of 
 little Paul's, without some mental comments thereupon that brought the 
 water to her eyes. Mr. Dombey, as a p^irt of her reflections, may have 
 been, in the association of ideas, connected with the dog ; but, at any rate, 
 after observing Diogenes and his mistress all the evening, and after exerting 
 herself with much good will to provide Diogenes a bed in an ante- 
 chamber outside his mistress's door, she said hurriedly to Florence, before 
 leaving her for the night : 
 
 " Your Pa 's a going off. Miss Floy, to-morrow morning." 
 
 " To-morrow morning, Susan ? " 
 
 *• Yes, Miss ; that 's the orders. Early." 
 
 " Do you know," asked Florence, without looking at her, " where Papa 
 is going, Susan ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, Mss. 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 ! " 
 
 *' Hush, Susan ! " urged Florence gently. 
 
 "Well, Miss Floy," returned Miss Nipper, who was fuU of burning 
 indignation, and minded her stops even less than usual. " I can't help it, 
 blue he is, and while I was a Christian, although humble, I would have 
 natm'al-coloured friends, or none." 
 
 It appeared from what she added and had gleaned down stairs, that 
 ]\Irs. Chick had proposed the Major for Mr. Dombey's companion, and 
 that IVIi'. Dombey, after some hesitation, had invited him. 
 
 " Talk of him being a change, indeed I " observed Miss Nipper to herself 
 with boundless contempt. " If he 's a change, give me a constancy." 
 
 *' Good night, Susan," said Florence. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 181 
 
 " Good night, my darling dear Miss Floy." 
 
 Her tone of commiseration smote the chord so often rouglily touched, 
 but never listened to while she or any one looked on. Florence left alone, 
 laid her head upon her hand, and pressing the other over her swelling 
 heart, held free communication with her sorrows. 
 
 It was a wet night ; and the melancholy rain fell pattering and drop- 
 ping with a weary sound. A sluggish wind was blowing, and went moan- 
 ing round the house, as if it were in pain or grief. A shriU noise 
 quivered through the trees. While she sat weeping, it grew late, and dreary 
 midnight tolled out from the steeples. - 
 
 Florence was little more than a child in years — not yet fourteen — and 
 the loneliness and gloom of such an hour in the great house where Death 
 had lately made its own tremendous devastation, might 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 Avandering love, indeed, and castaway — ^but turning always to 
 her father. 
 
 There was nothing in the dropping of the rain, the moaning of the 
 wind, the shuddering of the trees, the striking of the solemn clocks, that 
 shook this one thought, or diminished its interest. Her recollections of 
 the dear dead boy — and they were never absent — were itself ; the same 
 thing. And oh, to be shut out : to be so lost : never to have looked inta 
 her father's face or touched him, since that hour ! 
 
 She could not go to bed, poor child, and never had gone yet, since then, 
 without making her nightly pilgrimage to his door. It would have been 
 a strange sad sight, to see her now, stealing lightly down the stairs through 
 the thick gloom, and stopping at it with a beating heart, and blinded 
 eyes, and hair that fell down loosely and unthought of: and touching it 
 outside with her wet cheek. But the night covered it, and no one knew. 
 
 The moment that she touched the door on this night, Florence found 
 that it was open. For the first time it stood open, though 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 
 back, and to enter ; and this second impulse held her in irresolution oa 
 the stair-case. 
 
 In its standing open, even by so much as that chink, there seemed to be 
 hope. There was encouragement in seeing a ray of light from within, 
 stealing tlirough the dark stern doorway, and falling in a thread upon the 
 marble floor. She turned back, hardly knowing what she did, but urged 
 on by the love within her, and the trial they had undergone together, but 
 not shared: and with her hands a little raised and trembhng, glided in. 
 
 Her father sat at liis old table in the middle room. He had been 
 arranging some papers, and destroying others, and the latter lay in fragile 
 ruins before him. The rain di-ipped heavily upon the glass panes in the 
 outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a baby ; and the 
 low complainings of the wind were heard without. 
 
 But not by him. He sat with his eyes fixed on the table, so immersed 
 in thought, that a far heavier tread than the light foot of his child could 
 make, might have failed to rouse liim. His face was turned towards her. 
 
182 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked worn and de- 
 jected ; and in the utter loneliness suiTounding him, there was an appeal to 
 Florence that struck home. 
 
 " Papa ! Papa ! Speak to me, dear Papa !" 
 
 He started at her voice, and leaped up from his seat. She was close 
 before him Ayith extended arms, but he fell back. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" he said, sternly. " Why do you come here ? 
 What has frightened you ?" 
 
 If anything had frightened her, it was the face he turned upon her. 
 The glowing love within the breast of his young daughter froze before it, 
 and 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 interest, parental recognition, or relenting in it. There was a 
 change in it, but not of that kind. The old indifference and cold con- 
 straint had given place to something : what, she never thought and did 
 not dare to think, and yet she felt it in its force, and knew it well without 
 a name : that as it looked upon her, seemed to cast a shadow on her head. 
 
 Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and bfe ? 
 Did he look upon his own successful rival in that son's affection ? Did a 
 mad jealousy and withered pride, poison sweet remembrances that should 
 have endeared and made her precious to him ? Coidd it be possible that 
 it was gall to him to look upon her in her beauty and her promise : thinking 
 of his infant boy ! 
 
 Plorence had no such thoughts. But love is quick to know when it is 
 spui'ned and hopeless : and hope died out of hers, as she stood looking in 
 her father's face. 
 
 " I ask you, Florence, are you frightened ? Is there anything the matter, 
 that you come here ?" 
 
 "I came Papa — " 
 
 " 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 room, years to come. It has faded from 
 the air, before he breaks the silence. It may pass as quickly from his brain, 
 as he believes, but it is there. Let him remember it in that room, years to 
 come ! 
 
 He took her by the arm. His hand was cold, and loose, and scarcely 
 closed upon her. 
 
 " You are tired, I dare say," he said, taking up the light, and leading 
 her towards the door, " and want rest. We all want rest. Go, Florence. 
 You have been dreaming." 
 
 The dream she had had, was over then, God help her ! and she felt that 
 it could never more come back. 
 
 " I wiU remain here to light you up the stairs. The whole house is 
 yours above there," said her father, slowly. " You are its mistress now. 
 Good night !" 
 
 Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered " Good night, dear 
 Papa," and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would have 
 returned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopeless 
 
THE LITTLE MDSHIPMAN IN THE MINORIES. 
 
 The famous " Little Midshipman " sign is old but not 
 ancient, and it is of wood. It has, perhaps, been written 
 about far more than any other sign, for it is a Dickensian 
 item : the sign of Uncle Sol.'s nautical store, in " Dombey 
 and Son." Solomon Gills was fond, of his Little Midship- 
 man, who is elaborately referred to many times in the story, 
 as indifferently braving all weathers, over the shop-door, 
 in his cocked hat and knee-breeches, the uniform of the 
 midshipmen and officers of the Navy in Nelson's time. 
 His is represented in the act of taking an observation with 
 what Dickens calls a " quadrant." Actually, he was at the 
 time when the novelist wrote, on a bracket in front of one 
 of the first-floor windows of J. W. Norie's " Naval Academy" 
 in Leadenhall Street. The business afterwards was removed 
 to No. 156 Minories, to what is now Messrs. Norie &: Wilson, 
 where the little modern effigy is carefully preserved within, 
 lest some enthusiastic collector of Dickens' relics should 
 annex it. The figure once made a journey to Chelsea, for 
 it was shown there in the Naval Exhibition of 1891. 
 
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 By means of motor charabancs or trams, which start from 
 i^'^ the centre of the town, most of the villages can very easily 
 ^^^^ be reached. The trams, which are quite a feature of Grenoble, 
 develop into powerful mountain trains, it seems, since they 
 , . extend some 12 to 15 miles into the foothills around 
 
 , Grenoble, and thus are of considerable benefit to the farms 
 TYT and other industries, for the bringing of fruit, or produce, 
 
 •J and other materials from the outlying villages, 
 ijj^j The roads for the most part are surprisingly good, many 
 and °^ *^^ main roads being coated with tar. They are also 
 
 »] wonderfully engineered in the more mountainous districts, 
 one and in many cases tunnels are cut clean through the rock, 
 cha the longer ones being perpetually lit by electricity. Build- 
 stra ings in the country typify the wildness of their surround- 
 not ings. Many of the houses are roughly built of stone with 
 a ni thatched roofs and gables stepped with stone slates, quite 
 
 1 a feature of the Dauphine. 
 T)id There are several very fine chateaux in the district. 
 ^^^^ At Sassenage will be found a moated chateau of the seven- 
 y*^ teenth century, built when the eleventh century chateau on 
 "J'y a hill above was abandoned. The interior contains much 
 
 z^ of interest in the way of furniture, pictures and armour, 
 
 etc. Above the main entrance is an allegorical carving 
 smi • • . • 
 
 ,^ representing the fairy Melusine, who according to the 
 
 ,, French legend married a knight named Raymond, on 
 
 thai condition that occasionally she should be left alone ; this 
 
 (< request was subsequently refused, so that she transformed 
 
 f herself into a winged serpent, and is supposed to inhabit 
 
 5 in spirit some caves nearby, and only appears on the death 
 
 lier of any inmates of the castle. In the village is a church 
 
 ] with Romanesque belfry, somewhat spoilt in effect by an 
 
 the immense clock. In a side chapel is the tomb of Lesdigiueres, 
 
 as 1 who lived in the sixteenth century and was known as 
 
 con " the old fox of Dauphiny." 
 
 1 At Vizilles is a very fine chateau magnificently situated, 
 
 clo' built in 1610, enlarged in the eighteenth century and 
 
 restored in the nineteenth century. It was in this castle 
 
 ^^^ that a meeting was arranged in 1788 among the various 
 
 ^°^ states of Dauphine, which became a prelude to the French 
 
 . Revolution. Over the main entrance, just visible in 
 
 ^ photograph, is an equestrian statue of Lesdigiueres. 
 
 Vizilles, named by the Romans Vigilia, was an important 
 
 % station in those times, since it lay on the road between 
 
 c Italy and Vienne. 
 
 Pjj, On a hill above the town is a very fine little Romanesque 
 
 ].g^, chapel, particularly pure in style and according to tradition 
 
 connected with the Templars. 
 
 In many of the villages the manufacture of cement is 
 
 actively carried out. There beauty is therefore marred 
 
 by the clouds of dust which overhang them, and by the 
 
 f actor V chimnevs which belch forth dense clouds of smoke. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 183 
 
 to encourage ; and her father stood there with the light — hard, unrespon- 
 sive, motionless — until the fluttering dress of his fair child was lost in 
 the darkness. 
 
 Let him remember it in that room, years 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 
 room, years to come ! 
 
 The last time he had watched her, from the same place, w^inding up 
 those stairs, she had had her brother in her arms. It did not move his 
 heart towards her now, it steeled it : but he went into his room, and 
 locked his door, and sat down in his chair, and cried for his lost boy. 
 
 Diogenes was broad awake upon his post, and waiting for his little 
 mistress. 
 
 " Oh Di ! Oh dear Di ! Love me for his sake !" 
 
 Diogenes akeady loved her for her own, and didn't care how much he 
 showed it. So he made himself vastly ridiculous by performing a variety 
 of uncouth bounces in the ante-chamber, and concluded, when poor 
 Florence was at last asleep, and dreaming of the rosy childi'en opposite, by 
 scratcliing open her bedroom door : rolling up his bed into a pillow : lying 
 down on the boards, at the full length of his tether, with his head towards 
 her : and looking lazily at her, upside down, out of the tops of his eyes, 
 until from winking and winking he fell asleep himself, and di-eamed, with 
 gruff barks, of his enemy. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 W ALTER GOES AWAY, 
 
 The "Wooden Midshipman at the Instrament-maker's door, like the 
 hai'd-hearted little midshipman he was, remained supremely indifferent 
 to Walter's going away, even when the veiy last day of his sojourn in the 
 back-parlour was on the decline. With his quadrant at his round black 
 knob of an eye, and his figure in its old attitude of indomitable alacrity, 
 the midshipman displayed his elfin small-clothes to the best advantage, 
 and, absorbed in scientific pursuits, had no sympathy with worldly concerns. 
 He was so far the creature of circumstances, that a dry day covered him 
 with dust, and a misty day peppered him with little bits of soot, and a 
 wet day brightened up his tarnished uniform for the moment, and a very 
 hot day blistered him ; but otherwise he was a callous, obdurate, con- 
 ceited midshipman, intent on his own discoveries, and caring as little for 
 what went on about him, terrestrially, as Archimedes at the taking of 
 Svracuse. 
 
 Such a midsliipman he seemed to be, at least, in the then position of 
 doiuestic aff'aii-s. Walter eyed him kindly many a time in passing in and 
 out ; and poor old Sol, when Walter was not there, would come and lean 
 against the door-post, resting 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 ear, and. a murderous visage made of parrot's 
 
184 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 feathers, was ever more indifferent to the appeals of its savage votaries, 
 than was the midshipman to these marks of attachment. 
 
 Walter's heart felt heavy as he looked round his old bed-room, up 
 among the parapets and chimney-pots, and thought that one more night 
 already darkening would close his acquaintance with it, perhaps for ever. 
 Dismantled of his little stock of books and pictures, it looked coldly and 
 reproachfully on him for his desertion, and 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 school-boy will be so little mine 
 as this old room. The dream may come back in my sleep, and I may 
 return waking to this place, it may be : but the dream at least will serve 
 no other master, and the room may have a score, and every one of them 
 may change, neglect, misuse it." 
 
 But his uncle was not to be left alone in the httle back-parlour, where he was 
 then sitting by himself ; for Captain Cuttle, considerate in his roughness, 
 stayed away against his wiU, purposely that they should have some talk 
 together unobserved : so Walter, newly returned home from his last day's 
 bustle, descended briskly, to bear him company. 
 
 " Uncle," he said gady, laying his hand upon the old man's shoulder, 
 " what shall I send you home from Barbadoes ? " 
 
 " Hope, my dear WaUy. Hope that we shall meet again, on this side 
 of the grave. Send me as much of that as you can." 
 
 " So I will. Uncle : I have enough and to spare, and I 'U not be chary 
 of it ! And as to lively turtles, and hmes for Captain Cuttle's punch, and 
 preserves for you on Sundays, and aU that sort of thing, why I '11 send 
 you shiploads. Uncle : when I 'm rich enough." 
 
 Old Sol wiped his spectacles, and faintly smiled. 
 
 " That 's right. Uncle !" cried Walter, merrily, and clapping him half a 
 dozen times more upon the shoulder. " You cheer up me ! I 'U cheer up 
 you ! We 'U be as gay as larks to-morrow morning. Uncle, and we '11 fly 
 as high ! As to my anticipations, they are singing out of sight now." 
 
 " WaUy, my dear boy," returned the old man, " I '11 do my best, I '11 
 do my best." 
 
 " And your best. Uncle," said Walter, with his pleasant laugh, " is the 
 best best that I know. You '11 not forget what you 're to send me, 
 Uncle?" 
 
 " No, WaUy, no," replied the old man ; " eveiything I hear about Miss 
 Dombey, now that she is left alone, jjoor lamb, I '11 write. I fear it won't 
 be much though, WaUy." 
 
 " Why, I 'U tell you what. Uncle," said Walter, after a moment's 
 hesitation," " I have just been up there." 
 
 " Ay, ay, ay?" murmured the old man, raising his eyebrows, and his 
 spectacles with them. 
 
 " Not to see her" said Walter, " though I could have seen her, I dare 
 say, if I had asked, Mr. Dombey being out of town : but to say a parting 
 word to Susan. I thought I might venture to do that, you know, under 
 the circumstances, and remembering when I saw Miss Dombey last." 
 
 " Yes, my boy, yes," replied his uncle, rousing himself from a temporary 
 abstraction. 
 
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DOMBEY AND SON. 185 
 
 *' So I saw her," pursued Walter, " Susan, I mean : and I told her I 
 was off and away to-morrow. And I said, Uncle, that you had always 
 had an interest in IVIiss Dombey since that night when she was here, and 
 always wished her well and happy, and always would be proud and glad 
 to serve her in the least : I thought I might say that, you know, under 
 the circumstances. Don't you think so?" 
 
 " Yes, my boy, yes," replied his uncle, in the tone as before. 
 
 " And I added," pursued "Walter, " that if she — Susan, I mean — could 
 ever let you know, either through herself, or Mrs. Kichards, or anybody 
 else who might be coming this way, that Miss Dombey was weU and happy, 
 you would take it very kindly, and would write so much to me, and I 
 should take it very kindly too. There ! Upon my word. Uncle," said 
 Walter, " I scarcely slept all last night throxigh thinking of doing this ; and 
 could not make up my mind when I was out, whether to do it or not ; and 
 yet I am siu-e 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 said, and quite 
 established its ingenuousness. 
 
 " So if you ever see her, Uncle," said Walter, " I mean Miss Dombey 
 now — and perhaps you may, who knows ! — teU her how much I felt for 
 her ; how much I used to think of her when I was here ; how I spoke of 
 her, with the tears in my eyes. Uncle, on this last night before I went 
 away. Tell her that I said I never could forget her gentle manner, or her 
 beautiful face, or her sweet kind disposition that was better than all. 
 And as I didn't take them from a woman's feet, or a young lady's : only 
 a little innocent cliild's," said Walter: " tell her, if you don't mind. Uncle, 
 that I kept those shoes — she 'U remember how often they fell off, that 
 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 oft' his baggage on a truck for shipment at 
 the docks on board the Son and Heir, had got possession of them ; and 
 wheeled them away under the very eye of the insensible IVIidshipman 
 before their owner had weU finished speaking. 
 
 Eut that ancient mariner might have been excused his insensibility to the 
 treasure as it roUed away. For, imder his eye at the same moment, accurately 
 within liis range of observation, coming full into the sphere of his startled 
 and intensely wide-awake look-out, were Florence and Susan Nipper : 
 Florence looking up into his face half timidly, and receiving the whole 
 shock of his wooden oslins; ! 
 
 More than this, they passed into the shop, and passed in at the parlour 
 door before they were observed by anybody but the Midshipman. Ajid 
 Walter, having his back to the door, would have known nothing of their 
 apparition even then, but for seeing his uncle spring out of his own chair, 
 and nearly tumble over another. 
 
 " Why Uncle ! " exclaimed Walter. " What 's the matter ? " 
 
 Old Solomon replied, " Miss Dombey ! " 
 
 *' Is it possible !" cried Walter, looking round and starting up in his 
 turn. "Here!" 
 
 Why it was so possible and so actual, that, whUe the words were on his 
 
186 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 lips, Florence hurried pastliim; took Uncle Sol's snufF-coloured lappels, one 
 in each hand; kissed him on the cheek; and turning, gave her hand to 
 Walter with a simple truth and earnestness that was her own, and no one 
 else's in the world ! 
 
 " Going away, Walter !" said Florence. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Dombey," he replied, but not so hopefully as he endeavoured : 
 "I have a voyage before me." 
 
 " And your Uncle," said Florence, looking back at Solomon. " He is 
 sorry you are going, I am sure. Ah ! I see he is ! Dear Walter, I am 
 very sorry too." 
 
 " Goodness knows," exclaimed Miss Nipper, " there's a many we could 
 spare instead, if numbers is a object, Mrs. Pipchin as a overseer would come 
 cheap at her weight in gold, and if a knowledge of black slavery should be 
 required, them Blimbers is the very people for the sitiwation." 
 
 With that Miss Nipper untied her bonnet strings, and after looking 
 vacantly for some moments into a httle black tea-pot that was set forth 
 with the usual homely service, on the table, shook her head and a tin 
 canister, and 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 Sol, rubbing his hands slowly, and considering 
 the matter half aloud, as something pensive in the bright eyes looking at him 
 arrested his attention. "Yes, that expression was in the younger face, too ! " 
 
 " You remember me," said Florence with a smile, " and what a little 
 creature I was then ?" 
 
 " My dear young lady," returned the Instniment-maker, " how could I 
 forget you, often as I have thought of you and heard of you since ! At the 
 very moment, indeed, when you came in, Wally was talking about you to 
 me, and leaving messages for you, and — " 
 
 " Was he ?" said Florence. " Thank you, Walter ! Oh thank you, Wal- 
 ter ! I was afraid you might be going away and hardly thinking of me ;" 
 and again she gave him her Httle hand so freely and so faithfully that Wal- 
 ter held it for some moments in his own, and could not bear to let it go. 
 
 Yet Walter did not hold it as he might have held it once, nor did its 
 touch awaken those old day-dreams of his boyhood that liad floated past him 
 sometimes even lately, and confused him with their indistinct and broken 
 shapes. The purity and innocence of her endearing manner, and its per- 
 fect trustfulness, and the undisguised regard for him that lay so deeply 
 seated in her constant eyes, and glowed upon her fair face throiigh the 
 smile that shaded — for alas ! it was a smile too sad to brighten — it, were 
 not of their romantic race. They brought back to his thoughts the early 
 death-bed he had seen her tending, and the love the child had borne her ; 
 and on the wings of such remembrances she seemed to rise up, far above 
 his idle fancies, into clearer and serener air. 
 
 " I — I am afraid I must call you Walter's Uncle, Sii-," said Florence to 
 the old man, " if you'll let me." 
 
 " My dear young lady," cried old Sol. " Let you ! Good gi-acious !" 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 187 
 
 "We always knew you by that name, and talked of you," said Florence, 
 glancing round, and sighing gently. " The nice old parlour ! Just the 
 same ! How well I recoUect it !" 
 
 Old Sol looked first at her, then at his nephew, and then rubbed his hands, 
 and rubbed his spectacles, and said below his breath, " Ah! time, time, time! " 
 
 There was a short silence ; during which Susan Nipper skilfully im- 
 pounded two extra cups and saucers from the cupboard, and awaited the 
 drawing of the tea with a thoughtful air. 
 
 " I want to tell Walter's Uncle," said Florence, laying her hand timidly 
 upon the old man's as it rested on the table, to bespeak his attention, " some- 
 thing that I am anxious about. He is going to be left alone, and if he will 
 allow me— not to take Walter's place, for that I couldn't do, but to be his 
 true friend and help him if I ever can while Walter is away, I shall be 
 very much obliged to him indeed. Will you ? May I, Walter's Uncle ?" 
 
 The Instrument -maker, without speaking, put her hand to his lips, and 
 Susan Nipper, leaning back with her arms crossed, in the chair of presidency 
 into which she had voted herself, bit one end of her bonnet strings, and 
 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 not, but wiW. confide in 
 us, and trust us, and rely upon us. And you '11 try to let us be a comfort 
 to you ? WiU you, Walter's Uncle ?" 
 
 The sweet face looking into his, the gently pleading eyes, the soft voice, 
 and the light touch on his arm made the more winning by a child's respect 
 and honour for his age, that gave to all an air of graceful doubt and modest 
 hesitation — these, and her natural earnestness, so overcame the poor old 
 Instrument-maker, that he only answered : 
 
 " Wally ! say a word for me, my dear. I 'm very grateful." 
 
 "No, Walter," returned Florence Avith her quiet smile. " Say nothing 
 for him, if you please. I understand him very well, and we must learn to 
 talk together without you, dear Walter." 
 
 The regi-etfid tone in which she said these latter words, touched Walter 
 more than aU the rest. 
 
 "Miss Florence," he replied, with an effort to recover the cheerful 
 manner he had preserved while talking with his uncle, " I know no more 
 than my uncle, what to say in acknowledgment of such kindness, I am 
 sure. But what could I say, after all, if I had the power of talking for an 
 hour, except that it is like you !" 
 
 Susan Nipper began upon a new part of her bonnet string, and nodded 
 at the skylight, in approval of the sentiment expressed. 
 
 " Oh ! but Walter," said Florence, "there is something that I wish to say 
 to you before you go away, and you must call me Florence if you please, and 
 not speak like a stranger." 
 
 " Like a stranger ! " returned Walter. " No. I couldn't speak so. 
 I am sure, at least, I couldn't feel like one." 
 
 " Aye, but that is not enough, and is not what I mean. For Walter," 
 added Florence, burstmg into tears, " he liked you very much, and said 
 before he died that he was fond of you, and said ' Eemember Walter !' and 
 
188 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 if you '11 be a brother to me Walter, now tliat he is gone and I have none 
 on earth, I '11 be your sister aU my life, and think of you like one wherever 
 we may be ! This is what I wished to say, dear Walter, but I cannot say 
 it as I would, because my heart is full." 
 
 And in its fulness and its sweet simplicity, she held out both her hands to 
 him. Walter taking them, stooped down and touched the tearful face that 
 neither shrunk nor turned away, nor reddened as he did so, but looked up at 
 him Avith 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 appeal, beside the dead child's bed : and, in the 
 solemn presence he had seen there, pledged himself to cherish and protect 
 her very image, in his banishment, with 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 Nipper, who had bitten both her bonnet strings at once, and im- 
 parted a great dea^l of private emotion to the skylight, dm'ing this transac- 
 tion, now changed the subject by inquiring who took milk and who took 
 sugar ; and being enlightened on these points, poured out the tea. They 
 all four gathered socially about the little table, and took tea under that 
 young lady's active superintendence ; and the presence of Florence in the 
 back parlour, brightened the Tartar frigate on the wall. 
 
 Half an hour ago Walter, for his Life, would have hardly called her by 
 her name. But he could do so now when she entreated him. He could 
 think of her being there, without a lurking misgiving that it would have 
 been better if she had not come. He could calmly think how beautiful she 
 was, how full of promise, what a home some happy man would find in such a 
 heart one day. He could reflect upon his own place in that heart, with 
 pride ; and with a brave determination, if not to deserve it — he stdl 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 tea, engendering 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 chronometer, and 
 moved them faster than the Tartar frigate ever went before the wind. 
 Be this as it may, the visitors had a coach in waiting at a quiet corner not 
 far ofi" ; and the chronometer, on being incidentally referred to, gave such 
 a positive opinion that it had been waiting a long time, that it was impos- 
 sible to doubt the fact : especially when stated on such unimpeachable 
 authority. If Uncle Sol had been going to be hanged by his own time, he 
 never would have allowed that the chronometer was too fast, by the least 
 fraction of a second. 
 
 Florence at parting recapitulated to the old man aU that she had said 
 before, and bound him to their compact. Uncle Sol attended her lovingly 
 to the legs of the Wooden Midshipman, and there resigned her to Walter, 
 who 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 wiU be absent very long ? " 
 
 " Indeed," said Walter, " I don't know. I fear so, Mr. Dombey 
 signified as much, I thought, when he appointed me." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 189 
 
 " Is it a favour, Walter ? " inquired Florence, after a moment's hesita- 
 tion, and looking anxiously in liis face. 
 
 " The appointment ? " returned Walter. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Walter would have given anything to have answered in the affirmative, 
 but his face answered before his lips could, and Florence was too attentive 
 to it not to understand its reply. 
 
 " I am afraid you have scarcely been a favouiite with Papa," she said, 
 timidly. 
 
 " There is no reason," replied Walter, smiling, " why I should be." 
 [ " No reason, Walter !" 
 
 " There was no reason," said Walter, understanding what she meant. 
 " There are many people employed in the house. Between Mr. Dombey 
 and a young man like me, there 's a wide space of separation. If I do my 
 duty, I do what I ought, and do no more than all the rest." 
 
 Had Florence any misgiving of which she was hardly conscious : any 
 misgiving that had sprimg 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 her, and early knowledge of her, might have 
 involved him in that powerful displeasm-e and dislike ? Had Walter any 
 such idea, or any sudden thought that it was in her mind at that moment? 
 Neither of them hinted at it. Neither of them spoke at all, for some short 
 time. Susan, walking on the other side of Walter, eyed them both 
 sharply; and certainly Miss Nipper's thoughts travelled in that dii-ection, 
 and very confidently too. 
 
 " You may come back very soon," said Florence, " perhaps, Walter." 
 
 " I TtMi/ come back," said Walter, " an old man, and find you an old 
 lady. But I hope for better things." 
 
 " Papa," said Florence, after a moment, " will — mH recover from his 
 grief, and — and speak more freely to me one day, perhaps ; and if he should, 
 I will teU him how much I wish to see you back again, and ask him to 
 recall you for my sake." 
 
 There was a touching modulation in these \«-ord3 about her father that 
 Walter understood too well. 
 
 The coach being close at hand, he would have left her without speaking, 
 for now he felt what parting was ; but Florence held his hand when she 
 was seated, and then he found there was a little packet in her own. 
 
 " Walter," she said, looking fuU upon him with her affectionate eyes, 
 " like you, I hope for better things. I wiU pray for them, and believe that 
 they will arrive. I made this little gift for Paul. Pray take it with my 
 love, and do not look at it until you are gone away. And now, God bless 
 you, Walter ! never forget me. You are my brother, dear ! " 
 
 He was glad that Susan Nipper came between them, or he might have 
 left her with a sorrowful remembrance of him. He was glad too that she 
 did not look out of the coach again, but waved the httle hand to him 
 instead, as long as he could see it. 
 
 In spite of her request, he could not help opening the packet that 
 night when he went to bed. It was a little purse : and there was money 
 in it. 
 
190 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 . Bright rose the sun next morning, from his absence in strange countries, 
 and up rose Walter with it to receive the Captain, who was akeady at the 
 door : having turned out earlier than was necessary, in order to get under 
 weigh while JVIrs. Mac Stinger was yet slumbering. The Captain pretended 
 to be in tip-top spirits, and brought a very smoky tongue in one of the 
 pockets of the broad blue coat for breakfast. 
 
 " And Wal'r," said the Captain, when they took their seats at table, 
 " if your uncle 's the man I think him, he '11 bring out the last bottle of the 
 Madeira on the present occasion." 
 
 " No, no, Ned," 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 
 perhaps, Ned, before it sees the light." 
 
 " Hear him ! " cried the Captain. " Good morality ! Wal'r my lad. 
 Train up a fig-tree in the way it should go, and when you are old sit under 
 the shade on it. Overhaul the — Well," said the Captain on second 
 thoughts, " I an't quite certain where that 's to be found ; but when found, 
 make a note of. Sol GiUs, heave a-head again ! " 
 
 " But there, or somewhere, it shall he, Ned, until 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 there bottle in company, I 'U give you two leave to drink my 
 allowance ! " 
 
 Notwithstanding the Captain's excessive joviality, he made but a poor 
 hand at the smoky tongue, though he tried very hard, when anybody looked 
 at him, to appear as if he were eating with a vast appetite. He was terri- 
 bly afraid, likewise, of being left alone with either uncle or nephew; appear- 
 ing to consider that his only chance of safety as to keeping up appearances, 
 was in their being always three together. This terror on the part of the 
 Captain, reduced him to such ingenious evasions as running to the door, 
 when 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 up-stau's to take leave of the lodgers, on a feint of smelling 
 fire in a neighbouring chimney. These artifices Captain Cuttle deemed 
 inscrutable by any uninsphed observer. 
 
 Walter was coming down from his parting expedition up-stairs, and was 
 crossing the shop to go back to the Httle parlour, when he saw a faded 
 face he knew, looking in at the door, and darted towards it. 
 
 " Mr. Carker ! " cried Walter, pressing the hand of John Carker the 
 Junior. " Pray come in ! This is kind of you, to be here so early to say 
 good bye to me. You knew how glad it would make me to shake hands 
 with you, once, before 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 again, Walter," returned the 
 other, gently resisting liis invitation, " and I am glad of this opportunity 
 too. I may ventm'e to speak to you, and to take you by the hand, on the 
 eve of separation. I shall not have to resist your frank approaclies, 
 Walter, any more." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 191 
 
 Tliere was a melancholy in liis smile as he said it, that showed he had 
 found some company and friendship for his thoughts even in that. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Carker ! " returned Walter. " Why did you resist them ? 
 You could have done me nothing but good, I am very sm'e." 
 
 He shook his head. " If there were any good," he said, " I could do 
 on tliis earth, I would do it, Walter, for you. The sight of you from day 
 to day, has been at once happiness and remorse to me. But the pleasure 
 has outweighed the pain. I know that, now, by knowing what I lose." 
 
 " Come in, Mr. Carker, and make acquaintance with my good old 
 uncle," urged Walter. " I have often talked to him about you, and he 
 will be glad to tell you all he hears from me. I have not," said Walter, 
 noticing his hesitation, and speaking with embarrassment himself: " I have 
 not told him anything about our last conversation, Mr. Carker ; not even 
 him, believe me." 
 
 The gi'ey Junior pressed his hand, and tears rose in his eyes. 
 
 " If I ever make acquaintance with him, Walter," he retm*ned, "it wiU 
 be that I may hear tidings of you. Eely on my not wronging your for- 
 bearance and consideration. It would be to wrong it, not to tell Ixim all 
 the truth, before I sought a word of confidence from him. But I have no 
 friend or acquaintance except you : and even for your sake, am little Ukely 
 to make any." 
 
 " I wish," said Walter, " you had suffered me to be your friend indeed. 
 I always wished it, Mr. Carker, as you know ; but never half so much as 
 now, when we are going to part." 
 
 " It is enough," replied the other, " that you have been the friend of 
 my own breast, and that when I have avoided you most, my heart inchned 
 the most towards you, and was fullest of you. Walter, good bye ! " 
 
 " Good bye, Mr. Carker. Heaven be with you, sir ! " cried Walter, 
 with emotion. 
 
 " If," said the other, retaining his hand while he spoke ; " if when you 
 come back, you miss me from my old corner, and should hear from any 
 one where I am lying, come and look upon my grave. Think that I might 
 have been as honest and as happy as you ! And let me tliink, when I 
 know my time is coming on, that some one like my former self may stand 
 there, for a moment, and remember me with pity and forgiveness ! Walter, 
 good bye ! " 
 
 His figure crept Uke a shadow down the bright, sun-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 Midsliipman : and away they went, himself, his 
 uncle, and the Captain, in a hackney-coach to a wharf, where they were to 
 take steam-boat for some Keach down the river, the name of which, as the 
 captain gave it out, was a hopeless mystery to the ears of landsmen. 
 Arrived at this Keach (whither the ship had repaired by last night's 
 tide), they were boai-ded by various excited watermen, and among others 
 by a dirty Cyclops of the captain's acquaintance, who, with his one eye, 
 had 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 personage, who was frightfully hoarse and constitutionally in 
 
192 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 want of shaving, fhey were all tlu'ee put aboard the Son and Heir. And 
 the Son and Heir was in a pretty state of confusion, with sails lying 
 all bedraggled on the wet decks, loose ropes tripping people up, men 
 in red shirts running barefoot to and fro, casks blockading every foot 
 of space, and, in the tliickest of the fray, a black cook in a black caboose 
 up to his eyes in vegetables and blinded with smoke. 
 
 The Captain immediately drew Walter into a corner, and with a great 
 effort, that made his face very red, pulled up the silver watch, which was 
 so big, and so tight in his pocket, that it came out like a bung. 
 
 " Wal'r," said the Captain, handing it over, and shaking him heartily by 
 the hand, " a parting gift, my lad. Put it back half an hour every morn- 
 ing, and about another quarter towards the arternoon, and it's a watch 
 that '11 do you credit." 
 
 " Captain Cuttle ! I couldn't think of it !" cried Walter, detaining him, 
 for he was running away. " Pray take it back. I have one already." 
 
 " Then Wal'r," said the Captain, suddenly diving into one of his pockets 
 and bringing up the two tea-spoons and the sugar-tongs, with which he 
 had armed himself to meet such an objection, " Take this here trifle of 
 plate, instead." 
 
 " No, no, I couldn't indeed!" cried Walter, " a thousand thanks! Don't 
 tlu'OAv them away. Captain 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 that I should like to have it. There ! 
 Good bye. Captain Cuttle ! Take care of my uncle ! Uncle Sol, God 
 bless you !" 
 
 They were over the side in the confusion, before Walter caught another 
 glimpse of either ; and when he ran up to the stern, and looked after them, 
 he saw his uncle hanging down his head in the boat, and Captain Cuttle 
 rapping him on the back with the great sUver watch (it must have been 
 very painful), and gesticulating hopefully with the tea-spoons and sugar- 
 tongs. Catching sight of Walter, Captain Cuttle dropped the property into 
 the bottom of the boat with perfect unconcern, being evidently oblivious 
 of its existence, and pulling off the glazed hat hailed him lustily. The 
 glazed hat made quite a show in the sun with its gHstening, and the Captain 
 continued to wave it until he could be seen no longer. Then the confusion 
 on board, which had been rapidly increasing, reached its height ; two or 
 three other boats went away with a cheer ; the sails shone bright and fuU 
 above, as Walter watched them spread their smface to the favourable 
 breeze ; the water flew in sparkles from the prow ; and off upon her 
 voyage went the Son and Heir, as hopefully and trippingly as many another 
 son and heii-, gone down, had started on his way before her. 
 
 Day after day, old Sol and Captain Cuttle kept her reckoning in the little 
 back parlour and worked out her com-se, with the chart spread before them 
 on the round table. At night, when old Sol climbed up-stairs, so lonely, 
 to the attic where it sometimes blew great gims, he looked up at the stars 
 and listened to the wind, and kept a longer Avatch than woidd have fallen 
 to his lot on board the ship. The last bottle of the old Madeira, which 
 had had its cruising days, and known its dangers of the deep, lay silently 
 beneath its dust and cobwebs, in the meanwliile, undisturbed. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON, 193 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MR. DOMBEY GOES UPON A JOURNEY. 
 
 " Mr. Dombey, Sir," said Major Bagstock, " Joey B. is not in general 
 :a man of sentiment, for Joseph is tough. But Joe has his feelings. Sir, 
 and when they are awakened — Damme Mr. Dombey," cried the Major 
 with sudden ferocity, "this is weakness, and 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 Major, previous to their 
 setting forth on their trip ; and the ill-starred Native had akeady under- 
 gone a world of misery arising out of the muffins, while, in connexion with 
 the general question of boiled eggs, life was a burden to him. 
 
 " It is not for an old soldier of the Bagstock breed," observed the Major, 
 relapsing into a mild state, " to deliver himself up, a prey to his own 
 emotions; but — damme Sir," cried the Major, in another spasm of ferocity, 
 " I condole with you ! " 
 
 The Major's purple visage deepened in its hue, and the Major's lobster 
 «yes stood out in bolder relief, as he shook Mr. Dombey by the hand, im- 
 pai-ting 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 
 head, and a wheeze very like the cough of a horse, the Major then con- 
 ducted his visitor to the sitting-room, and there welcomed him (having 
 now composed his feelings) with the freedom and frankness of a travelling 
 companion. 
 
 " Dombey," said the Major, " I 'm glad to see you. I 'm proud to see 
 you. There are not many men in Em-ope to whom J. Bagstock would say 
 that — for Josh is blunt, Sir : it 's his nature — but Joey B. is proud to see 
 you, Dombey." 
 
 " Major," retvirned Mr. Dombey, " you are very obliging." 
 
 •" No, Sir," said the Major, " Devil a bit ! That 's not my character. 
 If that had been Joe's character, Joe might have been, by this time, 
 Lieutenant- General Sir Joseph Bagstock, K.C.B., and might have received 
 you in very different quarters. You don't know old Joe yet, I find. But 
 this occasion, being special, is a source of pride to me. By the Lord, 
 Sir," said the Major resolutely, " it 's an honour to me !" 
 
 Mr. Dombey, in his estimation of himself and his money, felt that 
 this was very true, and therefore did not dispute the point. But the 
 instinctive recognition of such a truth by the Major, and his plain avowal 
 ■of it, were very agi-eeable. It was a confirmation to Mi'. Dombey, if he had 
 required any, of 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 Major as an officer and a gentleman, had a no less becoming 
 sense of it, than the beadle of the Eoyal Exchange. 
 
 o 
 
194 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 And if it were ever consolatory to know this, or the like of this, it was 
 consolatory then, when the impotence of his will, the instability of his 
 hopes, the feebleness of wealth, had been so direfully impressed upon him. 
 What conld it do, his boy had asked him. Sometimes, thinking of the 
 baby question, he could hardly forbear inquiring, himself, what could it do 
 indeed : what had it done ? 
 
 But these were lonely thoughts, bred late at night in the sullen despon- 
 dency and gloom of his retirement, and pride easily found its re-assurance 
 in many testimonies to the truth, as unimpeachable and precious as the 
 Major's. Mr. Dombey, in his friendlessness, inclined to the Major. It 
 cannot be said that he warmed towards him, but he thawed a little. The 
 Major had had some part — and not too much — in the days by the seaside. 
 He was a man of the world, and knew some gi-eat people. He talked 
 much, and told stories; and Mr. Dombey was disposed to regard him as a 
 choice spirit who shone in society, and who had not that poisonous ingre- 
 dient of poverty Avith which choice spirits in general are too much adul- 
 terated. His station was undeniable. Altogether the Major was a credit- 
 able companion, weU accustomed to a life of leisure, and to such places 
 as that they were about to visit, and having an air of gentlemanly ease 
 about him that mixed well enough with his own city character, and did not 
 compete with it at all. If Mr. Dombey had any lingering idea that the 
 Major, as a man accustomed, in the way of his calling, to make light of 
 the ruthless hand that had lately crushed his hopes, might unconsciously 
 impart some useful philosophy to him, and scare away his weak regrets, 
 he hid it from himself, and left it lying at the bottom of his pride, 
 unexamined. 
 
 " Where is my scoundrel !" said the Major, looking wrathfully round 
 the room. 
 
 The Native, who had no particular name, but answered to any vitu- 
 perative epithet, presented liimself instantly at the door and ventured to 
 come no nearer. 
 
 " You viUain !" said the choleric Major, " where 's the breakfast ?" 
 
 The dark servant disappeared in search of it, and was quickly heard 
 reascending the stairs in such a tremulous state, that the plates and dishes 
 on the tray he carried, trembhng sympathetically as he came, rattled 
 again, all the way up. 
 
 " Dombey," said the Major, glancmg at the Native as he arranged the 
 table, and encoui-aging him with an awful shake of his fist when he upset 
 a spoon, " here is a devilled grill, a savomy pie, a dish of kidneys, 
 and so forth. Pray sit down. Old Joe can give you nothing but camp 
 fare, you see." 
 
 " Very excellent fare. Major," replied his guest; and not in mere 
 politeness either ; for the Major always took the best possible care of 
 himself, and indeed ate rather more of rich meats than was good for him, 
 insomuch that his Imperial complexion was mainly referred by the faculty 
 to that circumstance. 
 
 " You have been looking over the way Sir," observed the Major. 
 " Have you seen our friend ?" 
 
 " You mean Miss Tox," retorted Mi-. Dombey. " No." 
 
 " Charming woman, Sir," said the Major, with a fat laugh rising in his 
 short throat, and nearly suffocating him. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 195 
 
 te 
 
 Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe," replied ^Mr. 
 Dombey. 
 
 The haughty coldness of the reply seemed to afford Major Bagstock 
 infinite dehght. He swelled and swelled, exceedingly : and even laid 
 down his knife and fork for a moment, to rub his liands. 
 
 " Old Joe, Sir," said the Major, " was a bit of a favourite in that 
 quarter once. But Joe has had his day. J. Bagstock is extinguished — 
 outrivalled — floored, Sir. I tell you what, Dombey." The Major paused 
 in his eating, and looked mysteriously indignant. " That's a de-vilish 
 ambitious woman, Sir." 
 
 Mr. Dombey said " Indeed !" with frigid indifference : mingled perhaps 
 with some contemptuous incredulity as to Miss Tox having the pre- 
 sumption to harbour such a superior quality. 
 
 " That woman. Sir," said the Major, " is, in her way, a Lucifer. Joey 
 B. has had his day Sir, but he keeps his eyes. He sees, does Joe. His 
 Koyal Highness the late Duke of York observed of Joey, at a levee, that 
 he saw." 
 
 The Major accompanied this with such a look, and, between eating, 
 drinking, hot tea, devilled grill, muffins, and meaning, was altogether so 
 sw^oUen and infiamed about the head, that even Mr. Dombey showed some 
 anxiety for him. 
 
 " That ridiculous old spectacle, Sir," pursued the Major, " aspires. 
 She aspires sky-high, Sir. Matrimonially, Dombey." 
 " I am sorry for her," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "Don't say that, Dombey," returned the Major in a warning voice. 
 "Why should I not. Major ?" said Mr. Dombey. 
 The Major gave no answer but the horse's cough, and went on eating 
 vigorously. 
 
 " She has taken an interest in your household," said the Major, stop- 
 ping short again, "and been a frequent visitor at your house for some 
 time now." 
 
 " Yes," replied IVIr. Dombey with great stateliness, " Miss Tox was 
 originally received there, at the time of Mrs. Dombey's death, as a friend of 
 my sister's; and being a well-behaved person, and showing a liking for the 
 poor infant, she was permitted — I may say encouraged — to repeat her 
 visits with my sister, and gradually to occupy a kind of footing of famili- 
 arity in the family. I have," said Mr. Dombey, in the tone of a man who 
 was making a great and valuable concession, " I have a respect for Miss 
 Tox. She has been so obliging as to render many little services in my 
 house : trifling and insignificant services perhaps. Major, but not to be 
 disparaged on that account : and I hope I have had the good fortune to 
 be enabled to acknowledge them by such attentioa a. id notice as it has 
 been in my power to bestow. I hold myself indebted to Miss Tox, Major," 
 added Mr. Dombey, with a slight wave of his hand, " for the pleasiu-e of 
 your acquaintance." 
 
 "])ombey," said the Major warmly; " no ! No, Sir! Joseph Bagstock can 
 never permit that assertion to pass uncontradicted. Your knowledge of old 
 Joe, Sir, such as he is, and old Joe's knowledge of you. Sir, had its origin 
 in a noble fellow. Sir — in a great creature. Sir. Dombey !" said the Major, 
 with a struggle which it was not very difficult to parade, his whole life 
 
 o2 
 
19& DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 being a struggle against all kinds of apoplectic symptoms, "we knew 
 eacli other through your boy." 
 
 Mr. Dombey seemed touched, as it is not improbable the Major designed 
 he should be, by this allusion. He looked down and sighed : and the Major, 
 rousing himself fiercely, again said, in reference to the state of mind into 
 which he felt himself in danger of falling, that this was weakness, and 
 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 her, J. B. is wilhng to give her. Sir. 
 Notwithstanding which. Ma'am," he added, raising his eyes from his plate, 
 and casting them across Princess's Place, to where Miss Tox was at that 
 moment visible at her window watering her flowers, " you 're a scheming 
 jade. Ma'am, and your ambition is a piece of monstrous impudence. If it 
 only made yourself ridiculous, Ma'am," said the Major, rolling his head at 
 the unconscious Miss Tox, while his starting eyes appeared to make a leap 
 towards her, "you might do that to yom- heart's content. Ma'am, without 
 any objection, I assure you, on 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 people, and 
 generous, unsuspicious people too, as a repayment for their condescension, 
 you stir the blood of old Joe in his body." 
 
 " Major," said Mr. Dombey, reddening, " 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 world. Sir : lived in the world Avith his eyes open, Sir, and his 
 ears cocked : and Joe tells you, Dombey, that there 's a de-viUsh artful and 
 ambitious woman over the way." 
 
 Mr. Dombey involuntarily glanced over the way ; and an angry glance 
 he sent in that direction, too. 
 
 " That 's all on such a subject that shall pass the lips of Joseph Bag- 
 stock," said the Major firmly. " Joe is not a tale-bearer, but there are 
 times when he must speak, when he will speak ! — confound your arts, 
 Ma'am," cried the Major, again apostrophising his fair neighbour, with 
 great ire " — when the provocation is too strong to admit of his remain- 
 ing silent." 
 
 The emotion of this outbreak threw the Major into a paroxysm of 
 horse's coughs, which held him for a long time. On recovering he added : 
 
 " And now, Dombey, as you have invited Joe — old Joe, who has no 
 other merit. Sir, but that he is tough and hearty — to be your gniest and 
 guide at Leamington, command him in any way you please, and he is 
 wholly yours. I don't know. Sir," said the Major, wagging his double 
 chin with a jocose air, " what it is you people see in Joe to make you hold 
 him in such great request, all of you ; but this I know, Sir, that if he wasn't 
 pretty tough, and obstinate in his refusals, you'd kill him among you with 
 your invitations and so forth, in double quick time." 
 
 Mr. Dombey, in a few words, expressed his sense of the preference he 
 received over those other distinguished members of society who were 
 clamom-ing for the possession of Major Bagstock. But the Major cut 
 him short by giving him to understand that he followed his own inclina- 
 tions, and 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." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 197 
 
 Tlie Major being by tliis time in a state of repletion, with essence of 
 savoury pie oozing out at the corners of his eyes, and devilled grill and 
 kidneys tightening his cravat : and the time moreover approaching for the 
 departure of the railway train to Birmingham, by which they were to leave 
 town : the Native got him into liis great coat with immense difficulty, and 
 buttoned him up until his face looked staring and gasping, over the top 
 of that garment, as if he were in a bai-rel. The Native then handed him 
 separately, and with a decent interval between each supply, his wash- 
 leather gloves, his thick stick, and his hat ; which latter article the Major 
 wore with a rakish air on one side of his head, by way of toning down 
 his remarkable visage. The Native had previously packed, in all possible 
 and impossible parts of Mr. Dombey's chariot, which was in waiting, an 
 unusual quantity of carpet-bags and small portmanteaus, no less apopletic 
 in appearance than the Major himself: and having filled his own pockets 
 with Seltzer water. East India sherry, sandwiches, shawls, telescopes, 
 maps, and newspapers, any or aU of which Ught baggage the Major might 
 require at any instant of the journey, he announced that everything was 
 ready. To complete the equipment of this unfortunate foreigner (cur- 
 rently believed to be a prince in his own country), when he took his seat 
 in the rumble by the side of Mr. Towlinson, a pile of the Major's cloaks 
 and great-coats was hurled upon him by the landlord, who aimed at him 
 from the pavement with those great missiles like a Titan, and so covered 
 him up, that he proceeded, in a living tomb, to the railroad station. 
 
 But before the carriage moved away, and while the Native was in the 
 act of sepulture, Miss Tox appearing at her window, waved a lily-white 
 handkerchief. Mr. Dombey received this parting salutation very coldly — 
 very coldly even for him — and honouring her with the slightest possible 
 inclination of his head, leaned back in the caiTiage with a very dis- 
 contented 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, leering, and choking, like an over- 
 fed Mephistopheles. 
 
 During the bustle of preparation at the railway, Mr. Dombey and the 
 Major walked up and down the platform side by side ; the former taciturn 
 and gloomy, and the latter entertaining him, or entertaining himself, with 
 a variety of anecdotes and reminiscences, in most of which Joe Bagstock 
 was the principal performer. Neither of the two observed that in the 
 course of these walks, they attracted the attention of a working man who 
 Avas standing near the engine, and who touched his hat every time they 
 passed; for Mr. Dombey habitually looked over the vulgar herd, not at 
 them ; and the Major was looking, at the time, into the core of one of his 
 stories. At length, however, this man stepped before them as they turned 
 round, and pulling his hat off, and keeping it off, ducked his head to 
 Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "Beg your pardon. Sir," said the man, "but I hope you're a doin' 
 pretty well. Sir." 
 
 He was dressed in a canvass suit abundantly besmeared with coal-dust 
 and oil, and had cinders in his whiskers, and a smell of half-slaked ashes 
 all over him. He was not a bad-looking fellow, nor even what could be 
 faMy called a dirty-looking fellow, in spite of this ; and, in short, he was 
 Mr. Toodle, professionally clothed. 
 
198 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 (( 
 
 I shall have the honour of stokin' of you down, Sir," said Mr. 
 Toodle. "Beg your pardon, Sir. I hope you find yourself a coming 
 round ? " 
 
 Mr. Dombey looked at him, in return for his tone of interest, as if a 
 man like that would make his very eyesight dirty. 
 
 " 'Souse the liberty, Sir," said Toodle, seeing he was not clearly remem- 
 bered, " but my wife Polly, as was called Eichards in your family — " 
 
 A change in Mr. Dombey's face, which seemed to express recollection 
 of him, and so it did, but it expressed in a much stronger degree an angry 
 sense of humiliation, stopped Mr. Toodle short. 
 
 " Your wife wants money, I suppose," said Mr. Dombey, putting his 
 hand in his pocket, and speaking (but that he always did) haughtily. 
 
 " No thank'ee, Sir," returned Toodle, " I can't say she does. / don't." 
 
 Mr. Dombey was stopped short now in his turn : and awkwardly : with 
 his hand in his pocket. 
 
 " No Sir," said Toodle, turning his oilskin cap round and round ; 
 " we're a doin' pretty well Sir; we haven't no cause to complain in 
 the worldly way Sii-. We've had four more since then Sir, but we 
 rubs on," 
 
 Mr. Dombey woidd have rubbed on to his own carriage, though in so 
 doing he had rubbed the stoker underneath the wheels ; but his attention 
 was arrested by something in connection with the cap still going slowdy 
 round and round in the man's hand 
 
 " We lost one babby," observed Toodle, " there 's no denyin'." 
 
 " Lately," added Mr. Dombey, looking at the cap. 
 
 " No Sir, up'ard of three years ago, but all the rest is hearty. And 
 in the matter o' readin' Sir," said Toodle, ducking again, as if to remind 
 Mr. Dombey of what had passed between them on that subject long ago, 
 " them boys o' mine, they learned me, among 'em, arter aU. They 've 
 made a wery tolerable scholar of me Sii", them boys." 
 
 " Come, Major ! " said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Beg your pardon Sir," resumed Toodle, taking a step before them 
 and deferentially stopping them again, still cap in hand : " I wouldn't 
 have troubled you wdth such a pint except as a way of gettin' in the name 
 of my son Biler— christened Eobin— him as you was so good as make a 
 Charitable Grinder on." 
 
 " Well, man," said Mi-. Dombey in his severest manner. " What 
 about him ? " 
 
 " Why Sir," returned Toodle, shaking his head with a face of great 
 anxiety and distress. " I 'm forced to say Sir, that he 's gone wrong." 
 
 " He has gone wrong, has he ? " said Mr. Dombey, with a hard kind 
 of satisfaction. 
 
 " He has fell into bad company, you see, genelmen," pursued the father 
 looking wistfully at both, and evidently taking the Major into the conver- 
 sation with the hope of having his sympathy. " He has got into bad 
 ways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but he's on the wrong 
 track now ! You could hardly be off hearing of it somehow. Sir," said 
 Toodle, again addi-essing Mr. Dombey individually ; " and it 's better I 
 should out and say my boy 's gone rather w^rong. Polly 's dreadful do^vn 
 about it, genelmen," said Toodle mth the same dejected look, and another 
 appeal to the ilajor. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. ' 199 
 
 " A son of this man's whom I caused to be educated, Major," said j\Ir. 
 Dombey, giving him his aim. " The usual return ! " 
 
 " Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate that sort of people, 
 Sir," returned the Major. " Damme Sir, it never does ! It always fails !" 
 
 The simple father was beginning to submit that he hoped his son, the 
 quondam Grinder, huffed and cuffed, and flogged and badged, and taught, 
 as parrots are, by a brute jobbed into his place of schoolmaster with as 
 much fitness for it as a hound, might not have been educated on quite a 
 right plan in some undiscovered respect, when Mr. Dombey angrily repeat- 
 ing " The usual return ! " led the Major away. And the Major being 
 heavy to hoist into Mr. Dombey's carriage, elevated in mid-air, and having 
 to stop and swear that he would flay the Native alive, and break every 
 bone in his skin, and visit other physical torments upon him, every time 
 he couldn't get his foot on the step, and fell back on that dark exile, had 
 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 vaga- 
 bond,' he would certainly be hanged. 
 
 Mr. Dombey assented bitterly ; but there was something more in his 
 bitterness, and in his moody way of falling back in the carriage, and looking 
 with knitted brows at the changing objects without, than 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 himself, from his manner and his answers, that he wore it for 
 his son. 
 
 So ! from high to low, at home or abroad, from Florence in his great 
 house to the coarse churl who was feeding the fire then smoking before 
 them, every one 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 pillow, and called him her own child ! or how he, waking 
 from his sleep, had asked for her, and had raised himself in his bed and 
 brightened when she came in ! 
 
 To think of this presumptuous raker among coals and ashes going on- 
 before there, with his sign of mourning ! To think that he dared to enter, 
 even by a common show like that, into the trial and disappointment of » 
 proud gentleman's secret heart ! To think that this lost child, who was to 
 have divided with him his riches, and his projects, and his power, and 
 allied with whom he was to have shut out all the world as with a double 
 door of gold, should have let in such a herd to insult him with their know- 
 L'dge of his defeated hopes, and their boasts of claiming community of 
 feeling with himself, so far removed: if not of having crept into the place 
 wherein he would have lorded it, alone ! 
 
 He found no pleasm-e or relief in the journey. Tortured by these 
 thoughts he carried monotony with him, through the rushing landscape, 
 and hurried headlong, not through a rich and-varied country, but a wilder- 
 ness of blighted plans and gnawing jealousies. The very speed at which 
 the train was whirled along, mocked the swift course of the young life that 
 had been borne away so steadily and so inexorably to its fore-doomed end. 
 The power that forced itself upon its iron way — its own — defiant of all paths 
 and roads, piercing through the heart of every obstacle, and dragging living 
 creatures of all classes, ages, and degi-ees beliind it, was a type of the 
 triumphant monster. Death. 
 
200 ■ DOMBEl AND SON. 
 
 Away, with a sliriek, and a roar, and a rattle, from the town, burrowing 
 among the dweUings of men and making the streets hum, flashing out into 
 the meadows for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, booming 
 on in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so 
 bright and wide; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, through the 
 fields, through the woods, through the corn, through the hay, through the 
 chalk, through the moidd, through the clay, through the rock, among, 
 objects close at hand and almost in the grasp, ever flying from the traveller, 
 and a deceitful distance ever moving slowlv with him : like as in the track 
 of the remorseless monster. Death ! 
 
 Through the hoUow, on the height, by the heath, by the orchard, by the- 
 park, by the garden, over the canal, across the river, where the sheep are 
 feeding, where the miU is going, where the barge is floating, where the 
 dead are lying, where the factory is smoking, where the stream is running,, 
 where the -village clusters, where the great cathedral rises, where the bleak 
 moor lies, and the wild breeze smooths or ruffles it at its inconstant wiU ;, 
 away, with a sluiek, and a roar, and a rattle, and no trace to leave behind 
 but dust and vapour: like as in the track of the remorseless monster. Death! 
 
 Breasting the wind and light, the shower and sunshine, away, and still 
 away, it rolls and roars, fierce and rapid, smooth and certain, and greai 
 works and massive bridges crossing up above, fall like a beam of shadow 
 an inch broad, upon the eye, and then are lost. Away, and still away, 
 onward and onward ever : glimpses of cottage-homes, of houses, mansions^ 
 rich estates, of husbandry and handicraft, of people, of old roads and paths, 
 that look deserted, small, and insignificant as they are left behind : and so 
 they do, and what else is there but such glimpses, in the track of the 
 indomitable monster. Death ! 
 
 Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, plunging down into the 
 earth again, and working on in such a storm of energy and perseverance, 
 that amidst the darkness and whirlwind the motion seems reversed, and to 
 tend furiously backward, until a ray of light upon the wet wall shows its 
 surface flying past Hke a fierce stream. Away once more into the day, and 
 through the day, with a shriU yell of exultation, roaring, rattling, tearing on, 
 spurning everything with its dark breath, sometimes pausing for a minute 
 where a crowd of faces are, that in a minute more are not : sometimes- 
 lapping water greedily, and before the spout at which it drinks has ceased 
 to drip upon the ground, shrieking, roaring, rattling through the purple 
 distance ! 
 
 Louder and louder yet, it shrieks and cries as it comes tearing on 
 resistless to the goal : and now its way, still like the way of Death, is 
 strewn with ashes thickly. Everything around is blackened. There are dark 
 pools of water, muddy lanes, and miserable habitations far below. There 
 are jagged walls and falling houses close at hand, and through the battered 
 roofs and broken windows, w^-etched rooms are seen, where want and fever 
 hide themselves in many wretched shapes, while smoke, and crowded 
 gables, and distorted chimneys, and deformity of brick and mortar penn- 
 ing up deformity of mind and body, choke the murky distance. As 
 Mr. Dombey looks out of his carriage window, it 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 jom-ney's fitting end, 
 and might have been the end of everything ; it was so ruinous and (keary. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 201 
 
 So, pursuing the one course of tliouglit, he had the one relentless mon- 
 ster still before him. All things looked black, and cold, and deadly upon 
 him, and he on them. He found a likeness to his misfortune everywhere. 
 There was a remorseless triumph going on about him, and it galled and 
 stung him in his pride and jealousy, whatever form it took : though most 
 of all when it divided with liim the love and memory of his lost boy. 
 
 There was a face — he had looked upon it, on the previous night, and it 
 on him with eyes that read his soul, though they were dim with tears, and 
 hidden soon behind two quivering hands — that often had attended him in 
 fancy, on this ride. He had seen it, with the expression of last night, 
 timidly pleading to him. It was not reproachful, but there was some- 
 thing of doubt, almost of hopeful incredulity in it, which, as he once 
 more saAV that fade away into a desolate certainty of his dishke, was 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 fore- 
 shadowing in older times — was full-formed now, and spoke out plainly, 
 moving him too much, and threatening to grow too strong for his compo- 
 sure. Because the face was abroad, in the expression of defeat and perse- 
 cution that seemed to encircle him like the air. Because it barbed the 
 arrow of that cruel and remorseless enemy on which his thoughts so ran, 
 and put into its grasp a double-handed sword. Because he knew fuU well, 
 in his own breast, as he stood there, tinging the scene of transition before 
 him with the morbid colours of his own mind, and making it a ruin and 
 a picture of decay, instead of hopeful change, and promise of better 
 things, that life had quite as much to do with his complainings as death. 
 One child was gone, and one child left. Why was the object of his hope 
 removed instead of her ? 
 
 The sweet, calm, gentle presence in his fancy, moved 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 child, and 
 the same blow had fallen on him, it would have been heavy to bear ; but 
 infinitely lighter than now, when it might have fallen on her (whom he 
 could have lost, or he believed it, without a pang), and had not. Her 
 loving and innocent face rising before him, had no softening or winning 
 influence. He rejected the angel, and took up with the tormenting spirit 
 crouching in his bosom. Her patience, goodness, youth, devotion, love, 
 were as so many atoms in the ashes upon which he set his heel. He saw 
 her image in the bhght and blackness all around him, not irradiating but 
 deepening the gloom. More than once upon this journey, and now again as 
 he stood pondering at this journey's end, tracing figures in the dust with 
 his stick, the thought came into his mind, what was there he could interpose 
 between himself and it ? 
 
 The Major, who had been blowing and panting all the way down, Uke 
 another engine, and whose eye had often wandered from his news- 
 paper to leer at the prospect, as if there were a great procession of discom- 
 fited Miss Toxes pouring out in the smoke of the train, and flying away 
 over the fields to hide themselves in any place of refuge, aroused his 
 friend by informing him that the post-horses were harnessed and the 
 carriage ready. 
 
 " Dombey," said the Major, rapping him on the arm with his cane, 
 
202 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " don't be thoughtful. It 's a bad habit. Old Joe, Sir, wouldn't be as 
 tough as you see him, if he had ever encouraged it. You are too great a 
 man, Dombey, to be thoughtful. In your position, Sir, you 're far above 
 that kind of thing." 
 
 The Major, even in his friendly remonstrances, thus consulting tlie 
 dignity and honour of IMr. Dombey, and showing a lively sense of their 
 importance, Mr. Dombey felt more than ever disposed to defer to a gentle- 
 man possessing so much good sense and such a well-regulated mind ; 
 accordingly he made an effort to listen to the Major's stories, as they 
 trotted along the turnpike road ; and the Major, finding both the pace and 
 the road a great deal better adapted to his conversational powers than 
 the m.ode of travelling they had just relinquished, came out for his 
 entertainment. 
 
 In this flow of spirits and conversation, only inteiTupted by his usual 
 plethoric symptoms, and by intervals of lunch, and from time to time by 
 some violent assault upon the Native, who Avore a pair of ear-rings in his 
 dark-brown ears, and on whom his European clothes sat with an out- 
 landish impossibility of adjustment — being, of their own accord, and without 
 any reference to the tailor's art, long where they ought to be short, short 
 where they ought to be long, tight where they ought to be loose, and loose 
 where they ought to be tight — and to which he imparted a new grace, 
 whenever the Major attacked him, by shrinking into them like a shrivelled 
 nut, or a cold monkey — in this flow of spirits and conversation, the Major 
 continued aU day : so that when evening came on, and found them 
 trotting through the green and leafy road near Leamington, the Major's 
 voice, what with talking and eating and chuckling and choking, appeared 
 to be in the box under the rumble, or in some neighbouring hay-stack. 
 Nor did the Major improve it at the Eoyal Hotel, where rooms and dinner 
 had been ordered, and where he so oppressed his organs of speech by 
 eating and di-inking, that when he retired to bed he had no voice at all, 
 except to cough with, and could only make himself intelligible to the dark 
 servant by gasping at him. 
 
 He not only arose next morning, however, like a. giant refreshed, but 
 conducted himself, at breakfast, like a giant refreshing. At this meal 
 they arranged their daily habits. The Major was to take the responsibility 
 of ordering everything to eat and drink ; and they were to have a late 
 breakfast together every morning, and a late dinner together eveiy day. 
 Mr. Dombey would prefer remaining in his own room, or walking in the 
 country by himself, on that first day of their sojourn at Leamington; but 
 next morning he would be happy to accompany the Major to the Pump- 
 room, and about the town. So they parted until dinner-time. Mr. Dom- 
 bey retii-ed to nurse his wholesome thoughts in his own way. The Major, 
 attended by the Native carrying a camp-stool, a great-coat, and an umbrella, 
 swaggered up and down through all the public places : looking into sub- 
 scription books to find out who was there, looking up old ladies by whom 
 he was much admired, reporting J. B. tougher than ever, and puffing his 
 rich friend Dombey wherever he went. There never was a man who stood 
 by a friend more staunchly than the Major, when in puffing him, he 
 puft'ed himself. 
 
 It was surprising how much new conversation the ]\Tajor had to let off 
 at dinner-time, and what occasion he gave Mr. Dombey to admii-e his 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 203 
 
 social qualities. At breakfast next morning, he knew the contents of the 
 latest newspapers received; and mentioned several subjects in connexion 
 with them, on which his opinion had recently been sought by persons of 
 such power and might, that they were only to be obscurely hinted at. 
 Mr. Dombey, who had been so long shut up within himself, and who had 
 rarely, at any time, overstepped the enchanted circle within which the 
 operations of Dombey and Son were conducted, began to think this an 
 improvement on his solitary life ; and in place of excusing himself for 
 another day, as he had thought of doing when alone, walked out with the 
 Major arm-in-arm. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 NEW FACES. 
 
 The Major, more blue-faced and staring — more over-ripe, as it were,- 
 than ever — and giving vent, every now and then, to one of the horse's 
 coughs, not so much of necessity as in a spontaneous explosion of impor- 
 tance, walked arm-in-arm with Mr. Dombey up the sunny side of the way, 
 with his cheeks swelling over his tight stock, his legs majestically wide 
 apart, and his great head wagging from side to side, as if he were remon- 
 strating within himself on being such a captivating object. They had not 
 walked many yards, before the Major encountered somebody he knew, nor 
 many yards farther before the Major encountered somebody else he knew, 
 but he merely shook his fingers at them as he passed, and led Mr. Dombey 
 on : pointing out the locaUties as they went, and enlivening the walk with 
 any current scandal suggested by them. 
 
 In this manner the Major and Mr. Dombey were walking ann-in-arm, 
 much to their own satisfaction, when they beheld advancing towards them, 
 a wheeled chair, in which a lady was seated, indolently steering her car- 
 riage by a kind of rudder in front, while it was propelled by some unseen 
 power in the rear. Although the lady was not young, she was very 
 blooming in the face — quite rosy — and her dress and attitude were per- 
 fectly juvenile. Walking by the side of the chair, and carrying her gossamer 
 parasol with a proud and wearj'^ air, as if so great an effort must be soon 
 abandoned and the parasol dropped, sauntered a much younger lady, very 
 handsome, very haixghty, very wilful, who tossed her head and drooped her 
 eyelids, as though, if there were anything in all the world worth looking 
 into, save a mirror, it certainly was not the earth or sky. 
 
 "Why, what the devil have we here, Sir !" cried the Major, stopping as 
 this little cavalcade drew near. 
 
 " My dearest Edith !" drawled the lady in the chair, " Major Bagstock !" 
 
 The Major no sooner heard the voice, than he relinquished Mr, Dom- 
 bey's arm, darted forward, took the hand of the lady in the chair and 
 pressed it to his lips. With no less gallantry, the Major folded both his 
 gloves upon his heart, and bowed low to the other lady. And now, the 
 chair having stopped, the motive power became visible in the shape of a 
 flushed page pushing behind, Avho seemed to have in part out-grown and 
 in part out-pushed his strength, for when he stood upright he was tall, and 
 wan, and thin, and his plight appeared the more forlorn from his having 
 
204 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 injured tlie shape of his hat, by butting at the carriage with his head 
 to m-ge it forward, as 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 chair, insipidly. " Where 
 do you come from ? I can't bear you." 
 
 "Then suffer old Joe to present a friend. Ma'am," said the Major 
 promptly, " as a reason for being tolerated. Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Skewton." 
 The lady in the chair was gracious. " Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Granger." The 
 lady with the parasol was faintly conscious of IVIr. Dombey's taking off his 
 hat, and bowing low. " I am delighted. Sir," said the Major, " to have 
 this opportunity," 
 
 The Major seemed in earnest, for he looked at all the three, and leered 
 in his ugliest manner. 
 
 " Mrs. Skewton, Dombey," 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 here, bad man ?" 
 
 " One day," replied the Major. 
 
 " And can you be a day, or even a minute," returned the lady, slightly 
 settling her false curls and false eyebrows with her fan, and showing 
 her false teeth, set oft' by her false complexion, " in the garden of what's- 
 its-name — " 
 
 " Eden I suppose. Mama," interrupted the younger lady, scornfully. 
 
 " My dear Edith," said the other, " I cannot help it. I never can 
 remember those frightful names — without having your whole Soid and 
 Being inspired by the sight of Nature; by the perfume," said Mrs. 
 Skewton, rustling a handkerchief that was faint and sickly with essences, 
 " of her artless breath, you creatm-e ! " 
 
 The discrepancy between Mrs. Skewton's fresh enthusiasm of words, and 
 forlornly faded manner, was hardly less observable than that between her 
 age, which was about seventy, and her dress, which would have been 
 youthful for twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled chair (which she 
 never varied) was one in which she had been taken in a barouche, some 
 fifty years before, by 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 time, that it bore an exact resemblance to that 
 Princess as she reclined on board her galley. Mrs. Skewton was a beauty 
 then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by dozens in her 
 honour. The beauty and the barouche had both passed away, but she stiU 
 preserved the attitude, and for this reason expressly, maintained the 
 wheeled chair and the butting page : there being nothing whatever, except 
 the attitude, to prevent her from walking. 
 
 " Mr. Dombey is devoted to Nature, I trust?" said Mrs. Skewton, 
 settling her diamond brooch. And by the way, she chiefly lived upon the 
 reputation of some diamonds, and her family connections. 
 
 " My friend Dombey, Ma'am," returned the Major, " may be devoted to 
 her in secret, but a man who is paramount in the greatest city in the 
 universe — " 
 
// 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 205 
 
 *' No one can be a stranger," said Mrs. Skewton, " to Mr. Dombey's 
 immense influence." 
 
 As ]VIi*. Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a bend of his head, 
 the younger lady glancing at him, met his eyes. 
 
 " You reside here, Madam ? " said Mr. Dombey, addressing her. 
 
 " No, we have been to a great many places. To Harrowgate, and 
 Scarborough, and into Devonshire. We have been visiting, and resting 
 here and there. Mama likes change." 
 
 " Edith of course does not," said Mrs. Skewton, with a ghastly archness. 
 
 " I have not found that there is any change in such places," was the 
 answer, delivered with supreme indifference. 
 
 " They libel me. There is only one change, Mr. Dombey," observed 
 Mrs. Skewton, with a mincing sigh, " for which I really care, and that I 
 fear I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But 
 seclusion and contemplation are my what 's-his-name — " 
 
 " If you mean Paradise, Mama, you had better say so, to render your- 
 self intelligible," said the younger lady. 
 
 "My dearest Edith," returned Mrs. Skewton, "you know that I am 
 wholly dependant upon you for those odious names. I assure you, 
 Mr. Dombey, Nature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in 
 society. Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to 
 retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows — and china." 
 
 This curious association of objects, suggesting a remembrance of the cele- 
 brated buU who got by mistake into a crockery shop, was received with 
 perfect gravity by Mr. Dombey, who intimated his opinion that Nature 
 was, no doubt, a very respectable institution. 
 
 " What I want," drawled Mrs. Skewton, pinching her shrivelled throat, 
 *'is heart." It was frightfully true in one sense, if not in that in which she 
 used the phrase. " What I want, is frankness, confidence, less conven- 
 tionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully artificial." 
 
 We were, indeed. 
 
 " In short," said Mrs. Skewton, " I want Nature everywhere. It would 
 be so extremely charming." 
 
 " Nature is inviting us away now. Mama, if you are ready," said the 
 younger lady, curUng her handsome lip. At this hint, the wan page, who 
 had been surveying the party over the top of the chair, vanished behind it 
 as if the ground had swallowed him up. 
 
 " Stop a moment. Withers !" said Mrs. Skewton, as 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 wig, cauliflower nosegay, 
 and silk stockings. " Where are you staying, abomination ?" 
 
 The Major was staying at the Eoyal Hotel, with his friend Dombey. 
 
 *' You may come and see us any evening when you are good," lisped 
 Mrs. Skewton. " If Mr. Dombey wiU honour us, we shall be happy. 
 Withers, go 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 carelessness ; 
 after 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. 
 
206 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother, with that patched 
 colour on it which the sun made infinitely more haggard and dismal than 
 any want of colour could have been, and of the proud beauty of the 
 daughter with her graceful figm-e and erect deportment, engendered such 
 an involuntary disposition on the part of both the Major and Mr; Dombey 
 to look after them, that they both turned at the same moment. The Page, 
 nearly as much aslant as his own shadow, was toiling after the chair, 
 uphill, like a slow battering-ram; the top of Cleopatra's bonnet was 
 fluttering in exactly the same comer to the inch as before ; and the Beauty, 
 loitering by herself a little in advance, expressed in all her elegant form, from 
 head to foot, the same supreme disregard of everything and everybody. 
 
 " I tell you what. Sir," said the Major, as they resumed their walk 
 again. " If Joe Bagstock were a younger man, there '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 turnip, Dombey," said the Major, " that he should mean 
 the mother." 
 
 " You were complimentary to the mother," returned Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " An ancient flame Sir," chuckled Major Bagstock. " De-vilish ancient. 
 I humom* her." 
 
 " She impresses me as being perfectly genteel," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Genteel, Sir," said the Major, stopping short, and staring in his com- 
 panion's face. " The Honourable Mrs. Skewton, Sir, is sister to the late 
 Lord Feenix, and aunt to the present Lord. The family are not wealthy — 
 they 're poor, indeed — and she lives upon a small jointure ; but if you 
 come to blood Sir- !" The Major gave a flomish with his stick and 
 walked on again, in despair of being able to say what you came to, if you 
 came to that. 
 
 " You addressed the daughter, I observed," said Mr. Dombey, after a 
 short pause, " as Mrs. Granger." 
 
 " Edith Skewton, Sir," returned the Major, stopping short again, and 
 punching a mark in the ground with his cane, to represent her, " married 
 (at eighteen) Granger of Ours ;" whom the Major indicated by another 
 punch. " Granger, Sir," said the Major, tapping the last ideal portrait, 
 and roUing his head, emphatically, " was Colonel of Ours ; a de-viHsh 
 handsome feUow, Sir, of forty -one. He died. Sir, in 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 again, 
 carrying his stick over his shoulder. 
 
 " How long is this ago ?" asked Mr. Dombey, making another halt. 
 
 " Edith Granger, Sir," replied the Major, shutting one eye, putting his 
 head on one side, passing his cane into his left hand, and smoothing 
 his shirt-friU with his right, " is, at this present time, not quite thirty. 
 And, damme, Sir," said the Major, shoiddering his stick once more, and 
 walking on again, " she 's a peerless woman !" 
 
 " Was there any family? " asked Mr. Dombey presently. 
 
 " Yes, Sir," said the Major. " There was a boy." 
 
 Mr. Dombey's eyes sought the ground, and a shade came over his face. 
 
 " Wlio was drowned, Sir," pursued the Major, " when a child of four 
 or five years old." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 207 
 
 " Indeed ?" said Mr. Dombey, raising 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., Sir, were a little younger and 
 a little richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be Bagstock." 
 
 The Major heaved his shoulders, and his cheeks, and laughed more like 
 an over-fed Mephistopheles than ever, as he said the Avords. 
 
 " Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose ?" said Mr, Dombej 
 coldly. 
 
 " By Gad, Sir," said the Major, " the Bagstock breed are not accus- 
 tomed to that sort of obstacle. Though it 's true enough that Edith 
 might have married twen-ty times, but for being proud, Sir, proud." 
 
 Mr. Dombey seemed, by his face, to 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 yourself, and your friend. Old 
 Joe, respects you for it, Sti'." 
 
 With this tribute to the character of his ally, which seemed to be wrung 
 from him by the force of circumstances and the irresistible tendency of 
 their conversation, the Major closed the subject, and 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 one, Mr. Dombey and the Major encountered the 
 honourable Mrs. Skewton and her daughter in the Pump-room ; on the 
 day after, they met them again very near the place where they had met 
 them first. After meeting them thus, three or four times in all, it 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 
 visits, but on the Major announcing this intention, he said he woidd have 
 the pleasure of accompanying him. So the Major told the Native to go 
 round before dinner, and say, with his and Mi-. Dombey's compliments, 
 that they would have the honom- of visiting the ladies that same evening, 
 if the ladies were alone. In answer to which message, the Native 
 brought back a very small note with a very large quantity of scent about 
 it, indited by the Honourable Mrs. Skewton to Major Bagstock, and 
 briefly saying, "You are a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to 
 forgive you, but 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 daughter, Mrs. Granger, resided 
 while at Leamington, in lodgings that were fashionable enough and dear 
 enough, but rather limited in point of space and conveniences; so that the 
 Honourable Mrs. Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in the window and her 
 head in the fire-place, while the Honourable Mrs. Skewton's maid was 
 quartered in a closet ^vithin the drawing-room, so extremely small, that, to 
 avoid developing the whole of its accommodations, she was obliged to writhe 
 in and out of the door like a beautiful serpent. Withers, the wan page, 
 slept out of the house immediately under the tiles at a neighbouring 
 milk-shop; and the wheeled chair, which was the stone of that young 
 Sisyphus, passed the night in a shed belonging t ) the same dairy, where 
 new-laid eggs were produced by the poultry connected with the establish- 
 ment, who roosted on a broken donkey-cart, persuaded, to all appearancCj 
 that it grew there, and was a species of tree. 
 
208 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Ml". Dombey and tlie Major found Mrs. Skewton arranged, as Cleopatra, 
 among the cushions of a sofa : very airily dressed : and certainly not 
 resembling Shakspeare's Cleopatra, Avhom age could not wither. On their 
 way up stairs they had heard the sound of a harp, but it had ceased on 
 their being announced, and 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 aid, and 
 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 her, or whether she designed to render them more 
 precious to admirers by this usage of them, those to whom they were 
 precious seldom paused to consider. 
 
 "I hope, Mrs. Granger," said ]\Ir. Dombey, advancing a step towards 
 her, "we are not the cause of your ceasing to play?" 
 
 " Tou ? oh no !" 
 
 " Why do you not go on, then, my 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 dullness or insensibility, for it was pointed with proud 
 purpose : Avas well set off by the carelessness with which she di'ew her hand 
 across the strings, and came from that part of the room. 
 
 "Do you know, Mr. Dombey," said her languisliing mother, playing 
 with a hand-screen, "that occasionally my dearest Edith and myself 
 actually almost differ — " 
 
 "Not quite, sometimes. Mama?" said Edith. 
 
 " Oh never quite, my darUng ! Fie, fie, it would break my heart," 
 returned her mother, making a faint attempt to pat her with the screen, 
 which Edith made no movement to meet, " — about these cold conventional- 
 ities of manner that are observed in little things ? Why are we not more 
 natui-al ! Dear me ! With all those yearnings, and gushings, and impul- 
 sive throbbings that we have implanted in our souls, and which are so very 
 charming, why are we not more natural ?" 
 
 Mr. Dombey said it was very true, very true. 
 
 " We could be more naturall suppose if we tried?" said Mrs. SkcAvton. 
 
 Mr. Dombey thought it possible. 
 
 " Devil a bit. Ma'am," said the Major. " We could'nt afford it. Unless 
 the world Avas peopled with J. B.'s — tough and blunt old Joes, Ma'am, 
 plain red herrings Avith hard roes, Sir — we couldn't afford it. It wouldn't 
 do." 
 
 " You naughty Infidel," said Mrs. SkcAvton, " be mute." 
 
 " Cleopatra commands," returned the Major, kissing his hand, " and 
 Antony Bagstock obeys." 
 
 " The man has no sensitiveness," said Mrs. Skewton, crueUy 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. 
 Skewton, arranging her lace tucker, and complacently observing the effect 
 of her bare lean arm, looking upward from the Avrist, "how could Ave possibly 
 beai- it ? In short, obdurate man ! " glancing at the Major, round the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 209 
 
 screen, " I would have my world all heart ; and Faith is so excessively 
 charming, that I won't allow you to disturb it, do you hear? " 
 
 The Major replied that it was hard in Cleopatra to require the world 
 to be all heart, and yet to appropriate to herself the hearts of all the world ; 
 which obliged Cleopatra to remind him that flattery was insupportable to 
 her, and that if he had the boldness to address her in that strain any more, 
 she would positively send him home. 
 
 Withers the Wan, at this period, handing round the tea, Mr. Donabey 
 again addressed himself to Edith. 
 
 " There is not much company here, it would seem? " said Mr. Dombey, 
 in his own portentous gentlemanly way. 
 
 " I believe not. We see none." 
 
 " Why really," observed IVIrs. Skewton from her couch, " there are no 
 people here just now with whom we care to associate." 
 
 " They have not enough heart," said Edith, with a smile. The very 
 twilight of a smile : so singularly were its light and darkness blended. 
 
 " My dearest Edith rallies me, you see ! " said her mother shaking her 
 head : which shook a little of itself sometimes, as if the palsy twinkled 
 now and then in opposition to the diamonds. " Wicked one ! " 
 
 " You have been here before, if I am not mistaken ?" said Mr. Dombey. 
 StiU to Edith. 
 
 " Oh, several times. I think we have been everywhere." 
 
 " A beautiful country ! " 
 
 *' I suppose it is. Everybody says so." 
 
 "Your cousin Feenix raves about it Edith," interposed her mother 
 from her couch. 
 
 The daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and raising her eyebrows 
 by a hair's-breadth as if her cousin Feenix were of all the mortal world 
 the least to be regarded, turned her eyes again towards Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am tired of the neigh- 
 bourhood," she said. 
 
 "You have almost reason to be. Madam," he replied, glancing at a 
 variety of landscape drawings, of which he had aheady recognised several 
 as representing neighbouring points of view, and which were strewn 
 abundantly about the room, " if these beautiful productions are from 
 your hand." 
 
 She gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty, quite amazing, 
 
 " Have they that interest ? " said Mr. Dombey. " Are thev vours ? ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And you play, I akeady know." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And sins ? " 
 
 » 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She answered all these questions with a strange reluctance; and with that 
 remarkable air of opposition to herself, already noticed as belonging to her 
 beauty. Yet she was not embarrassed, but wholly self-possessed. Neither 
 did she seem to wish to avoid the conversation, for she addressed her face, 
 and — so far as she could — her manner also, to him; and continued to do 
 so, when he was silent. 
 
 " You have many resources against weariness at least," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 p 
 

 210 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "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. Dombey, with solemn gal- 
 lantry, laying down a drawing he had held, and motioning towards the harp. 
 
 " Oh certainly ! If you desire it ! " 
 
 She rose as she spoke, and crossing by her mother's couch, and direct- 
 ing a stately look towards her, which was instantaneous in its dm'ation, 
 but inclusive (if any one had seen it) of a multitude of expressions, among 
 which that of the twilight smile, without the smile itself, overshadowed all 
 the rest, went out of the room. 
 
 The Major, who was quite forgiven by this time, had wheeled a little 
 table up to Cleopatra, and was sitting down to play picquet with her. 
 Mr. Dombey, not knowing the geme, sat down to watch them for his 
 edification until Edith should retm-n. 
 
 " We are going to have some music, Mr. Dombey, I hope ? " said 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Mrs. Granger has been kind enough to promise so," said Mr. Dombey. 
 ■Ah ! That's very nice. Do you propose, Major?" 
 
 ' No Ma'am," said the Major. " Couldn't do it." 
 
 " You 're a barbarous being," replied the lady, "and my hand's destroyed. 
 Tou are fond of music, Mr. Dombey ?" 
 
 " Eminently so," was Mr. Dombey's answer. 
 
 " Yes. It 's very nice," said Cleopatra looking at her cards. " So much 
 heart in it — undeveloped recollectioiis of a previous state of existence — and 
 all that — which is so truly charming. Do you know," simpered Cleopatra, 
 reversing the knave of clubs, who had come into her game Avith liis heels 
 uppermost, " that if anything could tempt me to put a period to my life, 
 it would be curiositv to find out what it 's all about, and what it means : 
 there are so many provoking mysteries, really, that are hidden from us. 
 Major, you to play !" 
 
 The Major played ; and Mr. Dombey, looking on for his instruction, 
 woidd soon have been in a state of dire confusion, but that he gave no 
 attention to the game whatever, and sat wondering instead when Edith 
 would come back. 
 
 She came at last, and sat dov/n to her harp, and Mr. Dombey rose and 
 stood beside her, listening. He had little taste for music, and no know- 
 ledge of the strain she played, but he saw her bending over it, and perhaps 
 he heard among the sounding strings some distant music of his own, that 
 tamed the monster of the iron road, and made it less inexorable. 
 
 Cleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at picquet. It glistened like a bird's, 
 and did not fix itself upon the game, but pierced the room from end to end; 
 and gleamed on harp, performer, listener, everything. 
 
 When the haughty beauty had concluded, she arose, and receiving Mi-. 
 Dombey's thanks and compliments in exactly the same manner as before, 
 went with scarcely any pause, to the piano, and began there. 
 
 Edith Granger, any song but that ! Edith Granger, you are very hand- 
 some, and your touch upon the keys is brilliant, and your voice is deep 
 and rich; but not the air that his neglected daughter sang to his 
 dead son ! 
 
 Alas he knows it not ; and if he did, what air of hers would stir him, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 211 
 
 rigid man ! Sleep, lonely ]Florence, sleep ! Peace in tliy di'eams, althougli 
 the niglit has turned dark, and the clouds are gathering, and tin-eaten to 
 discharge themselves in hail ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A TKIFLE OF MANAGEMENT BY MR. CABKEE, THE MANAGER. 
 
 Mr. Career the Manager sat at his desk, smooth and soft as usual, 
 reading those letters which were reserved for him to open, backing them 
 occasionally with such memoranda and references as their business purport 
 required, and parceilhig them out into little heaps for distribution through 
 the several departments of the House. The post had come in heavy that 
 morning, and 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 hand, dealing them round in various portions, taking up 
 another bundle and examining its contents with knitted brows and pursed- 
 out lips — dealing, and sorting, and pondering by turns — would easily 
 suggest "some whimsical resemblance to a player at cards. The face of 
 ^Ir. Carker the Manager was in good keeping with such a fancy. It was 
 the face of a man who studied his play, warily : 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 him, knew exactly what was on them, what 
 they missed, and what they made : who was crafty to find out what the 
 other players held, and who never betrayed his own hand. 
 
 The letters were in various languages, but Mr. Carker the Manager 
 read them all. If there had been anything in the offices of Dombey and 
 Son that he could not read, there would have been a card wanting in the 
 pack. He read almost at a glance, and made combinations of one letter 
 with another and one business with another as he went on, adding new 
 matter to the heaps — ^much as a man woiJd know the cards at sight, 
 and work out their combinations in his mind after they were turned. 
 Something too deep for a partner, and 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 skylight, playing his game alone. 
 
 And although it is not among the instincts \vild or domestic of the cat 
 tribe to play at cards, feline from sole to crown was Mr. Carker the 
 Manager, as 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- 
 plate, and himself the only figure on it. With hair and whiskers deficient 
 in colour at all times, but feebler than common in the rich sunshine, and 
 more like the coat of a sandy tortoise-shell cat ; with long nails, nicely 
 pared and sharpened; with a natural antipathy to any speck of dirt, 
 which made him pause sometimes and watch the falling motes of dust, 
 and rub them ofl:" his smooth white hand or glossy linen : Mr. Carker the 
 Manager, sly of manner, sharp of tooth, soft of foot, watchful of eye, oily of 
 tongue, cruel of heart, nice of habit, sat with a dainty stedfastness and 
 patience at his work, as if he were waiting at. a mouse's hole. 
 
 At-length the letters were disposed of, excepting one which he reserved 
 
 r2 
 
212 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 for a particular audience. Having locked the more confidential cor- 
 respondence in a diawer, Mr. Carker the Manager rang his bell. 
 
 " Why do you answer it ?" was his reception of his brother. 
 
 " The messenger is out, and 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 letters, he tm-ned disdainfully away, in, 
 his elbow-chair, and broke the seal of that one which he held in his hand. 
 
 " I am sorry to trouble you, James," said the brother, gathering 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. 
 brother, but kept them on his letter, though without opening it. 
 
 " WeU?" he repeated sharply. 
 
 " I am uneasy about Harriet." 
 
 " Harriet who ? what Hai-riet ? I know nobody of that name." 
 
 " She is not well, and has changed very much of late." 
 
 " She changed very much, a great many years ago," replied the Manager ; 
 " and that is all I have to say." 
 
 " I think if you would hear me — " 
 
 "W^hy should I hear you, Brother John?" returned the Manager, 
 laying a sarcastic emphasis on those two words, and throwing up his head, 
 but not lifting his eyes. " I teU. you, Harriet Carker made her choice 
 many years ago between her two brothers. She may repent it, but 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 me, James, I 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 other, with a wide show of his teeth. 
 
 " Displeased. Whatever word you like best. You know my meaning. 
 There is no oft'ence in my intention." 
 
 " There is ofltence in everything you do," replied his brother, glancing 
 at him with a sudden scowl, which in a moment gave place to a wider 
 smile than the last. " Carry those papers away, if you please. I am busy." 
 
 His politeness was so much more cutting than his wrath, that the 
 Junior went to the door. But stopping at it, and looking round, he said : 
 
 " Wlien Harriet tried in vain to plead for me with you, on your first 
 just indignation, and my first disgrace ; and when she left you, James, to 
 follow my broken fortunes, and devote herself, in her mistaken affection, 
 to a ruined brother, because without her he had no one, and 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 head, and showed his teeth, as who should 
 say, in 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 
 young, and lead a happy and light-hearted life," pursued the other. " Oh 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 213 
 
 if you knew how cheerfully she cast those hopes away ; how cheerfully 
 she has gone forward on the path she took, and 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 teeth, and seemed 
 to say, " Kemarkable indeed ! Tou quite surprise me !" And again he 
 uttered never a word, 
 
 " May I go on ?" said John Carker, mildly. 
 
 " On your Avay ?" replied his smding brother. " If you wiU have the 
 goodness." 
 
 John Carker, with a sigh, was passing slowly out at the door, when his 
 brother's voice detained him for a moment on the threshold. 
 
 " If she has gone, and goes, her own way cheerfully," he said, throwing 
 the still unfolded letter on his desk, and putting his hands firmly in his 
 pockets, " you may teU her that I go as cheerfully on mine. If she has 
 never once looked back, you may tell her that I have, sometimes, to recal 
 her taking part with you, and that my resolution is no easier to wear 
 away ;" he smiled very sweetly here ; " than mai'ble." 
 
 " I teU her nothing of you. We never speak about you. Once a 
 year, on your birthday, Harriet says always, ' Let us remember James by 
 name, and wish him happy,' but we say no more." 
 
 " Tell it then, if you please," retm-ned the other, " to yourself. Yovi 
 can't repeat it too often, as a lesson to you to avoid the subject in speak- 
 ing to me. I know no Harriet Carker. There is no such person. Fou 
 may have a sister ; make much of her. I have none." 
 
 Mr. Carker the Manager took up the letter again, and waved it with a 
 smile of mock courtesy towards the door. Unfolding it as his brother 
 withdrew, and looking darkly after him as he left the room, he once more 
 turned round in his elbow-chair, and applied himself to a diligent perusal 
 of its contents. 
 
 It was in the writing of his great chief, Mr. Dombey, and dated from 
 Leamington. Though he was a quick reader of aU other letters, Mr. Carker 
 read this slowly : weighing the words as he went, and bringing every tooth 
 in his head to bear upon them. When he had read it tluough once, 
 he turned it over again, and picked out these passages. ' I find myself 
 benefited by the change, and am not yet inclined to name any time for my 
 return.' ' I wish, Carker, you would arrange to come down once and see 
 me here, and let me know how things are going on, in person.' ' I omitted 
 to speak to you about young Gay. If not gone per Son and Heir, or if 
 Son and Heir stiU lying in the Docks, appoint 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 mouth, as if 
 it were made of India Kubber : " for he 's far away ! " 
 
 Still that passage, which was in a postscript, attracted Ms attention and 
 his teeth, once more. 
 
 " I think," he said, " my good friend Captain Cuttle mentioned some- 
 thing about being towed along in the wake of that day. What a pity he 's 
 so far away ! " 
 
 He refolded the letter, and was sitting trifling with it, standing it long- 
 wise and broad-wise on his table, and turning it over and over on all sides 
 — doing pretty much the same thing perhaps, by its contents — when 
 Mr. Perch the messenger knocked softly at the door, and coming in on 
 
214 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 tiptoe, bending liis body at every step as if it were tlie delight of liis life to 
 bow, laid some papers on the table. 
 
 " Would you please to be engaged Sir ? " asked Mr. Perch, rubbing his 
 hands, and deferentially putting his head on one side, like a man who felt 
 he had no business to hold it up in such a presence, and would keep it as 
 much out of the way as possible. 
 
 " Who wants me ? " 
 
 "Why Sir," said Mr. Perch, in a soft voice, "really nobody, Sir, to 
 speak of at present. Mr. GUIs the Ship's Instrument-maker Su-, has 
 looked in, about a little matter of payment, he says; but I mentioned to 
 him. Sir, that you was engaged several deep ; several deep." 
 
 Mr. Perch coughed once behind his hand, and Avaited for further oi-ders. 
 
 "Anybody else?" 
 
 " Well Sir," said Mr. Perch, " I wouldn't of ray own self take the 
 liberty of mentioning. Sir, that there was anybody else; but that same 
 young. lad that was here yesterday Sir, and last week, has been hanging 
 about the place; and it looks Sir," added Mr. Perch, stopping to shut the 
 door, " di'cadful unbusiness-like to see him whistling to the sparrows down 
 the court, and making of 'em answer him." 
 
 " You said he wanted something to do, didn't you Perch ? " asked 
 Mr. Carker, leaning back in his chair and looking at that officer. 
 
 "Why Sir," said Mr. Perch, coughing behind his hand again, "his 
 expression certainly were that he was in wants of a sitiwation, and that he 
 considered something might be done for him about the Docks, being used 
 to fishing with a rod and line : but — " Mv. Perch shook his head veiy 
 dubiously indeed. 
 
 " What does he say when he comes ? " asked Mr. Carker. 
 
 "Indeed Sir," said IMi-. Perch, coughing another cough behind his hand, 
 which was always his resource as an expression of humility when nothing 
 else occurred to him, " liis observation generally air that he would humbly 
 wish to see one of the gentlemen, and that he wants to earn a living. But 
 you see, Sii-," added Perch, dropping his voice to a whisper, and turning, 
 in the inviolable nature of his confidence, to give the door a thrust with 
 his hand and knee, as if that would shut it any more when it was shut 
 akeady, "it's hardly to be bore Sir that a common lad like that shoidd 
 come a prowling here, and saying that his mother nursed our House's 
 young gentleman, and that he hopes our House will give him a chance on 
 that account. I am sure Sir," observed Mr. Perch, "that although 
 Mrs. Perch was at that time nm-sing as thriving a little girl Six as Ave 've 
 ever took the liberty of adding to our family, I wouldn't have made so free 
 as drop a hint of her being capable of imparting nourishment, not if it was 
 ever so ! " 
 
 Mr. Carker grinned at him hke a shark, but in an absent thoughtful 
 mariner. 
 
 " Whether," submitted Mr. Perch, after a short silence, and another 
 cough, " it mightn't be best for me to tell him, that if he Avas seen here 
 any more he Avould be given into custody ; and to keep to it ! With 
 respect to bodily fear," said Mr. Perch, " I 'm so timid, myself, by nature 
 Sir, and my nerves is so unstrung by ]\Irs. Perch's state, that I could take 
 my affidavit easy." 
 
 " Let me see this fellow. Perch," said ]\Ir, Carker. "Bring him in ! '* 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 215 
 
 " Yes Sir. Begging your pardon Sir," said Mr. Perch, hesitating at 
 the door, " he 's rough Sir, in appearance." 
 
 " Never mind. If he 's there, bring him in. I '11 see IVIi-. Gills directly. 
 Ask him to Avait ! " 
 
 Mr. Perch bowed ; and shutting the door as precisely and carefully as 
 if he were not coming back for a week, went on his quest among the 
 sparrows in the court. While he was gone, Mr. Carker assumed his 
 favom-ite attitude before the fire-place, and stood looking at the door ; pre- 
 senting, with his under lip tucked into the smile that showed liis whole 
 row of upper teeth, a singularly crouching appearance. 
 
 The messenger was not long in retiurning, followed by a pair of heavy 
 boots that came bumping along the passage like boxes. With the uncere- 
 monious words " Come along with you ! " — a very unusual form of intro- 
 duction from his lips — Mr. Perch then ushered into the presence a strong- 
 built lad of fifteen, with a round red face, a round sleek head, round black 
 eyes, round limbs, and round body, who, to carry out the general rotundity of 
 has appearance, had a roimd hat in his hand, without a particle of brim to it. 
 
 Obedient to a nod from Mr. Carker, Perch had no sooner confronted the 
 visitor with that gentleman than he withdrew. The moment they were 
 face to face alone, Mr. Carker, without a word of preparation, took him by 
 the throat, and shook him until his head seemed loose upon his shoidders. 
 
 The boy, who in the midst of his astonishment coidd not help staring 
 Avildly at the gentleman with so many wliite teeth who was choking him, 
 and at the office walls, as though determined, if he tcere choked, that his 
 last look shoidd be at the mysteries for his intrusion into which he was- 
 paying such a severe penalty, at last contrived to utter — 
 
 " Come Sir ! You let me alone, will you ! " 
 
 " Let you alone ! " said Mr. Carker. " What ! I have got you, have I ?'* 
 There was no doubt of that, and tightly too. " You dog," said Mr. Carker, 
 through his set jaws, " I '11 strangle you ! " 
 
 Biler whimpered, would he though ? oh no he wouldn't — and what was 
 he doing of — and why didn't he strangle somebody of his own size and 
 not him : but Biler was quelled by the extraordinary nature of his recep- 
 tion, and, as his head became stationary, and he looked the gentleman in 
 the face, or rather in the teeth, and saw him snarling at him, he so far 
 forgot his manhood as to cry. 
 
 " I haven't done nothing to you Sir," said Biler, otherwise Eob, other- 
 wise Grinder, and always Toodle. 
 
 "You young scoundrel ! " rephed Mr. Carker, slowly releasing him, and 
 moving back a step into his favourite position. " What do you mean by 
 daring to come here ? " 
 
 " I didn't mean no harm Sir," whimpered Eob, putting one hand to his 
 throat, and the knuckles of the other to his eyes. " I'U never come again 
 Sir. I only wanted work." 
 
 " Work, young Cain that you are ! " repeated Mr. Carker, eyeing him 
 narrowly. " An't you the idlest vagabond in London ? " 
 
 The impeachment, while it much affected Mr. Toodle Junior, attached to 
 his character so justly, that he could not say a word in denial. He stood 
 looking at the gentleman, therefore, with a frightened, self- convicted, and 
 remorseful air. As to his looking at him, it may be observed that he was fas- 
 cinated by ]VL.'. Carker and never took his round eyes ofr him for an instant. 
 
216 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " An't you a tliief ? " said Mr. Carker, with Ms hands behind him in his 
 pockets. 
 
 " No Sir," pleaded Eob. 
 
 " You are ! " said Mr. Carker. 
 
 " I an't indeed Sir," whimpered Kob. " I never did such a thing as 
 thieve Sii-, if you '11 believe me. I know I 've been a going wrong Sir, 
 ever since I took to bird-catching and walking-matching. I'm sure a 
 cove might think," said Mr. Toodle Junior, with a burst of penitence, 
 " that singing birds was innocent company, but 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 wear, a particularly small red waistcoat like a 
 gorget, an interval of blue check, and the hat before mentioned. 
 
 " I an't been home twenty times since them birds got their will of me," 
 said Eob, " and that 's ten months. How can I go home when every- 
 body 's miserable to see me ! I wonder," said Bilcr, blubbering outright, 
 and smearing his eyes with his coat-cuif, "that I haven't been and drownded 
 myself over and over again." 
 
 All of which, including liis expression of surprise at not having achieved 
 this last scarce performance, the boy said, just as if the teeth of Mr. Carker 
 drew it out of him, and he had no power of concealing anything Avith that 
 battery of attraction in full play. 
 
 " You 're a nice young gentleman ! " said Mr. Carker, shaking his head 
 at him. " There 's hemp-seed sown for you, my fine fellow ! " 
 
 " I'm sm'e Sir," returned the wretched Biler, blubbering again, and 
 again having recourse to his coat cuft" : " I shouldn't care, sometimes, if it 
 was growed too. My misfortunes aU begun in wagging, Sir ; but what 
 could I do, exceptin' wag ? " 
 
 " Excepting what ? " said IVIr. Carker. 
 
 " Wag, Sii*. Wagging from school." 
 
 " Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going? " said Mr. Carker. 
 
 " Yes, Sir, that 's wagging. Sir," returned the quondam Grinder, much 
 affected. I was chivied through the streets. Sir, when I went there, and 
 pounded when I got there. So I wagged, and hid myself, and that 
 began it." 
 
 " And you mean to tell me," said Mr. Carker, taking him by the throat 
 again, holding him out at arm's-length, and surveying him in silence for 
 some moments, " that you want a place, do you ? " 
 
 "I should be thankful to be tried. Sir," returned Toodle Junior, faintly. 
 
 Mr. Carker the Manager pushed him backward into a corner — the boy 
 submitting quietly, hardly venturing to breathe, and never once removing 
 Ms eyes from his face — and rang the beU. 
 
 " Tell IVIr. Gills to come here." 
 
 Mr. Perch was too deferential to express sm-prise or recognition of the 
 figTire in the corner : and Uncle Sol appeared immediately. 
 
 " Mr. GiUs ! " said Carker, with a smile, " sit do^vn. How do you do ? 
 You continue to enjoy your health, I hope ? " 
 
 " Thank you. Sir," returned Uncle Sol, taking out his pocket-book, and 
 handing over some notes as he spoke. "Nothing ails me in body but old 
 age. Twenty-five, Sir. 
 
 ■You are as punctual and exact, Mi-, Gills," replied the smiling 
 
 CI 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 217 
 
 Manager, taking a paper from one of his many draAvers, and making an 
 endorsement on it, while Uncle Sol looked over him, " as one of your own 
 chronometers. Quite right." 
 
 " The Son and Heir has not been spoken, I find by the list. Sir," said 
 Uncle Sol, with a slight addition to the usual tremor in his voice. 
 
 " The Son and Heir has not been spoken," retm-ned Carker. " There 
 seems to have been tempestuous weather, Mr. Gills, and she has probably 
 been driven out of her course." 
 
 •' She is safe, I trust in Heaven !" said old Sol. 
 
 " She is safe, I trust in Heaven ! " assented Mr. Carker in that voice- 
 less manner of his : which made the observant young Toodle tremble 
 again. " Mr. Gills," he added aloud, throwing himself back in his chair, 
 " you must miss yom* nephew veiy much ? " 
 
 Uncle Sol, standing by him, shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 " Ml-. Gills," said Carker, with his soft hand playing round his mouth, 
 and looking up into the Instrument-maker's face, " it would be company 
 to you to have a young fellow in your shop just now, and it would be 
 obliging me if you would give one house-room for the present. No, to be 
 sure," he added quickly, in anticipation of what the old man was going 
 to say, " there 's not much business doing there, I know ; but you can 
 make him clean the place out, polish up the instruments ; drudge, 
 Mr. Gills. That 's the lad ! " 
 
 Sol GiUs 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 
 ]VIr. Carker, without the least reference to his proposed master. 
 
 " WiU you give him house-room, Mr. GiUs ? " said the Manager. 
 
 Old Sol, without being quite enthusiastic on the subject, replied that 
 he was glad of any opportunity, however sbght, to oblige Mr. Carker, 
 whose 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. Garker'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 '11 dispose of him so, then, Mr. Gills," he answered, rising, and 
 shaking the old man by the hand, " until I make up my mind what to do 
 with him, and what he deserves. As I consider myself responsible for him, 
 Mr. Gills," here he smiled a wide smile at Kob, who shook before it : "I 
 shall be glad if you '11 look sharply after him, and report his behaviom* to 
 me. I 'U ask a question or two of his parents as I ride home this after- 
 noon — respectable people — to confirm some particidars in his own account 
 of himself ; and that done, Mr. Gills, I '11 send him round to you to-morrow 
 morning. Good b'ye ! " 
 
 His smile at parting Avas so full of teeth, that it confused old Sol, and 
 made him vaguely uncomfortable. He went home, thinking of raging seas, 
 foimdering ships, drowning men, an ancient bottle of Madeira never 
 brought to light, and other dismal matter. 
 
 "Now, boy ! " said Mr. Carker, putting his hand on young Toodle's 
 
218 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 shoulder, and bringing him out into the middle of the room. " You have 
 hem-d me ? " 
 
 Eob said"Tes, Sir." 
 
 "Perhaps you understand," pursued his patron, "that if you ever 
 deceive or play tricks with me, you had better have disowned yourself, 
 indeed, once for all, before you came here?" 
 
 There was nothing in any branch of mental acquisition that Eob seemed 
 to understand better than that. 
 
 " If you have lied to me," said Mr. Carker, " in anything, never come 
 in my way again. If not, you may let me find you waiting for me some- 
 where near yom- mother's house this afternoon. I shall leave this at five 
 o'clock, and ride there on horseback. Now, give me the address." 
 
 Eob repeated it slowly, as Mr. Carker wrote it down. Eob even spelt 
 it over a second time, letter by letter, as if he thought thtit the omission 
 of a dot or scratch would lead to his destruction. Mr. Carker then 
 handed him out of the room : and Eob, keeping his round eyes fixed upon 
 his patron to the last, vanished for the time being. 
 
 Mr. Carker the Manager did a great deal of bxisiness in the com*se of 
 the day, and bestowed his teeth upon a great many people. In the office, 
 in the court, in the street, and on 'Change, they glistened and bristled to 
 a terrible extent. Pive o'clock arriving, and with it Mr. Carker's bay 
 horse, they got on horseback, and went gleaming up Cheapside. 
 
 As no one can easily ride fast, even if inclined to do so, through the 
 press and tlu'ong of the city at that hour, and as Mr. Carker was not 
 inclined, he went leisiu-ely along, picking his way among the carts and 
 carriages, avoiding whenever he could the wetter and more dirty places in 
 the over-watered road, and taking infinite pains to keep himself and his 
 steed clean. Glancing at the passers-by while he was thus ambling on 
 his way, he suddenly encountered the round eyes of the sleek-headed Eob 
 intently fixed upon his face as if they had never been taken oft', while the 
 boy himself, with a pocket-handkerchief twisted up like a speckled eel and 
 girded round his waist, made a very conspicuous demonstration of being 
 prepared to attend upon him, at whatever pace he might think proper to go. 
 
 This attention, however flattering, being one of an unusual kind, and 
 attracting some notice from the other passengers, INIr. Carker took advan- 
 tage of a clearer thoroughfare and a cleaner road, and broke into a trot. 
 Eob • immediately did the same. IMi*. Carker presently tried a canter j 
 Eob 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 road, he 
 stiU saw Toodle Junior holding his course, apparently without distress, and 
 working himself along by the elbows after the most approved manner of 
 professional gentlemen wlio get over the ground for wagers. 
 
 Eidiculous as this attendance was, it was a sign of an influence esta- 
 blished over the boy, and therefore Mr. Carker, affecting not to notice it, 
 rode away into the neighbourliood of Mr. Toodle's house. On his slack- 
 ening his pace here, Eob appeared before him to point out the turnings ; 
 and when he called to a man at a neighboming gateway to hold his horse, 
 pending his visit to the Buildmgs that had succeeded S^aggs's Gardens, 
 Eob dutifully held the stirrup, while the Manager disme anted. 
 
 " Now, Sir," said Mr. Carker, taking him by the shouMer, "come along!"' 
 
 The prodigal son was evidently nervous of visiting the parental abode ; 
 
.•.a)OMBEY AND SON. 219 
 
 but !Mi\ Carter pushing him on before, lie had nothing for it but to open 
 the right door, and suffer himself to be walked into the midst of his brothers 
 and sisters, mustered in overwhelming force round the family tea-table. 
 At sight of the prodigal in the gi'asp of a stranger, these tender relations 
 united in a general howl, which smote upon the prodigal's breast so sharply 
 when he saw his mother stand up among them, pale and trembling with 
 the baby in her arms, that he lent his own voice to the chorus. 
 
 Nothing doubting now that the stranger, if not ]\Ir. Ketch in person, 
 was one of that company, the whole of the yoimg family wailed the louder, 
 while its more infantine members, unable to control the transports of 
 emotion appertaining to their time of life, threw themselves on their backs 
 hke young birds when terrified by a hawk, and kicked violently. At length, 
 poor Polly making herself audible, said, with quivering lips, " Oh Kob, my 
 poor boy, what have you done at last 1" 
 
 " Nothing mother," cried Eob, in a piteous voice, " ask the gentleman!" 
 
 "Don't be alarmed," said Mr. Cai'ker, "I want to do him good." 
 
 At this announcement, Polly, who had not cried yet, began to do so. 
 The elder Toodles, who appeared to have been meditating a rescue, 
 unclenched their fists. The younger Toodles clustered round their mother's 
 gown, and peeped from under their own chubby arms at their desperado 
 brother and his unknown friend. Everybody blessed the gentleman wath 
 the beautiful teeth, who wanted to do good. 
 
 " This fellow," said Mr, Carker to Polly, giving him a gentle shake, " is 
 your son, eh Ma'am ? " 
 
 " Yes Sir," sobbed Polly, with a curtsey; "yes Sir," 
 
 " A bad son, I am afraid? " said Mr. Carker. 
 
 "Never a bad son to me Sir," retiu'ned Polly. 
 
 " To whom then? " demanded Mr. Carker. 
 
 " He has been a bttle wild Sir," replied Polly, checking the baby, who 
 was making convulsive efforts with his arms and legs to laimch himself on 
 Bder, through the ambient air, " and has gone with wrong companions ; 
 but I hope he has seen the misery of that Sir, and will do well again." 
 
 Mr. Carker looked at Polly, and the clean room, and the clean children, 
 and the simple Toodle face, combined of father and mother, that was 
 reflected and repeated everywhere about him : and seemed to have acliieved 
 the real purpose of his visit. 
 
 "Your husband, I take it, is not at home?" he said. 
 
 " No Sir, 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 patron, he hardly took his eyes 
 from Mr. Carker's face, unless 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 yours, and who I am, and what I am going to do for him." 
 
 This Mr. Carker did, in his own way : saying that he at first intended 
 to have accumulated nameless terrors on his presumptuous head, for 
 coming to the whereabout of Dombey and Son. That he had relented, in 
 consideration of his youth, his professed contrition, and his friends. That 
 he Avas afraid he took a rash step in doing anything for the boy, and one 
 that might expose him to the censm-e of the prudent; but that he did it of 
 himself and for himself, and risked the consequences single-handed ; and 
 
220 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 that his mother's past connection with Mr. Dombey's family had nothing 
 to do with it, and that Mr. Dombey had nothing to do with it, but that 
 he, ]\Ir. Carker, was the be-all, and the end-aU of this business. Taking 
 great credit to himself for his goodness, and receiving no less from all the 
 family then present, Mr. Carker signified, indu'ectly but still pretty plainly, 
 that Eob's implicit fidelity, attachment, and devotion, were for evermore 
 his due, and the least homage he could receive. And with this great truth 
 Kob himself was so impressed, that, standing gazing on his patron with 
 tears rolling down his cheeks, he nodded his shiny head until it seemed 
 almost as loose as it had done under the same patron's hands that morning. 
 
 PoUy, who had passed Heaven knows how many sleepless nights on 
 account of this her dissipated firstborn, and had not seen him for weeks 
 and Aveeks, coidd have almost kneeled to Mr. Carker the Manager, as to a 
 Good Spii'it — in spite of his teeth. But Mr. Carker rising to depart, she only 
 thanked him with her mother's prayers and blessings ; thanks so rich when 
 paid out of the Heart's mint, especially for any service Mr. Carker had ren- 
 dered, that he might have given back a large amount of change, and yet 
 been overpaid. 
 
 As that gentleman made his way among the crowding children to the 
 door, Kob retreated on his mother, and took her and the baby in the same 
 repentant hug. 
 
 " I '11 try hard, dear mother, now. Upon my soul I will ! " said Eob. 
 
 " Oh do, my dear boy ! I am sure you will, for our sakes and your 
 own ! " cried Polly, kissing him. " But you 're coming back to speak to 
 me, when you have seen the gentleman away ? " 
 
 " I don't know, mother." Kob hesitated, and looked down. " Father 
 — ^when 's he coming home ? " 
 
 " Not tiU two o'clock to-morrow morning." 
 
 " I '11 come back, mother dear ! " cried Kob. And passing through the 
 shrill cry of his brothers and sisters in reception of this promise, he fol- 
 lowed Mr. Carker out. 
 
 " What ! " said Mi-. Carker, who had heard this. " You have a bad 
 father, have you? " 
 
 " No Sir ! " returned Kob, amazed. " There ain't abetter nor a kinder 
 father going, than mine is." 
 
 " Why don't you want to see him then ? " inquired his patron. 
 
 " There 's such a difference between a father and a mother Sir," said 
 Kob, after faltering for a moment. " He couldn't hardly believe yet that 
 I was going to do better — though I know he 'd try to — but a mother — 
 sJie always believes what 's good. Sir; at least I know my mother does, 
 God bless her ! " 
 
 Mx. Carker's mouth expanded, but he said no more until he was 
 mounted on his horse, and had dismissed the man who held it, when, look- 
 ing down from the saddle steadily into the attentive and watcliful face of 
 the boy, he said : 
 
 " You 'U come to me to-moiTow morning, and you shall be shown where 
 that old gentleman lives ; that old gentleman who was with me this morn- 
 ing ; where you are going, as you heard me say." 
 
 "Yes Sir," returned Kob. 
 
 " I have a great interest in that old gentleman, and in serving him, you 
 serve me, boy, do you understand ? Well," he added, interrupting him. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 221 
 
 for he saw his round face brighten when he was told that : " I see you do. 
 I Avant to know all about that old gentleman, and 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 stedfast face, and said, "Tes Sir," again. 
 
 " I should like to know that he has friends who are attentive to him, 
 and that they don't desert him — for he lives very much alone now, poor 
 fellow ; but that they are fond of him, and 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 lier^ 
 
 " I '11 take care Sir," said the boy. 
 
 " And take care," returned liis patron, bending forward to advance his 
 grinning face closer to the boy's, and 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 world Sir," replied Kob, shaking his head. 
 
 " Neither there," said Mr. Carker, pointing to the place they had just 
 left, " nor anywhere else. I '11 try how true and gTateful you can be. I '11 
 prove you ! " Making this, by his display of teeth and by the action of 
 his head, as much a threat as a promise, he turned from Eob's eyes, which 
 were nailed upon him as if he had won the boy by a charm, body and soul, 
 and rode away. But again becoming conscious, after trotting a short dis- 
 tance, that his devoted henchman, girt as before, was yielding him the same 
 attendance, to the great amusement of sundry spectators, he reined up, 
 and ordered him oft". To insure his obedience, he turned in the saddle 
 and watched him as he retired. It was curious to see that even theu Eob 
 could not keep his eyes wholly averted from his patron's face, but, con- 
 stantly turning and turning again to look after him, involved himself in a 
 tempest of buttetings and jostlings from the other passengers in the street : 
 of which, in the pursuit of the one paramount idea, he was perfectly heedless. 
 
 Mr. Carker the Manager rode on at a foot pace, with the easy air of one 
 who had performed all the business of the day in a satisfactory manner, 
 and got it comfortably off his mind. Complacent and affable as man could 
 be, Mr. Carker picked his way along the streets and hummed a soft tune 
 as he went. He seemed to purr : he was so glad. 
 
 And in some sort, Mr. Carker, in his fancy, basked upon a hearth too. 
 Coiled up snugly at certain feet, he was ready for a spring, or for a tear, or 
 for a scratch, or for a velvet touch, as the humour took him and occasion 
 served. Was there any bird in a cage, that came in for a share of his regards ? 
 
 " A very young lady ! " thought Mr. Carker the Manager, through his 
 song. ♦• Aye ! when I saw her last, she was a little child. With dark 
 eyes and hair, I recollect, and a good face ; a very good face ! I dare say 
 she 's pretty." 
 
 More affable and pleasant yet, and humming his song until his many 
 teeth vibrated to it, IVIr. Carker picked his way along, and turned at last 
 into the shady street where Mr. Dombey's house stood. He had been so 
 busy, winding webs round good faces, and obscuring them with meshes, 
 that he hardly thought of being at this point of his ride, mitil, glancing 
 down the cold perspective of tall houses, he reined in liis horse quickly 
 within a few yards of the door. But to explain why Mr. Carker reined in 
 his horse quickly, and what he looked at in no gmaU surprise, a few digres- 
 sive words are necessary. 
 
222 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Mr. Toots, emancipated from the Blimber thraldom and coming into the 
 possession of a certain portion of liis worklly wealth, " Avhich," as he 
 had been wont, dming his last half-year's probation, to communicate to 
 Mr. Feeder every evening as a new discovery, " the executors couldn't 
 keep him out off,'' had applied himself, with great diligence, to the science 
 of Life. Fired with a noble emulation to pursue a brilliant and distinguished 
 career, Mr. Toots had fm'nished a choice set of apartments ; had estabhshed 
 among them a sporting bower, embellished with the portraits of winning 
 horses, in which he took no particle of interest ; and a divan, which made 
 him poorly. In this delicious abode, Mr. Toots devoted himself to the 
 cultivation of those gentle arts which refine and humanise existence, his 
 chief instructor in which was an interesting character called the Game 
 Chicken, who was always to be heard of at the bar of the Black Badger, 
 wore a shaggy white great-coat in the warmest weather, and knocked 
 Mr. Toots about the head three times a week, for the small consideration 
 of ten and six per visit. 
 
 The Game Chicken, who was quite the Apollo of IVIr. Toots's Pantheon, 
 had introduced to him a marker who taught billiards, a Life Guard who 
 taught fencing, a job-master who taught riding, a Cornish gentleman who 
 was up to anything in the athletic line, and two or three other friends con- 
 nected no less intimately with the fine arts. Under whose auspices Mr. 
 Toots could hardly fail to improve apace, and under whose tuition he went 
 to work. 
 
 But however it came about, it came to pass, even while these gentle- 
 men had the gloss of novelty upon them, that Mr. Toots felt, he didn't 
 know how, unsettled and uneasy. There were husks in his corn, that even 
 Game Chickens couldn't peck up ; gloomy giants in his leisure, that even 
 Game Chickens couldn't knock down. Notliing seemed to do Mi*. Toots 
 so much good as incessantly leaving cards at Mr. Dombey's door. No 
 tax-gatherer in the British Dominions — that wide-spread territory on 
 which the sun never sets, and where the tax-gatherer never goes to bed 
 — was more regular and persevering in his caDs than Mi*. Toots. 
 
 Mr. Toots never went upstairs ; and always performed the same cere- 
 monies, richly dressed for the pui-pose, at the hall door. 
 
 "Oh! Good morning!" wonld be Mr. Toots's first remark to the 
 servant. "For Mr. Dombey," would be Mr. Toots's next remark, as he 
 handed in a card. " For jMiss Dombey," would be his next, as he handed 
 in another. 
 
 Mr. Toots would then turn round as if to go away ; but the man knew 
 him by this time, and knew he wouldn't. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon," Mr. Toots would say, as 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 upstairs, and Avould look up the staircase, 
 and would say, yes she was at home, and was coming down. Then Miss 
 Nipper wc.ild appear, and the man would retire. 
 
 " Oh ! iiow de do ? " Mr. Toots would say, with a chuckle and 
 a blush. 
 
 Susan would thank him, and say she was very well. 
 
 " How 's Diogenes going on ? '' would be Mr. Toots's second interro- 
 gation. 
 
 ^ 
 
„ ^..y^^?^^ ^:;^c5f?esg/^ y^<!g^<i^^i4:^:^ 
 
 ^ Aa^t/c'C^60x4y— .^i^^^^^id 
 
 ^ /ZZ^Y? 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 223 
 
 Very well indeed. Miss Florence was fonder and fonder of him every- 
 day. Mr. Toots was sure to hail this with a burst of chuckles, like the 
 opening of a bottle of some effeiTCScent beverage. 
 
 " Miss riorence is quite well, Sir," Susan would add. 
 
 " Oh, it 's of no consequence, thank'ee," was the invariable reply of 
 Mr. Toots ; and when he had said so, he 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 time, to the hand of Florence, he would be fortunate and blest. It is 
 certain that IVIi-. Toots, by some remote and roundabout road, had got to 
 that point, and that there he made a stand. His heart was wounded ; he 
 was touched ; he was in love. He had made a desperate attempt, one 
 night, and had sat up all night for the purpose, to write an acrostic on 
 Florence, which 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 
 Ml-. Dombey daily, the brain of Mr. Toots had not worked much in refer- 
 ence to the subject that held his feelings prisoner. But deep consideration 
 at length assured Mr. Toots that an important step to gahi, was, the con- 
 cihation of Miss Susan Nipper, preparatory 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 history, for winning her to his 
 interests. Not being able quite to make up his mind about it, he consulted 
 the Cliicken — 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 out, go in and do it," Mr. Toots considered this 
 a figurative way of supporting his own view of the case, and heroically 
 resolved to kiss Miss Nipper next day. 
 
 Upon the next day, therefore, Mr. Toots, putting into requisition some 
 of the greatest marvels that Burgess and Co. had ever turned out, went off 
 to Mr. Dombey's upon this design. But his heart failed him so much as 
 he approached the scene of action, that, although he arrived on the ground 
 at three o'clock in the afternoon, it was six before he knocked at the door. 
 
 Everything happened as usual, down to the point when Susan said her 
 young mistress was well, and Mr. Toots said it was of no consequence. 
 To her amazement, Mr. Toots, instead of going off, Uke a rocket, after that 
 observation, lingered and chuckled. 
 
 " Perhaps you 'd like to walk up stairs, Sir?" said Susan. 
 
 " Well, I tliink I will come in !" said Mr. Toots. 
 
 But instead of walking up stairs, the bold Toots made an awkward 
 plimge at Susan when the door was shut, and embracing that fair creature, 
 kissed her on the cheek. 
 
 " Go along with you !" cried Susan, "or I '11 tear your eyes out." 
 
 " Just another !" said Mr. Toots. 
 
 " Go along with you !" exclaimed Susan, giving him a push. " Inno- 
 cents like vou, too ! Who '11 begin next ! Go alono;. Sir !" 
 
224 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Susan was not in any serious strait, for she could hardly speak for 
 laughing ; but Diogenes, on the staircase, hearing a rustling against the 
 wall, and a shuffling of feet, and seeing through the bannisters that there 
 was some contention going on, and foreign invasion in the house, formed 
 a different opinion, dashed down to the rescue, and in the twinkling of an 
 eye had Mr. Toots by the leg. 
 
 Susan screamed, laughed, opened the street-door, and ran down stairs ; 
 the bold Toots tumbled staggering out into the street, with Diogenes hold- 
 ing on to one leg of his pantaloons, as if Burgess and Co. were his cooks, 
 and had provided that dainty morsel for his holiday entertainment; 
 Diogenes shaken oft", rolled over and over in the dust, got up again, 
 whirled round the giddy Toots and snapped at him : and all this turmoil, 
 Mr. Carker, reining up his horse and sitting at a little distance, saw, to his 
 amazement, issue from the stately house of Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Mr. Carker remained watching the discomfited Toots, when Diogenes 
 was called in, and the door shut : and while that gentleman, taking refuge 
 in a doorway near at hand, bound up the torn leg of his pantaloons with a 
 costly silk handkerchief that had formed part of his expensive outfit for 
 the adventm-e. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Sir," said Mr. Carker, riding up, with his most 
 propitiatory smile. " I hope you are not hm't ?" 
 
 " Oh no, thank you," replied Mr. Toots, raising his flushed face, " it 's 
 of no consequence." Mi'. Toots woidd have signified, if he could, that he 
 liked it very much. 
 
 " If the dog's teeth have entered the leg. Sir — " began Carker, with a 
 display of his own. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Mr. Toots, " it 's all quite right. It 's very 
 comfortable, thank you." 
 
 " I have the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dombey," observed Carker. 
 
 " Have you though?" rejoined the blushing Toots, 
 
 " And you wiU allow me, perhaps, to apologise, in his absence," said 
 Mr. Carker, taking off his hat, "for such a misadventure, and to wonder 
 iiow it can possibly have happened." 
 
 Mr. Toots is so much gratified by this politeness, and the lucky chance 
 of making friends with a friend of Mr. Dombey, that he pulls out his card- 
 case, which he never loses an opportunity of using, and hands his name 
 and address to Mr. Carker : who responds to that com'tesy by giving him 
 his own, and with that they part. 
 
 As Mr. Carker picks his way so softly past the house, glancing up at 
 the windows, and trying to make out the pensive face behind the curtain, 
 looking at the children opposite, the rough head of Diogenes comes clam- 
 bering up close by it, and the dog, regardless of all soothing, barks and 
 growls, and makes at him from that height, as if he would spring down and 
 tear him limb from limb. 
 
 Well spoken, Di, so near your mistress ! Another, and another with your 
 head up, your eyes flashing, and your vexed mouth worrying itself, for 
 want of him ! Another, as he picks his way along ! You have a good 
 scent, Di, — cats, boy, cats ! 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 225 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 FLORENCE SOLITARY, AND THE MIDSHIPMAN MYSTERIOUS. 
 
 Florence lived alone in the great dreary house, and day succeeded day, 
 and still she lived alone ; and the blank walls looked down upon her with 
 a vacant stare, as if they had a Gorgon -Uke mind to stare her youth and 
 beauty into stone. 
 
 No magic dwelling-place in magic story, shut up in the heart of a thick 
 wood, was ever more solitary and deserted to the fancy, than was her father's 
 mansion in its grim reality, as it stood lowering on the street : always 
 by night, when lights were shining from neighbouring windows, a blot 
 iipon its scanty brightness; always by day, a frown upon its never-smiling 
 face. 
 
 There were not two dragon sentries keeping ward before the gate of this 
 abode, as in magic legend are usually found on duty over the wronged inno- 
 cence imprisoned ; but besides a glowering visage, with its thin lips parted 
 wickedly, that surveyed aU comers from above the archway of the door, 
 there was a monstrous fantasy of rusty iron curling and twisting like 
 a petrifaction of an arbour over the threshold, budding in spikes and 
 corkscrew points, and bearing, one on either side, two ominous extin- 
 guishers, that seemed to say, " Who enter here, leave light behind ! " 
 There were no talismanic characters engraven on the portal, but the house 
 was now so neglected in appearance, that boys chalked the railings and 
 the pavement — particularly round the comer where the side wall was — 
 and drew ghosts on the stable door; and being sometimes driven off 
 by Mr. Towlinson, made portraits of him, in return, with his ears growing 
 out horizontallv from under his hat. Noise ceased to be, within the 
 shadow of the roof. The brass band that came into the street once a week, 
 in the morning, never brayed a note in at those windows ; but aU such 
 company, down to a poor little piping organ of weak intellect, with an 
 imbecile party of automaton dancers, waltzing in and out at folding doors, 
 fell oif from it with one accord, and 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 time, but left their waking fresh- 
 ness imimpaired. The passive desolation of disuse was everywhere 
 silently manifest about it. Within doors, curtains, drooping heavily, lost 
 their old folds and shapes, and hung like cumbrous palls. Hecatombs of 
 furniture, stiU piled and covered up, shrunk like imprisoned and forgotten 
 men, and changed insensibly. Mirrors were dim as with the breath of 
 years. Patterns of carpets faded and became perplexed and faint, hke 
 the memory of those years' trifling incidents. Boards, starting at unwonted 
 foot-steps, creaked and shook. Keys rusted in the locks of doors. Damp 
 started on the walls, and as the stains came out, the pictures seemed to 
 go in and secrete themselves. Mildew and mould began to lurk in closets. 
 
 Q 
 
236 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Fungus trees grew in corners of the cellars. Dust accumulated, 
 nobody knew whence nor how ; spiders, moths, and grubs were heard of 
 every day. An exploratory black-beetle now and then was found im- 
 movable upon the stairs, or in an upper room, as wondering how he got 
 there. Eats began to squeak and scuffle in the night time, through dark 
 galleries they mined behind the panelling. 
 
 The dreary magnificence of the state rooms, seen imperfectly by the 
 doubtful light admitted through closed shutters, would have answered 
 well enough for an enchanted abode. Such as the tarnished paws of 
 gilded lions, stealthily put out from beneath their wrappers ; the marble 
 lineaments of busts on pedestals, fearfully revealing themselves through 
 veils ; the clocks that never told the time, or, if wo\md up by any chance, 
 told it Avrong, and struck unearthly numbers, which are not upon the dial ; 
 the accidental tinklings among the pendant lustres, more startling than 
 alarm-beUs ; the softened sounds and laggard air that made their way 
 among these objects, and a phantom crowd of others, shrouded and hooded, 
 and made spectral of shape. But, besides, there was the great stair- 
 case, where the lord of the place so rarely set his foot, and 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 family, and with whispered 
 recollections of them ; and to all the house but Florence, there was a gentle 
 figure moving through the solitude and gloom, that gave to every lifeless 
 thing a touch of present human interest and Avonder. 
 
 For Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day, 
 and stUl she lived alone, and the cold walls looked down upon her with a 
 vacant stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and 
 beauty into stone. 
 
 The grass began to grow upon the roof, and in the crevices of the base- 
 ment paving. A scaly crumbling vegetation sprouted round the window- 
 sUls. Fragments of mortar lost their hold upon the insides of the unused 
 chimneys, and came dropping down. The two trees with the smoky trunks 
 were blighted high up, and the withered branches domineered above the 
 leaves. Through the whole building, white had turned yeUow, yellow 
 nearly black; and since the time when the poor lady died, it had slowly 
 become a dark gap in the long monotonous street. 
 
 But Florence bloomed there, like the king's fair daughter in the story. 
 Her books, her music, and her daily teachers, were her only real com- 
 panions, Susan Nipper and Diogenes excepted : of whom the former, in 
 her attendance on the studies of her young mistress, began to grow quite 
 learned herself, while the latter, softened possibly by the same influences, 
 would lay his head upon the window-ledge, and placidly open and shut 
 his eyes upon the street, aU thi-ough a summer morning ; sometimes prick- 
 ing up his head to look with great significance after some noisy dog in a 
 cart, who was barking his way along, and sometimes, with an exasperated 
 and unaccountable recollection of his supposed enemy in the neighbour- 
 hood, rushing to the door, whence, after a deafening disturbance, he woiild 
 come jogging back with a ridiculous complacency that belonged to him, 
 and lay his jaw upon the window-ledge again, with the air of a dog who 
 had done a public service. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 227 
 
 So Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, within the circle of her 
 innocent pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could 
 go down to her father's rooms now, and think of him, and suffer her loving 
 heart humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She could look 
 upon the objects that had surrounded him in his sorrow, and could nestle 
 near his chair, and not dread the glance that she so weU remembered. 
 She could render him such little tokens of her duty and service, as putting 
 everytliing in order for him with her own hands, binding little nosegays for 
 his table, changing them as one by one they withered and he did not come 
 back, preparing something for him every day, and leaving some timid 
 mark of her presence near his usual seat. To-day, it was a little painted 
 stand for his watch ; to-morrow, she would be afraid to leave it, and 
 would substitute some other trifle of her making not so likely to attract 
 his eye. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the thought 
 of his coming home and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry down with 
 sHppered feet and quickly beating heart, and bring it away. At another 
 time, she would only lay her face upon his desk, and leave a kiss there, 
 and 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 twilight, early in the morning, and at times when meals 
 were served down stairs. And although they were in every nook the 
 better and the brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as 
 quietly as any sunbeam, excepting that she lefL 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 
 vision, there arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts, that 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 child, 
 that sometimes, for the moment, she almost believed it was so, and, borne 
 on by the current of that pensive fiction, seemed 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 father, looking 
 at her gently, told 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 neck, and clinging to her with the love and confidence of 
 all her soul ! And oh the desolation of the solitary house again, with 
 evening coming on, and no one there ! 
 
 But there was one thought, scarcely shaped out to herself, yet fer- 
 vent and strong within her, that upheld Florence when she strove 
 and filled her true young heart, so sorely tried, with constancy of 
 purpose. Into her mind, as into all others contending with the great , 
 affliction of our mortal nature, there had stolen solemn wonderings and 
 hopes, arising in the dim world beyond the present life, and mm-mm*- 
 ing, like faint music, of 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 
 
 q2 
 
228 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 to Florence to give shelter to these thoughts, until one day — it was soon 
 after she had last seen her father in his own room, late at night — the fancy- 
 came upon her, that, in weeping for his alienated heart, she might stir 
 the spirits of the dead against liim. Wild, weak, childish, as it may 
 have been to think so, and to tremble at the half-formed thought, it was 
 the impulse of her loving nature ; and from that hour Florence strove 
 against the cruel wound in her breast, and tried to think of him whose 
 hand had made it, only with hope. 
 
 Her father did not know — she held to it from that time — ^how much 
 she loved him. She was very young, and had no mother, and had never 
 learned, by some fault or misfortune, how to express to him that she 
 loved him. She would be patient, and would try to gain that art in time, 
 and 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 house, and found the resolution bright and fresh within 
 the bosom of its solitary mistress. Thi-ough all the duties of the day, it 
 animated her ; for Florence hoped that the more she knew, and the more 
 accomplished she became, the more glad he would be when he came to 
 know and like her. Sometimes she wondered, with a swelling heart and 
 rising tear, whether 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 books, her music, and her work : 
 in her morning walks, and in her nightly prayers : she had her engrossing 
 aim in view. Strange study for a chid, to learn the road to a hard 
 parent's heart ! 
 
 There were many careless loungers through the street, as the summer 
 evening deepened into night, who glanced across the road at the sombre 
 house, and saw the youthful figure at the window, such a contrast to it, 
 looking upward at the stars as they began to shine, who would have slept 
 the worse if they had known on what design she mused so steadfastly. 
 The reputation of the mansion as a haunted house, would not have been 
 the gayer with some humble dwellers elsewhere, who were struck by its 
 external gloom in passing and repassing on their daUy avocations, and 
 so named it, if they could have read its story in the darkening face. But 
 Florence held her sacred purpose, unsuspected and unaided : and studied 
 only how to bring her father to the understanding that she loved him, 
 and made no appeal against him in any Avandering thought. 
 
 Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day, 
 and still she lived alone, and the monotonous walls looked down upon her 
 with a stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like intent to stare her youth and 
 beauty into stone. 
 
 Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one morning, as she 
 folded and sealed a note she had been writing : and showed in her looks 
 an approving knowledge of its contents. 
 
 " Better late than never, dear Miss Floy," said Susan, " and I do say, 
 that even a visit to them old Skettleses will be a God-send." 
 
 " It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Susan," returned 
 Florence, with a mild correction of that young lady's familiar mention of 
 the family in question, " to repeat theii- invitation so kindly." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 229 
 
 Miss Nipper, wlio was perhaps the most thorough-going partisan on 
 the face of the earth, and who carried her partisanship into all matters 
 great or small, and perpetually waged war with it against society, 
 screwed up her lips and shook her head, as a protest against any 
 recog-nition of disinterestedness in the Skettleses, and a plea in bar that 
 they would have valuable consideration for their kindness, in the company 
 of Florence. 
 
 " They know what they 're about, if ever people did," murmured Miss 
 Nipper, drawing in her breath, " oh! trust them Skettleses for that !" 
 
 " I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I confess," said 
 Florence thoughtfully ; " but it will be right to go. I think it will be 
 better." 
 
 " Much better," interposed Susan, with another emphatic shake of her 
 head. 
 
 " And so," said Florence, " though I would prefer to have gone when 
 there was no one there, instead of in this vacation time, when it seems 
 there are some young people staying in the house, I have thankfully said 
 yes." 
 
 " For which / say. Miss Floy, Oh be joyful ! " returned Susan. " Ah ! 
 h— h ! " 
 
 This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper frequently wound up a 
 sentence, at about that epoch of time, was supposed below the level of the 
 hall to have a general reference to Mr. Dombey, and 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 had, in consequence, the charm 
 of mystery, in addition to the advantage of the sharpest expression. 
 
 " How long it is before we have any news of Walter, Susan!" observed 
 Florence after a moment's silence. 
 
 " Long indeed. Miss Floy ! " replied her maid. " And Perch said, 
 when he came just now to see for letters — but what signifies what he 
 says ! " exclaimed Susan, reddening and breaking off. " Much he knows 
 about it 1 " 
 
 Florence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush overspread her face. 
 
 " If I hadn't," said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling with some latent 
 anxiety and alarm, and looking fuU at her young mistress, while en- 
 deavouring 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 sex, I'd never take pride in my hair again, but turn it up behind my 
 ears, and wear coarse caps, without a bit of border, until death released me 
 from my insignificance, I may not be a Amazon, Miss Floy, and wouldn't 
 so demean myself by such disfigurement, but anyways I'm not a giver-up, 
 I hope." 
 
 " Give up ! What ? " cried Florence, with a face of terror; 
 
 " Why, nothing. Miss," said Susan. " Good gracious, nothing ! It's 
 only that wet curl-paper of a man, Perch, that any one might almost 
 make away with, with a touch, and really it would be a blessed event 
 for all parties if some one would take pity on him, and Avould have the 
 goodness ! " 
 
 "Does he give up the ship, Susan? " inquired Florence, very pale. 
 
 " No, Miss," returned Susan, " I should like to see him make so bold 
 
230 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 as do it to my face ! No, Miss, but he goes on about some bothering 
 ginger that ^ir. Walter was to send to Mrs. Perch, and shakes his dismal 
 head, and says he hopes it may be coming ; any how, he says, it can't 
 come now in time for the intended occasion, but may do for next, which 
 really," said Miss Nipper, with aggravated scorn, "puts me out of patience 
 with the man, for though I can bear a great deal, I am not a camel, neither 
 am I," added Susan, after a moment's consideration, " if I know myself, 
 a dromedary neither." 
 
 " What else does he say, Susan ? " inquired Florence, earnestly, 
 " Won't you tell me ? " 
 
 " As if I wouldn't teU you anything, Miss Floy, and everytliing ! " said 
 Susan. " Why Miss, he says that there begins to be a general talk about 
 the ship, and that they have never had a ship on that voyage half so long 
 unheard of, and that the captain's wife was at the office yesterday, and 
 seemed a little put out about it, but any one could say that, we knew 
 nearly that before." 
 
 " I must visit Walter's uncle," said Florence, hurriedly, " before I leave 
 home. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk there, directly, 
 Susan." 
 
 Miss Nipper having nothing to urge against the proposal, but being 
 perfectly acquiescent, they were soon equipped, and in the streets, and on 
 their way towards the little Midshipman. 
 
 The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to Captain Cuttle's, 
 on the day when Brogley the broker came into possession, and when there 
 seemed to him to be an execution in the very steeples, was pretty much 
 the same as that in which Florence now took her way to Uncle Sol's ; 
 with this difference, that Florence suffered the added pain of thinking that 
 she had been, perhaps, the innocent occasion of involving Walter in peril, 
 and all to whom he was dear, herself included, in an agony of suspense. 
 For the rest, uncertainty and danger seemed written upon everything. 
 The weathercocks on spu-es and housetops were mysterious with hints of 
 stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers, out to dangerous 
 seas, where fragments of gi'eat wrecks were di'ifting, perhaps, and helpless 
 men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as the unfathomable 
 waters. When Florence came into the city, and passed gentlemen who 
 were talking together, she dreaded to hear them speaking of the ship, and 
 saying it was lost. Pictures and prints of vessels fighting with the rolling 
 waves fiUed her with alarm. The smoke and clouds, though moving 
 gently, moved too fast for her apprehensions, and made her fear there was 
 a tempest blowing at that moment on the ocean. 
 
 Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected similarly, but having 
 her attention much engaged in struggles with boys, whenever there was 
 any press of people — for, between that grade of human kind and herself, 
 there was some natural animosity that invariably broke out, whenever they 
 came together — it would seem that she had not much leisure on the 
 road for intellectual operations. 
 
 Arriving m good time abreast of the wooden Midshipman on the oppo- 
 site side of the way, and waiting for an opportunity to cross the street, 
 they were a little surprised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker's door, 
 a round-headed lad, with his chubby face addressed towards the sky, who, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 231 
 
 as they looked at him, suddenly thrust into his capacious mouth two 
 fingers of each hand, and with the assistance of that machinery whistled, 
 with astonishing shrillness, to some pigeons at a considerable elevation in 
 the air. 
 
 " Mrs. Eichards's eldest, Miss ! " said Susan, " and the worrit of Mrs. 
 Kichards's life ! " 
 
 As PoUy had been to teU Florence of the resuscitated prospects of her 
 son and heir, Florence was prepared for the meeting : so, a favourable 
 moment presenting itself, they both hastened across, without any further 
 contemplation of Mrs. Eichards's bane. That sporting character, un- 
 conscious of their approach, again whistled with his utmost might, and 
 then yelled in a rapture of excitement, " Strays ! Whoo-oop ! Strays ! " 
 Avhich identification had such an effect upon the conscience-stricken pigeons, 
 that instead of going direct to some town in the North of England, as ap- 
 peared to have been their original intention, they began to wheel and falter ; 
 whereupon Mrs. Eichards's first-bom pierced them with another whistle, 
 and again yeUed, in a voice that rose above the turmoil of the street, 
 " Strays ! Whoo-oop ! Strays ! " 
 
 From this transport, he was abruptly recalled to terrestrial objects, by a 
 poke from Miss Nipper, which sent him into the shop. 
 
 " Is this the way you show yom- penitence, when Mrs. Eichards has 
 been fretting for you months and months ! " said Susan, following the 
 poke. " Where 's Mr. GiUs ? " 
 
 Eob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss Nipper when he 
 saw Florence following, put his knuckles to his hair, in honour of the latter, 
 and said to the former, that Mr. Gills was out. 
 
 " Fetch him home," said Miss Nipper, with authority, " and say that 
 my young lady 's here." 
 
 " I don't know where he 's gone," said Eob. 
 
 " Is tliat your penitence ? " cried Susan, with stinging sharpness. 
 
 " Why, how can I go and fetch him when I don't know where to go ? " 
 whimpered the baited Eob. " How can you be so unreasonable ? " 
 
 " Did Mr. GiUs say when he should be home ? " asked Florence. 
 
 " Yes, Miss," replied Eob, with 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 now, Miss." 
 
 " Is he very anxious about his nephew?" inquu*ed Susan. 
 
 " Yes, Miss," returned Eob, preferring to address himself to Florence 
 and slighting Nipper ; "I should say he was, very much so. He ain't in- 
 doors. Miss, not a quarter of an hour together. He can't settle in one 
 place five minutes. He goes about, like a — just like a stray," said Eob, 
 stooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons through the window, and check- 
 ing himself, with his fingers half-way to his mouth, on the verge of 
 another whistle. 
 
 " Do you know a friend of Mr. GiUs, called Captain Cuttle?" inquired 
 Florence, after a moment's reflection. 
 
 " Him with a hook, Miss ?" rejoined Eob with an illustrative twist of 
 his left hand. " Yes, Miss. He was here the day before yesterday." 
 
 " Has he not been here since ?" asked Susan. 
 
 " No, Miss," returned Eob, stiU addressing his reply to Florence. 
 
232 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Perhaps Walter's uncle has gone there, Susan," observed Florence, 
 turning to her. 
 
 " To Captain Cuttle's, Miss?" interposed Eob, " no, he's not gone 
 there, Miss. Because he left pai-ticular word that if Captain Cuttle 
 called, I should teU him how surprised he was, not to have seen him yes- 
 terday, and should make him stop 'till he came back." 
 
 " Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives ?" asked Florence. 
 
 Eob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy parchment book 
 on the shop desk, read the address aloud. 
 
 Florence again turned to her maid and took counsel with her in a low 
 voice, while Eob the round-eyed, mindful of his patron's secret cliarge, looked 
 on and listened. Florence proposed that they should go to Captain 
 Cuttle's house ; hear from his own lips, what he thought of the absence 
 of any tidings of the Son and Heir ; and bring him, if they could, to 
 comfort Uncle Sol. Susan at first objected slightly, on the score of dis- 
 tance; but a hackney-coach being mentioned by her mistress, withdrew 
 that opposition, and gave in her assent. There were some minutes of 
 discussion between them before they came to this conclusion, during 
 which the staring Eob paid close attention to both speakers, and inclined 
 his ear to each by turns, as if he were appointed arbitrator of the 
 arguments. 
 
 In fine, Eob was despatched for a coach, the visitors keeping shop 
 meanwhile ; and when he brought it, they got into it, leaving word for 
 Uncle Sol that they would be sm'e to call again, on their way back. Eob 
 having stared after the coach untd it was as invisible as the pigeons had 
 now become, sat down behind the desk with a most assiduous demeanour ; 
 and in order that he might forget nothing of what had transpired, made 
 notes of it on various small scraps of paper, with a vast expenditure of 
 ink. There was no danger of these documents betraying anything, if 
 accidentally lost ; for long before a word was dry, it became as profound 
 a mystery to Eob, as if he had had no part whatever in its production. 
 
 While he was yet busy with these labours, the hackney-eoach, after 
 encountering unheard-of difficulties from swivel-bridges, soft roads, im- 
 passable canals, caravans of casks, settlements of scarlet-beans and little 
 wash-houses, and many such obstacles abounding in that country, stopped 
 at the corner of Brig Place. Alighting here, Florence and Susan Nipper 
 walked down the street, and sought out the abode of Captain Cuttle. 
 
 It happened by evil chance to be one of J\Ii's. Mac Stinger's great 
 cleaning days. On these occasions, Mi-s. Mac Stinger was knocked up 
 by the policeman at a quarter before three in the morning, and rarely 
 succumbed before twelve o'clock next night. The chief object of 
 this institution appeared to be, that Mrs. Mac Stinger should move all 
 the furniture into the back garden at early dawn, walk about the house 
 in pattens aU day, and move the furniture back again after dark. These 
 ceremonies greatly fluttered those doves the young Mac Stingers, who 
 were not only unable at such times to find any resting-place for the 
 soles of their feet, but 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. Mac Stinger's door, that worthy but redoubtable female was in 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 233 
 
 the act of conveying Alexander Mac Stinger, aged two years and three 
 months, along the -passage, for forcible deposition in a sitting post\u-e on 
 the street pavement : Alexander being black in the face with holding 
 his breath after punishment, and a cool paving-stone being usually found 
 to act as a powerful restorative in such cases. 
 
 The feelings of Mrs. Mac Stinger, as a woman and a mother, were 
 outraged by the look of pity for Alexander which she observed on Florence's 
 face. Therefore, Mrs. Mac Stinger asserting those finest emotions of our 
 nature, in preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook and buf- 
 feted Alexander, both before and during the application of the paving- 
 stone, and took no fiu-ther notice of the strangers. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Florence, when the child had 
 found his breath again, and was using it. " Is this Captain Cuttle's 
 house?" 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Mac Stinger. 
 
 " Not Number Nine?" asked Florence, hesitating. 
 
 " Who said it wasn't Number Nine ?" said Mrs. Mac Stinger. 
 
 " Susan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to inquire what Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger meant by that, and if she knew whom she was talking to. 
 
 Mrs. Mac Stinger in retort, looked at her all over. " What do you 
 want with Captain Cuttle, I should wish to know ! " said IMrs. Mac 
 Stinger. 
 
 " Should you? Then I 'm sorry that you won't be satisfied," returned 
 Miss Nipper. 
 
 "Hush, Susan! If you please!" said Florence. " Perhaps you can 
 have the goodness to tell us where Captain Cuttle lives, ma'am, as he 
 don't live here." 
 
 " Who says he don't live here ?" retorted the implacable Mac Stinger. 
 " I said it wasn't Cap'en Cuttle's house — and it a'nt his house — 
 and forbid it, that 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 Cuttle, oh I do 
 a thankless thing, and cast pearls before swine !" 
 
 Mrs. Mac Stinger pitched her voice for the upper windows in ofl"ering 
 these remarks, and 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 say, in feeble remonstrance from his own room, " Steady 
 below!" 
 
 " Since you want Cap'en Cuttle, there he is ! " said Mi-s. Mac Stinger, 
 with an angry motion of her hand. On Florence making bold to enter, 
 without any more parley, and on Susan following, Mrs. Mac Stinger 
 recommenced her pedestrian exercise in pattens, and Alexander Mac 
 Stinger (still on the paving- stone), who had stopped in his crying to 
 attend to the conversation, began to Avail again, entertaining himself 
 during that dismal performance, which was quite mechanical, with a 
 general survey of the prospect, terminating 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 chair, on a very small deso- 
 late island, lying about midway in an ocean of soap and water. The 
 Captain's windows had. been cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, the 
 
234 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 stove had been cleaned, and everything, the stove excepted, Avas wet, 
 and shining with soft soap and sand : the smell of wliich dry-saltery 
 impregnated the air. In the midst of the dreary scene, the Captain, 
 cast away upon his island, looked round on the waste of waters with 
 a rueful countenance, and seemed waiting for some friendly bark to come 
 that way, and take him off. 
 
 But when the Captain, directing his forlorn visage towards the door, 
 saw Florence appear with her maid, no words can describe his astonish- 
 ment. Mrs. Mac Stinger's eloquence having rendered all other sounds but 
 imperfectly distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor than 
 the potboy or the milkman ; wherefore, when Florence appeared, and 
 coming to the confines of the island, put her hand in his, the Captain 
 stood up, aghast, as if he supposed her, for the moment, to be some 
 young member of the Flying Dutchman's family. 
 
 Instantly recovering his self-possession, however, the Captain's first care 
 was to place her on dry land, which he happily accomplished, with one 
 motion of his ann. Issuing forth, then, upon the main. Captain Cuttle 
 took Miss Nipper round the waist, and bore her to the island also. 
 Captain Cuttle, then, with great respect and admiration, raised the hand 
 of Florence to his lips, and standing off a little (for the island was not 
 large enough for three), beamed on her from the soap and water Hke a new 
 description of Triton. 
 
 "You are amazed to see us, I am siu-e," said Florence, with a smile. 
 
 The inexpressibly gratified Captain kissed his hook in reply, and 
 growled, as 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 fear, and whether you will not go and console his poor 
 uncle every day, until we have some intelligence of him? " 
 
 At these words Captain Cuttle, as by an involuntary gesture, clapped 
 his hand to his head, on which the hard glazed hat was not, and looked 
 discomfited. 
 
 "Have you any fears for Walter's safety?" inquired Florence, from 
 whose face the Captain (so em-aptm-ed he was with it) could not take his 
 eyes : while she, in her tm-n, looked eai-nestly at him, to be assured of the 
 sincerity of his reply. 
 
 "No, Heart's-delight," said Captain Cuttle, "I am not afeard. Wal'r 
 is a lad as '11 go thi-ough a deal o' hard weather. Wal'r is a lad as '11 
 bring as much success to that 'ere brig as a lad is capable on. Wal'r," 
 said the Captain, his eyes glistening with the praise of his young friend, 
 and his hook raised to announce a beautiful quotation, " is what you may 
 call a out'ard and visible sign of a in'ard and spirited grasp, and when 
 found make a note of." 
 
 Florence, who did not quite understand this, though the Captain evi- 
 dently thought it full of meaning, and highly satisfactory, mildly looked to 
 him for something more. 
 
 " I am not afeard, my Heart's-delight," resumed the Captain. "There's 
 been most uncommon bad weather in them latitudes, there 's no denyin, 
 and they have drove and drove and been beat off, may be t' other side the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 235 
 
 world. But tlie ship 's a good ship, and the lad 's a good lad; and it ain't 
 easy, thank the Lord," the Captain made a little bow, "to break up hearts 
 of oak, whether they 're in brigs or buzzuins. Here we have 'em both 
 ways, which is bringing it up with a round turn, and so I ain't a bit afeard 
 as yet." 
 
 "As yet?" repeated riorence. 
 
 "Not a bit," returned the Captain, kissing his iron hand; "and afore 
 I begin to be, my Heart's-delight, Wal'r will have wrote home from the 
 island, or from some port or another, and made all taut and ship-shape. 
 And with regard to old Sol Gills," here the Captain became solemn, 
 " who I 'U stand by, and not desert until death doe us part, and when the 
 stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow — overhaul the Catechism," said 
 the Captain, parenthetically, " and there you '11 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 of, and 
 as was all but smashed in his 'prenticeship, and of which the name is 
 Bunsby, that 'ere man shall give him such an opinion in his own parloiir 
 as '11 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 him, and 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 head, on which the hard 
 glazed hat was not, and looked discomfited. But at this instant a most 
 remarkable phenomenon occurred. The door opening, without any note 
 of preparation, and apparently of itself, the hard glazed hat in question 
 skimmed into the room like a bu*d, and ahghted heavily at the Captain's 
 feet. The door then shut as violently as it had opened, and nothing 
 ensued in explanation of the prodigy. 
 
 Captain Cuttle picked up his hat, and having turned it over with a look 
 of interest and welcome, began to polish it on his sleeve. While doing 
 so, the Captain eyed his visitors intently, and said in a low voice : 
 
 " You see I should have bore down on Sol GUIs yesterday, and this 
 morning, but she — she took it away and kep it. That 's the long and 
 short of the subject." 
 
 "Who did, for goodness' sake? " asked Susan Nipper. 
 
 "The lady of the house, my dear," returned the Captain, in a gruff 
 whisper, and making signals of secrecy. " We had some words about 
 the swabbing of these here planks, and she — in short," said the Captain, 
 eyeing the door, and relieving himself with a long breath, "she stopped 
 my liberty." 
 
 " Oh ! I wish she had me to deal with !" said Susan, reddening with 
 the energy of the wish. " I 'd stop her !" 
 
 " Would you, do you think, my dear ?" rejoined the Captain, shaking 
 his head doubtfully, but regarding the desperate courage of the fair 
 aspirant with obvious admiration. " I don't know. It 's difficult naviga- 
 tion. She 's very hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can tell 
 how she 'U head, you see. She 's full one minute, and round upon you 
 next. And when she is a tartar," said the Captain, with the perspiration 
 breaking out upon his forehead — . There was nothing but a whistle 
 emphatic enough for the conclusion of the sentence, so the Captain 
 
236 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 whistled tremulously. After which he again shook his head, and recurring 
 to his admiration of ^liss Nipper's devoted bravery, timidly repeated, 
 " Would you, do you think, my dear ?" 
 
 Susan only replied with a bridhng smile, but that was so very full of 
 defiance, that there is no knowing how long Captain Cuttle might have 
 stood entranced in its contemplation, if Florence in her anxiety had not 
 again proposed their immediately resorthig to the oracular Bunsby. Thus 
 reminded of his duty, Captain Cuttle put on the glazed hat firmly, took 
 up another knobby stick, with which he had supplied the place of that one 
 given to Walter, and offering his arm to Florence, prepared to cut his w'ay 
 through the enemy. 
 
 It turned out, however, that Mrs. ]\Iac Stinger had already changed her 
 course, and that she headed, as the Captain had remarked she often did, 
 in quite a new direction. For when they got down stairs, they found 
 that exemplary woman beating the mats on the door-steps, with 
 Alexander, still upon the paving-stone, dimly looming through a fog of 
 dust ; and so absorbed was Mrs. Mac Stinger in her household occupa- 
 tion, that when Captain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she 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 snuff, and made him sneeze until the tears ran down 
 his face — that he coidd hardly believe his good fortune ; but more 
 than once, between the door and the hackney-coach, looked over his 
 shoulder, with an obvious apprehension of !Mrs. Mac Stinger's giving 
 chase yet. 
 
 However, they 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 w^ould not allow him to ride inside Avith the ladies, 
 though besought to do so — piloted the driver on his course for Captain 
 Bunsby's vessel, which was called the Cautious Clara, and was lying hard 
 by Eatcliffe. 
 
 Ai-rived at the wharf off which this great commander's ship was jammed 
 in among some five hundred companions, whose tangled rigging looked 
 like monstrous cobwebs half swept down. Captain Cuttle appeared at the 
 coach wdndow, and invited Florence and Miss Nipper to accompany him 
 on board ; observing that Bunsby was to the last degree soft-hearted in 
 respect of ladies, and that nothing would so much tend to bring his ex- 
 pansive intellect into a state of harmony as their presentation to the 
 Cautious Clara. 
 
 Florence readily consented ; and the Captain, taking her little hand in 
 his prodigious palm, led her, with a mixed expression of patronage, pater- 
 nity, pride, and ceremony, that was pleasant to see, over several very dirty 
 decks, until, coming to the Clara, they found that cautious craft (which 
 lay outside the tier) with her gangway removed, and half-a-dozen feet of 
 river interposed between herself and her nearest neighbour. It appeared, 
 from Captain Cuttle's explanation, that the great Bunsby, Hke himself, 
 was cruelly treated by liis landlady, and that when her usage of him for 
 the time being was so hard that he could bear it no longer, he set this 
 gulf between them as a last resomxe. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 237 
 
 "Clara a-hoy! " cried the Captain, putting a hand to each side of his 
 mouth. 
 
 " A-hoy ! " cried a boy, like the Captain's echo, tumbling up from 
 below. 
 
 " Bunsby aboard ?" cried the Captain, hailing the boy in a stentorian 
 voice, as if he were half-a-mile off instead of two yards. 
 
 " Aye, aye ! " cried the boy, in the same tone. 
 
 The boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cuttle, who adjusted it 
 carefully, and led Florence across : returning presently for Miss Nipper. 
 So they stood upon the deck of the Cautious Clara, in whose standing rig- 
 ging, divers fluttering articles of dress were curing, in company with a few 
 tongues and some mackerel. 
 
 Immediately there appeared, coming slowly up above the bulk-head of 
 the cabin, another bulk-head — human, and very large — with one stationary 
 eye in the mahogany face, and one revolving one, on the principle of some 
 light-houses. This head was decorated Avith shaggy hair, Hke oakum, 
 which had no governing inclination towards the north, east, west, or south, 
 but inclined to all four quarters of the compass, and to every point upon it. 
 The head was followed by a perfect desert of chin, and by a shirt-collar 
 and neckerchief, and by a dreadnought pilot coat, and by a pair of dread- 
 nought pilot trousers, whereof the waistband was so very broad and high, 
 that it became a succedaneum for a waistcoat : being ornamented near the 
 wearer's breast-bone with some massive wooden buttons, like back- 
 gammon men. As the lower portions of these pantaloons became revealed, 
 Bunsby stood confessed ; his hands in their pockets, which were of vast 
 size ; and his gaze directed, not to Captain Cuttle or the ladies, but the 
 mast-head. 
 
 The profound appearance of this philosopher, who was bulky and 
 strong, and on whose extremely red face an expression of taciturnity sat 
 enthroned, not inconsistent with his character, in which that quality was 
 proudly conspicuous, almost daunted Captain Cuttle, though on familiar 
 terms with him. Whispering to Florence that Bunsby had never in his 
 life expressed surprise, and was considered not to know what it meant, 
 the Captain watched him as he eyed his mast-head, and afterwards swept 
 the-horizon ; and when the revolving eye seemed to be coming round in his 
 direction, said : 
 
 " Bunsby, my lad, how fares it ? " 
 
 A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have no connection 
 with Bunsby, and certainly had not the least effect upon his face, replied, 
 "Aye, aye, shipmet, how goes it ! " At the same time Bunsby's right 
 hand and arm emerging from a pocket, shook the Captain's, and went 
 back again. 
 
 " Bunsby," said the Captain, striking home at once, " here you arc ; 
 a man of mind, and a man as can give an opinion. Here's a young 
 lady as wants to take that opinion, in regard of my friend Wal'r ; like- 
 wise my t'other friend, Sol Gills, which is a character for you to come 
 within hail of, being a man of science, which is the mother of inwention, 
 and knows no law. Bunsby, will you wear, to oblige me, and come along 
 with us ? " 
 
 The great commander, who seemed by the expression of his visage to 
 
238 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 be always on the look-out for something in the extremest distance, and to 
 have no ocular knowledge of anything within ten miles, made no reply 
 whatever. 
 
 "Here is a man," said the Captain, addressing himself to his fair 
 auditors, and indicating the commander with his outstretched hook, 
 *' that has fell down, more than any man alive ; that has had more acci- 
 dents 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 yovmg, as you'd want a order for on Chatham-yard to build a plea- 
 sure-yacht with ; and yet that got his opinions in that way, it 's my belief, 
 for there an't nothing like 'em afloat or ashore." 
 
 The stolid commander appeared, by a very slight vibration in his 
 elbows, to express some satisfaction in this encomium ; but if his face had 
 been as distant as his gaze was, it could hardly have enlightened the be- 
 holders less in reference to anything that was passing in his thoughts. 
 
 " Shipmet," said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look 
 out under some interposing spar, " what 'U the ladies drink? " 
 
 Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry in con- 
 nection with Florence, drew the sage aside, and seeming to explain in his 
 ear, accompanied him below ; where, that he might not take offence, the 
 Captain drank a di-am himself, which Florence and Susan, glancing down 
 the open skylight, saw the sage, with difficulty finding room for himself 
 between his berth and a very little brass fii'eplace, serve out for self and 
 friend. They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle, triumphing 
 in the success of his enterprise, conducted Florence back to the coach, 
 while Bunsby followed, escorting Miss Nipper, whom he hugged upon the 
 way (much to that young lady's indignation) with his pilot-coated arm, 
 like a blue bear. 
 
 The Captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much in having 
 secured him, and having got that mind into a hackney-coach, that he could 
 not refrain from often peeping in at Florence through the little window 
 behind the driver, and testifying his delight in smiles, and also in taps 
 upon his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of Bunsby was hard at it. 
 In the mean time, Bunsby, still hugging Miss Nipper (for his friend, the 
 Captain, had not exaggerated the softness of his heart), uniformly preserved 
 his gravity of deportment, and showed no other consciousness of her or 
 anything. 
 
 Uncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the door, and 
 ushered them immediately into the little back parlour : strangely altered 
 by the absence of Walter. On the table, and 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 sea, and on which, with a 
 pair of compasses that he still had in his hand, he had been measuring, a 
 minute before, how far she must have driven, to have driven here or there : 
 and trying to demonstrate that a long time must elapse before hope was 
 exhausted. 
 
 " ^^Tiether she can have run," said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over the 
 chart; "but no, that'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 
 
(%wf' 
 
Ci^'iy^'^-^/z^^ u/e-^U:':/^. ■ ^/iiza:!^ %„ QyQ^^i'Z^l/ 
 
 1?^ lc/&i 
 
 1^' 
 
 % 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 239 
 
 can hardly hope that ! " With such broken suggestions, poor old Uncle 
 Sol roamed over the great sheet before him, and 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 singular, indescribable change in the old man, and 
 that while his manner was far more restless and unsettled than usual, 
 there was yet a curious, contradictory 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 morning, he at first replied that he had been to see her, 
 and directly afterwards seemed to wish to recall that answer. 
 
 " You have been to see me ? " said Florence. " To-day ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear young lady," returned Uncle Sol, looking at her and 
 away from her in a confused manner. " I wished to see you with my 
 own eyes, and to hear you with my own ears, once more before — " 
 There he stopped. 
 
 " Before when ? Before what ? " said Florence, putting her hand upon 
 his arm. 
 
 " Did I say 'before ?'" replied old Sol. " If T did, I must have meant 
 before wq should have news of my dear boj\" 
 
 " You are not well," said Florence, tenderly, " You have been so veiy 
 anxious. I am sure you are not well." 
 
 " I am as well," returned the old man, shutting 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 words, though they 
 remained with her too, which impressed Florence so much, that 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 circum- 
 stances on which the opinion of the sagacious Bunsby was requested, and 
 entreating that profound authority to deliver the same. 
 
 Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the 
 half-way house between London and Gravesend, two or three times put 
 out his rough right arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration, round the 
 fair form of Miss Nipper ; but that young female having withdrawn her- 
 self, in displeasure, to the opposite side of the table, the soft heart of the 
 Commander of the Cautious Clara met with no response to its impulses. 
 After sundry failm-es in this wise, the Commander, addressing himself to 
 nobody, thus spake ; or rather the voice within him said of its own accord, 
 and quite independent of himself, as if he were possessed by a gi-uiF 
 spirit : 
 
 " My name 's Jack Bvmsby !" 
 
 " He was christened John," cried the delighted Captain Cuttle. " Hear 
 him !" 
 
 " And what I says," pursued the voice, after some deliberation, " I 
 stands to." 
 
 The Captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the auditory, and 
 
 fH- 
 
240 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 seemed to say, " Now he 's coming out. This is what I meant, when I 
 brought him." 
 
 " Wliereby," proceeded the voice, " why not ? If so, what odds ? Cau 
 any man say otherwise ? No. Awastthen!" 
 
 When it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice 
 stopped, and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus : 
 
 " Do I believe that this here Son and Heir 's gone down, my lads ? 
 Mayhap. Do I say so? Which ? If a skipper stands out by Sen' George's 
 Channel, making for the Downs, what 's right ahead of him ? The 
 Goodwins. He is 'nt forced to rim upon the Goodwins, but he may. 
 The bearings of this observation lays in the application on it. That 
 a'nt no part of my duty. Awast then, keep a bright look-out for'ard, and 
 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 it, and accompanying him on 
 board again with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned 
 in, and refreshed his mind with a nap. 
 
 The students of the sage's precepts, left to their own application of his 
 wisdom — upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby tripod, as 
 it is perchance of some other oracular stools — looked upon one another 
 in a little uncertainty ; wlule Eob the Grinder, who had taken the inno- 
 cent freedom of peering in, and listening, through the skylight in the roof, 
 came softly down from the leads, in a state of very dense confusion. 
 Captain Cuttle, however, whose admiration of Bunsby was, if possible, 
 enhanced 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 given, coming from such a mind as his, 
 was Hope's own anchor, with good roads to cast it in. Florence endea- 
 voured to believe that the Captain was right ; but the Nipper, with her 
 arms tight folded, shook her head in resolute denial, and had no more 
 trust in Bunsby than in Mr. Perch himself. 
 
 The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he 
 had found him, for he stiU went roaming about the watery world, com- 
 passes in hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance 
 of a whisper in his ear from Florence, while the old man was absorbed in 
 this pursuit, that Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " What cheer, Sol Gills ?" cried the Captain, heartily. 
 
 "But so-so, Ned," returned the Instrument-maker. "I have been 
 remembering, aU this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy entered 
 Dombey's house, and came home late to dinner, sitting just there where 
 you stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I coidd hardly turn 
 him from the subject." 
 
 But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest scru- 
 tiny upon his face, the old man stopped and smiled. 
 
 " Stand by, old friend !" cried the Captain. " Look alive ! I tell you 
 what, Sol Gills ; arter I 've convoyed Heart's-delight safe home," here the 
 Captain kissed his hook to Florence, " I '11 come back and take you in tow 
 for the rest of this blessed day. You '11 come and eat your dinner along 
 with me, Sol, somewheres or other." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 241 
 
 " Not to-day, Ned!" said the old man quickly, and appearing to be un- 
 accountably startled by the proposition. "Not to-day. I couldn't do it ! " 
 
 " Why not ?" returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment. 
 
 "I — I have so much to do. I — I mean to think of, and arrange. I 
 couldn't do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn 
 my mind to many things to-day." 
 
 The Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and 
 again at the Instrument-maker. " To-mon-ow, then," he suggested,at last. 
 
 " Yes, yes. To-morrow," said the old man. " Think of me to-morrow. 
 Say to-morrow." 
 
 "I shaU come here early, mind, Sol Gills," stipulated the Captain. 
 
 " Yes, yes. The first thing to-morrow morning," said old Sol ; " and 
 now good bye Ned Cuttle, and God bless you !" 
 
 Squeezing both the Captain's hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said 
 it, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put them 
 to his lips ; then hurried her out to the coach with very singular precipita- 
 tion. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle that the 
 Captain lingered behind, and instructed Kob to be particularly gentle 
 and attentive to his master until the morning: which injunction he 
 strengthened with the payment of one shilling down, and the promise 
 of another sixpence before noon next day. This kind office performed. 
 Captain Cuttle, who considered himself the natural and lawful body- 
 guard of Florence, mounted the box with a mighty sense of his trust, 
 and escorted her home. At parting, he assured her that he would stand 
 by Sol GUIs, close and true ; and once again inquired of Susan Nipper, 
 unable to forget her gallant words in reference to Mrs. Mac Stinger, 
 " Would you, do you think, my dear, though !" 
 
 When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain's thoughts 
 reverted to the old Instrument-maker, and he felt uncomfortable. There- 
 fore, instead of going home, he walked up and down the street several 
 times, and, eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a certain angular 
 little tavern in the city, with a public parlour like a wedge, to which 
 glazed hats much resorted. The Captain's principal intention was to= 
 pass Sol Gills's after dark, and look in through the window ; which he 
 did. The parlour door stood open, and he could see his old friend writing 
 busily and steadily at the table within, while the Uttle Midshipman, aheady 
 sheltered from the night dews, watched him from the counter; imder 
 which Eob the Grinder made his own bed, preparatory to shutting the 
 shop. Ee-assured by the tranquillity that reigned within the precincts of 
 the wooden mariner, the Captain headed for Brig Place, resolving to 
 weigh anchor betimes in the morning. 
 
 CHAPTEH XXIV. 
 
 THE STUDY OF A LOVING HEART. 
 
 Sir Babnet and Lady Skettles, very good people, resided in a pretty 
 viDa at Fulham, on the banks of the Thames ; which was one of the most 
 desirable residences in the world Avhen a ro\\ ing-match happened to be 
 
242 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 going past, but had its little inconveniences at otlier times, among which 
 may be enumerated the occasional appearance of the river in the drawing- 
 room, and the cotemporaneous disappearance of the lawn and shrubbery. 
 
 Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through 
 an antique gold snuft"-box, and a ponderous silk pocket-handkerchief, 
 which 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 him, until there was no room left. Or, like 
 a sound in air, the vibration of which, according to the speculation of 
 an ingenious modern philosopher, may 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 sake, and it advanced his favourite object too. 
 For example, if Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a raw 
 recruit, or a country gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospitable viUa, 
 Sir Barnet would say to him, on the morning after his arrival, " Now, my 
 dear sir, is there anybody you would like to know ? Who is there you 
 woidd wish to meet ? Do you take any interest in writing people, or in 
 painting or sculpturing people, or in acting people, or in anything of that 
 sort ? " Possibly the patient answered yes, and mentioned somebody, of 
 whom Sir Barnet had no more personal knowledge than of Ptolemy the 
 Great. Sir Barnet replied, that nothing on earth was easier, as he knew 
 him very well : immediately called on the aforesaid ^somebody, left his 
 card, wrote a short note, — "My dear Sir — penalty of your eminent 
 position — friend at my house naturally desirous — Lady Skettles and my- 
 self participate — trust that genius being superior to ceremonies, you will 
 do us the distinguished favour of giving us the pleasure," &c. &c. — and 
 so killed a brace of birds with one stone, dead as door-nails. 
 
 With the snufl:"-box and banner in full force, Su- Barnet Skettles pro- 
 pounded his usual inquiry to Florence on the first morning of her visit. 
 When Florence thanked him, and said there was no one in particular 
 whom she desii'ed to see, it was natural she should think, with a pang, of 
 poor lost Walter. When Sii- Barnet Skettles, urging his kind offer, said, 
 " My dear Miss Dombey, are you sure you can remember no one whom 
 your good Papa — to whom I beg you to present the best compliments of 
 myself and Lady Skettles when you write — might wish you to know ? " 
 it was as natural, perhaps, that her poor head should droop a little, and 
 that her voice should tremble as it softly answered in the negative. 
 
 Skettles junior, much stiff"ened as to his cravat, and sobered down as to 
 his spirits, was at home for the holidays, and 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 chafed, was the company of Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, 
 who had been invited on a visit to the parental roof-tree, and of whom 
 the yoimg gentleman often said he would have preferred their passing the 
 vacation at Jericho. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 243 
 
 "Is there anybody yo?< can suggest, now, Doctor Blimber," said Sir 
 Barnet Skettles, turning to that gentleman. 
 
 " You are very kind, Sir Barnet," retiu'ned Doctor Blimber. " EeaUy 
 I am not aware that there is, in particular. I like to know my feUow 
 men in general, Sir Barnet. What does Terence say ? Any one who is 
 the parent of a son is interesting to me" 
 
 " Has Mrs. Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person ?" asked 
 Sir Barnet coiu'teously. 
 
 IVIrs. Blimber replied, with a sweet smile and a shake of her sky-blue 
 cap, that if Sir Barnet could have made her known to Cicero, she would 
 have troubled him ; but such an introduction not being feasible, and she 
 akeady 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 fain, under these circumstances, to content himself for 
 the time with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that ; for she 
 had a study to pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, and was 
 too precious and momentous, to 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 knew, and she knew 
 not ; how she could be taught by them to show her father that she loved 
 him, and 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 rose, and 
 walking up and down upon the river's bank, before any one in the house 
 was stirring, look up at the -windows of their rooms, and think of them, 
 asleep, so gently tended and affectionately tliought of. Florence would 
 feel more lonely then, than in the great house aU alone ; and would think 
 sometimes that she was better there than here, and that there was greater 
 peace in hiding h6rself than in mingling with others of her age, and 
 finding how unlike them all she was. But attentive to her study, though 
 it touched her to the quick at every little leaf she turned in the hard book, 
 Florence remained among them, and tried, with patient hope, to gain the 
 knowledge that she wearied for. 
 
 Ah ! how to gain it ! how to know the charm in its beginning ! There 
 were daughters here, who rose up in the morning, and lay down to rest at 
 night, possessed of fathers' hearts already. They had no repulse to over- 
 come, no coldness to dread, no frown to smooth away. As the morning 
 advanced, and the -windows opened one by one, and the dew began to dry 
 upon the flowers and grass, and youthful feet began to move upon the 
 lawn, Florence, glancing round at the bright faces, thought what was 
 there she could learn from these children ? It was too late to learn from 
 them ; each could approach her father fearlessly, and put up her lips to 
 meet the ready kiss, and 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 ! 
 
 b2 
 
244 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 She remembered well, that even the old woman who had robbed her 
 when a little child — whose image and whose house, and all she had said 
 and done, were stamped upon her recollection, with the endm'ing sharpness 
 of a fearful impression made at that early period of life — had spoken 
 fondly of her daughter, and how terribly even she had cried out in the 
 pain of hopeless separation from her child. But her own mother, she 
 would think again, when she recalled this, had loved her well. Then, 
 sometimes, when her thoughts reverted swiftly to the void between herself 
 and her father, Florence would tremble, and the tears would start upon her 
 face, as she pictured to herself her mother living on, and coming also to 
 disHke her, because of her wanting the unknown grace that should con- 
 ciliate that father naturally, and had never done so from her cradle. She 
 knew that this imagination did wrong to her mother's memory, and had 
 no truth in it, or base to rest upon ; and yet she tried so hard to justify 
 him, and to find the whole blame in herself, that she covild not resist its 
 passing, like a wild cloud, through the distance of her mind. 
 
 There came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, one beautiful 
 girl, three or four years younger than she, who was an orphan child, and 
 who was accompanied by her aunt, a grey-haired lady, who spoke much to 
 Florence, and who greatly liked (but that they all did) to hear her sing of 
 an evening, and would always sit near her at that time, with motherly 
 interest. They had only been two days in the house, when Florence, being 
 in an arbour in the garden one warm morning, musingly observant of a 
 youthful group upon the turf, through 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 niece, in 
 pacing up and down a sheltered nook close by, speak of herself. 
 
 "Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?" said the child. 
 
 " No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living." 
 
 "Is she in momiiing for her poor mamma now?" inquired the child, 
 quickly. 
 
 " No ; for her only brother." 
 
 " Has she no other brother ?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 "No sister?** 
 
 "None." 
 
 " I am very, very soriy ! " said the little girl. 
 
 As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, and had been 
 silent in the meantime, Florence, who had risen when she heard her 
 name, and had gathered up her flowers to go and meet them, that they 
 might know of her being within hearing, resumed her seat and work, 
 expecting to hear no more ; but the conversation recommenced next 
 moment. 
 
 " Florence is a favourite with every one here, and deserves to be, I am 
 sure," said the child, earnestly. " Where is her papa?" 
 
 The aunt replied, after a moment's pause, that she did not know. Her 
 tone of voice arrested Florence, who had started from her seat again ; 
 and held her fastened to the spot, with her work hastily caught up 
 to her bosom, and her two hands saving it from being scattered on the 
 ground. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 245 
 
 *' He is in England I hope, aunt ?" said the child. 
 
 " I believe so. Yes ; I know he is, indeed." 
 
 " Has he ever been here ? " 
 
 " I believe not. No." 
 
 *' Is he coming here to see her ?" 
 
 " I believe not." 
 
 " Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?" asked the child. 
 
 The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she 
 heard those words, so wonderingly spoken. She held them closer ; and 
 her face hung down upon them. 
 
 "Kate," said the lady, after another moment of silence, "I will tell 
 you the whole truth about Florence as I have heard it, and believe it to be. 
 Tell no one else, my dear, because it may be little known here, and your 
 doing so woidd give her pain." 
 
 " I never wUl!" exclaimed the child. 
 
 " I know you never will," returned the lady. " I can trust you as 
 myself. I fear then, Kate, that Florence's father cares little, for her, very 
 seldom sees her, never was kind to her in her life, and now quite shuns 
 her and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he would sufter her, but 
 he Avid not — though for no fault of her's ; and she is greatly to be loved 
 and pitied by all gentle hearts." 
 
 More of the flowers that Florence held, fell scattering on the gi'ound; 
 those that remained were wet, but not with dew ; and her face dropped 
 upon her laden hands. 
 
 " Poor Florence ! Dear, good Florence !" cried the child. 
 
 " Do you know why I have told you this, Kate ? " said the lady. 
 
 " That I may be very kind to her, and take great care to try to please 
 her. Is that the reason, aunt ? " 
 
 " Partly," said the lady, "but not all. Though we see her so cheerful; 
 with a pleasant smile for every one ; ready to oblige us all, and bearing 
 her part in every amusement here : she can hardly be quite happy, do 
 you think she can, Kate ? " 
 
 "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 them, and proud of them — 
 like many here, just now — should make her sorrowful in secret ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear aunt," said the child, " I understand that very well. Poor 
 Florence! " 
 
 More flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she yet held to her 
 breast trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them. 
 
 " My Kate," said the lady, whose voice was serious, but very calm and 
 sweet, and had so impressed Florence from the first moment of her hearing 
 it, "Of aU the youthful people here, you are her natural and harmless 
 friend ; you have not the innocent means, that happier children have" — 
 
 " There are none happier, aunt ! " exclaimed the child, who seemed to 
 cling about her. 
 
 — " As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding her of her misfor- 
 tune. Therefore I woidd have you, when you try to be her little friend, 
 try all the more for that, and feel that the bereavement you sustained — 
 thank Heaven ! before you knew its weight — gives you claim and hold 
 upon poor Florence." 
 
246 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " But I am not without a parent's love, aunt, and I never have been,'* 
 said the child, " with you." 
 
 "However that may be, my dear," returned the lady, "your mis- 
 fortune is a lighter one than Florence's ; for not an orphan in the wide 
 world can be so deserted as the chdd 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 Florence, shrinking down upon 
 the ground, wept long and bitterly. 
 
 But true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, Florence held to it 
 as her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul hfe. He 
 did not know how much she loved him. However long the time in coming, 
 and however slow the interval, she must try to bring that knowledge to 
 her father's heart one day or other. Meantime she must be careful in no 
 thoughtless word, or look, or burst of feeling awakened by any chance cir- 
 cumstance, to complain against him, or to give occasion for these wliispers 
 to his prejudice. 
 
 Even in the response she made the orphan child, to whom she was 
 attracted strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember, Florence 
 was mindful of liim. If she singled her out too plainly (Florence thought) 
 from among the rest, she would confirm — in one mind certainly : perhaps 
 in more — the belief that he was cruel and unnatural. Her own delight 
 was no set-ofi" to this. What she had overheard was a reason, not for 
 sootliing herself, but for saving him ; and Florence did it, in pursuance of 
 the study of her heart. 
 
 She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and there were any- 
 thing in the story that pointed at an unkind father, she was in pain 
 for their application of it to him ; not for herself. So with any trifle of 
 an interlude that was acted, or picture that was shown, or game that was 
 played, among them. The occasions for such tenderness towards him 
 were so many, that her mind misgave her often, it would indeed be better 
 to go back to the old house, and live again within the shadow of its dull 
 walls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweet Florence, in her spring of 
 womanhood, the modest little queen of those small revels, imagined what a 
 load of sacred care lay heavy in her breast ! How few of those who stiifened 
 in her father's freezing atmosphere, suspected what a heap of fiery coals 
 was piled upon his head ! 
 
 Florence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to acquire the secret 
 of the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful company who 
 were assembled in the house, often walked out alone, in the early 
 morning, among the children of the poor. But stiU she found them 
 all too far advanced to learn from. They had won their household 
 places long ago, and did not stand without, as she did, with a bar across 
 the door. 
 
 There was one man whom she several times observed at work very 
 early, and often with a girl of about her own age seated near him. He 
 was a very poor man, who seemed to have no regular employment, but 
 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 247 
 
 of that kind for a neighbour, as chance occm-red, T\Tiatever the man's 
 labour, the girl was never employed ; but sat, when she was with him, 
 in a listless, moping state, and idle. 
 
 Florence had often wished to speak to this man ; yet she had never 
 taken courage to do sOj as he made no movement towards her. But one 
 morning when she happened to come upon him suddenly, from a by- 
 path among some pollard willows wliich 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 upwards, close by, he raised his head at the sound of her 
 footstep, and gave her Good morning. 
 
 " Good morning," said Florence, approaching nearer, " you are at 
 work early." 
 
 " I'd be glad to be often at work earlier. Miss, if 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 sitting, drawn together, with 
 her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, and said : 
 
 " Is that your daughter?" 
 
 He raised his head quickly, and looking towards the girl with a 
 brightened face, nodded to her, and said " Yes." Florence looked 
 towards her too, and gave her a kind salutation; the girl muttered 
 something in return, ungraciously and sullenly. 
 
 " Is she in want of employment also ?" said Florence. 
 
 The man shook his head. " No, Miss," he said. " I work for 
 both." 
 
 " Are there only you two, then ?" inquired Florence. 
 
 " Only us two," said the man. " Her mother has been dead these ten 
 year. Martha!" (he lifted up his head again, and whistled to her) 
 " Won't you say a word to the pretty young lady ?" 
 
 The girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering shoulders, and 
 turned her head another way. Ugly, mis-shapen, peevish, ill-conditioned, 
 ragged, dirty — but beloved ! Oh, yes ! Florence had seen her father's 
 look towards her, and she knew whose look it had no likeness to. 
 
 " I 'm afraid she 's worse this morning, my poor girl !" said the man, 
 suspending his work, and contemplating his iU-favoured child, with a 
 compassion that was the more tender for being rough, 
 
 " She is ill, then !" said Florence. 
 
 The man drew a deep sigh. " I don't believe my Martha's had five 
 short days' good health," he answered, looking at her stiU, " in as many 
 long years." 
 
 " Aye ! and more than that, John," said a neighbour, who had come 
 down to help him with the boat. 
 
 "More than that, you say, do you ?" cried the other, pushing back his 
 battered hat, and drawing his hand across his forehead. " Very like. It 
 seems a long, long time." 
 
 " And the more the time," pursued the neighbour, '' the more you 've 
 favoured and humoured her, John, 'till she's got to be a burden to herself, 
 and everybody else." 
 
 " Not to me," said her father, falling to his work again. " Not to me." 
 
 Florence could feel — who better ? — how truly he spoke. She drew a 
 
248 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 little closer to him, and would have been glad to touch his rugged hand, 
 and thank Mm 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 gui — to call it favouring — if / didn't?" 
 said the father. 
 
 " Aye, aye," cried the neighbour. "In reason, John. 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 again, and whistled to her. Martha made 
 the same impatient gestm*e with her crouching shoulders, in reply ; and 
 he was glad and happy. 
 
 " Only for that, ^liss," said the neighbour, with a smile, in which there 
 was more of secret sympathy than he expressed ; " only to get that, he 
 never lets her out of his sight ! " 
 
 " Because the day '11 come, and has been coming a long while," ob- 
 served the other, bending low over his work, " when to get half as much 
 from that unfort'nate child of mine — to get the trembling of a finger, or 
 the waving of a hair — would be to raise the dead." 
 
 Florence softly put some money near his hand on the old boat, and 
 left him. 
 
 And now Florence began to think, if she were to fall iE, if she were to 
 fade like her dear brother, would he then know that she had loved him; 
 would she then gi'ow dear to him ; would he come to her bedside, when 
 she was weak and dim of sight, and take her into his embrace, and cancel 
 aU the past ? Would he so forgive her, in that changed condition, for not 
 having been able to lay open her childish heart to him, as 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 coui*age ; and how she had 
 endeavoured, afterwards, to learn the way she never knew in infancy ? 
 
 Yes, she thought if she were dying, he would relent. She thought, 
 that if she lay, serene and not unwilling to depart, upon the bed that was 
 curtained round with recollections of their darling boy, he would be touched 
 home, and would say, " Dear Florence, live for me, and we will love each 
 other as we might have done, and be as happy as we might have been 
 these many years ! " She thought that if she heard such words from liim, 
 and had her arms clasped round him, she could answer with a smile, " It 
 is too late for anything but this; I never could be happier, dear father! " 
 and so leave him, with a blessing on her lips. 
 
 The golden water she remembered on the wall, appeared to Florence, in 
 the light of such reflections, only as a cm-rent flowing on to rest, and to a 
 region where the dear ones, gone before, were waiting, hand in hand; and 
 often when she looked upon the darker river rippling at her feet, she 
 thought with awful wonder, but not terror, of 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, 
 and, indeed, that incident was not a week old, when Sir Baniet and his 
 lady going out walking in the lanes one afternoon, proposed to her to bear 
 them company. Florence readily consenting, Lady Skettles ordered out 
 young Bamet as a matter of course. For nothing delighted Lady Skettles 
 so much, as beholding her eldest son with Florence on liis arm. 
 
o ry^^y.//-^. /-/^/f/yi/z^/yj .^rppu^://^ ^ c ',^^^/u-e S^' Mtf .l~^'A:»d6l 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 249 
 
 Barnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an opposite sentiment on 
 the subject, and on such occasions frequently expressed himself audibly, 
 though indehnitely, in reference to "a parcel of girls." As it was not 
 easy to ruffle her sweet temper, however, Florence generally reconciled 
 the young gentleman to his fate after a few minutes, and they strolled on 
 amicably : Lady Skettles and Sir Barnet following, in a state of perfect 
 complacency and high gi-atification. 
 
 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 destiny, when a gentleman on horseback came riding 
 by, looked at them earnestly as he passed, drew in his rein, wheeled round, 
 and came riding back again, hat in hand. 
 
 The gentleman had looked particularly at Florence ; and whei\ the little 
 party stopped, on his riding back, he bowed to her before saluting Sir 
 Barnet and liis lady. Florence had no remembrance of having ever seen 
 him, but she started involuntarily when he came near her, and drew 
 back. 
 
 " My horse is perfectly quiet, I assm'e you," said the gentleman. 
 It was not that, but 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 Dombey, I believe ? " said the 
 gentleman, with a most persuasive smile. On Florence inclining her 
 head, he added, " My name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be re- 
 membered by Miss Dombey, except by name. Carker." 
 
 Florence, sensible of a strange inclination to shiver, though the day 
 was hot, presented 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 to-morrow morning to Mr. Dombey, at Leamington, and if 
 IVIiss Dombey can intrust me with any commission, need I say how very 
 happy I shall be ? " 
 
 Sir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would desire to write a 
 letter to her father, proposed to return, and besought Mr. Carker to 
 come home and dine in his riding gear. Mr. Carker had the misfortune 
 to be engaged to dinner, but if Miss Dombey wished to write, nothing 
 would deUght him more than to accompany them back, and to be her 
 faithful slave in waiting as long as she pleased. As he said this with his 
 widest smile, and bent down close to her to pat his horse's neck, Flo- 
 rence, meeting his eyes, saw, rather than heard him say, " There is no 
 news of the ship !" 
 
 Confused, frightened, shrinking from him, and not even sure that he 
 had said those words, for he seemed to have shown them to her in some 
 extraordinary manner through his smile, instead of uttering them, Flo- 
 rence faintly said that she was obliged to him, but she woidd not write ; 
 she had nothing to say. 
 
 "Nothing to send. Miss Dombey?" said the man of teeth. 
 " Nothing," said Florence, " but my — but my dear love — if you 
 please." 
 
 Disturbed as Florence was, she raised her eyes to his face mth an 
 imploring and expressive look, that plainly besought him, if he knew — 
 which he as plainly did — that any message between her and her father 
 
250 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 was an uncommon charge, but that one most of all, to spare her. 
 Mr. Carker smiled and bowed low, and being charged by Sir Bamet 
 with the best compUments of himself and Lady Skettles, took his leave, 
 and rode away : leaving a favourable impression on that worthy couple. 
 Florence was seized with such a shudder as he went, that Sir Barnet, 
 adopting the popular superstition, supposed somebody was passing over 
 her grave. Mr. Carker, turning a corner, on the instant, looked back, 
 and bowed, and disappeared, as if he rode off to the churchyard, straight, 
 to do it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 STEANGE NEWS OP UNCLE SOL, 
 
 Captain Cuttle, though no sluggard, did not turn out so early on 
 the morning after he had seen Sol GiUs, tlu'ough the shop-window, writing 
 in the parlour, with the Midshipman upon the counter, and Eob the 
 Grinder making up his bed below it, but that the clocks struck six as he 
 raised himself on his elbow, and took a survey of his little chamber. The 
 Captain's eyes must have done severe duty, if he usually opened them as 
 wide on awaking as he did that morning ; and were but roughly rewarded 
 for their vigilance, if he generally rubbed them half as hard. But the 
 occasion was no common one, for Eob the Grinder had certainly never 
 stood in the doorway of Captain Cuttle's bed-room before, and in it he 
 stood then, panting at the Captain, with a flushed and touzled air of Bed 
 about him, that greatly heightened both his colour and expression. 
 
 " HoUoa ! " roared the Captain. " What 's the matter ?" 
 
 Before Eob could stammer a word in answer, Captain Cuttle turned 
 out, all in a heap, and covered the boy's mouth with his hand. 
 
 " Steady my lad," said the Captain, " don't ye speak a word to me 
 as yet!" 
 
 The Captain, looking at his visitor in great consternation, gently shoul- 
 dered him into the next room, after laying this injunction upon him ; and 
 disappearing for a few moments, forthwith returned in the blue suit. 
 Holding up his hand in token of the injunction not yet being taken off. 
 Captain Cuttle walked up to the cupboard, and poured himself out a di-amj 
 a counterpart of which he handed to the messenger. The Captain then 
 stood himself up in a corner, against the wall, as if to forestal the possi- 
 bility of being knocked backwards by the communication that was to be 
 made to him ; and having swallowed his liquor, with his eyes' fixed on the 
 messenger, and his face as pale as his face could be, requested him to 
 " heave a-head." 
 
 "Do you mean, tell you, Captain?" asked Eob, who had been greatly 
 impressed by these precautions. 
 
 " Aye !" said the Captain. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Eob, " I aint got much to tell. But look here !"_ 
 
 Eob produced a bundle of keys. The Captain surveyed them, remained 
 in his corner, and surveyed the messenger. 
 
 " And look here !" pursued Eob. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 251 
 
 The boy produced a sealed packet, which Captain Cuttle stared at as 
 he had stared at the keys. 
 
 "When I woke this morning, Captain," said Eob, "which was about 
 a quarter after five, I found these on my pillow. The shop-door was 
 imbolted and unlocked, and Mr. Gills gone." 
 
 " Gone !" roared the Captain. 
 
 " Flowed, sir," returned Eob. 
 
 The Captain's voice was so tremendous, and he came out of his comer 
 with such way on him, that Rob retreated before him into another comer : 
 holding out the keys and packet, to prevent himself from being run down. 
 
 " ' Por 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, screw- 
 ing 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 denuncia- 
 tions. Taking the proffered packet from his hand, the Captain opened 
 it, and read as follows : 
 
 " My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is my WiU ! " 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 ? " 
 
 " /never see it," whimpered Rob. " Don't keep on suspecting an in- 
 nocent lad. Captain, /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 intel- 
 ligence 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 wiU 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 aU 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 Rob, well recommended, 
 as I told you, from Dombey's house. If aU else should come to the 
 hammer, take care, Ned, of the little Midshipman.'" 
 
 To convey to posterity any idea of the manner in which the Captain, 
 after turning this letter over and over, and reading it a score of times, 
 sat down in his chair, and held a com't-martial on the subject in his own 
 mind, would require the united genius of aU the great men, Avho, discard- 
 ing their own untoward days, have determined to go down to posterity, 
 and 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 facts, they might. 
 
252 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 perhaps, as well have occupied themselves with their former theme, for 
 any light they reflected on them. In this state of mind. Captain Cuttle 
 having the Grinder before the court, and no one else, found it a great relief 
 to decide, generally, that he was an object of suspicion : which the Cap- 
 tain so clearly expressed in his visage, that Eob remonstrated. 
 
 " Oh, don't, Captain ! " cried the Grinder. " I wonder how you can ! 
 what have I done to be looked at, like that." 
 
 " My lad," said Captain Cuttle, " don't you sing out afore you 're 
 hurt. And don't you commit yourself, whatever you do." 
 
 " I haven't been and committed nothing, Captain ! " answered Eob. 
 
 " Keep her free, then," said the Captain, impressively, " 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 parties, Captain Cuttle resolved to go down and 
 examine the premises, and to keep the Grinder with him. Considering 
 that youth as under arrest at present, the Captain was in some doubt 
 whether it might not be expedient to handcuff him, or tie his ankles 
 together, or attach a weight to his legs, but not being clear as to the 
 legality of such formalities, the Captain decided merely to hold him by the 
 shoulder all the way, and knock him down if he made any objection. 
 
 However, he made none, and consequently got to the Instrument-maker's 
 house without being placed under any more stringent restraint. As the 
 shutters were not yet taken down, the Captain's first care was to have the 
 shop opened ; and when the daylight was freely admitted, he proceeded, 
 with its aid, to further investigation. 
 
 The Captain's first care was to establish himself in a chair in the shop, 
 as President of the solemn tribunal that was sitting within him ; and to 
 require Kob to lie down in his bed under the counter, show exactly where 
 he discovered the keys and packet when he awoke, how he found the 
 door when he went to try it, how he started off to Brig Place — cau- 
 tiously 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 times, the Captain shook his head and seemed to think 
 the matter had a bad look. 
 
 Next, the Captain, with some indistinct idea of finding a body, insti- 
 tuted a strict search over the whole house ; groping in the cellars with a 
 lighted candle, tlirusting his hook behind doors, bringing his head into 
 violent contact with beams, and covering himself with cobwebs. Mount- 
 ing up to the old man's bed-room, they found that he had not been in 
 bed on the previous night, but had merely lain down on the coverlet, as 
 was evident from the impression yet remaining there. 
 
 "And /think. Captain," said Eob, looking round the room, " that when 
 Mr. GiUs was going in and out so often, these last few days, he was 
 taking little things away, piecemeal, not to attract attention." 
 ' Aye !" said the Captain, mysteriously. " Why so, my lad ?" 
 
 "Why," returned Eob, looking about, "I don't see his shaving tackle. 
 Nor his brushes. Captain. Nor no shirts. Nor yet his shoes." 
 
 As each of these articles was mentioned. Captain Cuttle took parti- 
 cidar notice of the corresponding department of the Grinder, lest he 
 should appear to have been in recent use, or shoidd prove to be in pre- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 253 
 
 sent possession thereof. But Rob had no occasion to shave, certainly 
 was not brushed, and wore the clothes he had worn for a long time past, 
 beyond all possibility of mistake. 
 
 " And what should you say" said the Captain — "not committing your- 
 self — about his time of sheering oif ? Hey?" 
 
 "Why, I think, Captain," returned Rob, "that he must have gone 
 pretty soon after I began to snore." 
 
 " What o'clock was that?" said the Captain, prepared to be very par- 
 ticular about the exact time. 
 
 " How can I tell, Captain !" answered Rob. " I only know that I 'm 
 a heavy sleeper at first, and a light one towards morning ; and if Mr. Gills 
 had come through the shop near daybreak, though ever so much on tip- 
 toe, I 'm pretty sure I should have heard him shut the door at all events." 
 
 On mature consideration of this evidence, Captain 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 
 himself, which, as being unquestionably in the old man's hand-writing, 
 woidd seem, with no great forcing, to bear the construction, that he ar- 
 ranged of his own will, to go, and 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 difficulty, he confined his meditations to the 
 second. 
 
 Remembering the old man's curious manner, and the farewell he had 
 taken of him : unaccountably fervent at the time, but quite intelligible 
 now: a terrible apprehension strengthened on the Captain, that, overpowered 
 by his anxieties and regrets for Walter, he had been driven to com- 
 mit suicide. Unequal to the wear and tear of daily life, as he had often 
 professed himself to be, and shaken as he no doubt was by the uncer- 
 tainty and deferred hope he had undergone, it seemed no violently strained 
 misgiving, but only too probable. 
 
 Free from debt, and Avith no fear for his personal liberty, or the seizure 
 of his goods, what else but such a state of madness could have hurried 
 him away alone and secretly ? As to his carrying some apparel vdth him, 
 if he had really done so — and they were not even sm-e of that — he might 
 have do«ie so, the Captain argued, to prevent inquiry, to distract attention 
 from his probable fate, or to ease the very mind that was now revolving 
 all these possibilities. Such, reduced into plain language, and condensed 
 within a small compass, was the final result and substance of Captain 
 Cuttle's deliberations ; which took a long time to arrive at this pass, and 
 were, like some more public deliberations, very discursive and disorderly. 
 
 Dejected and despondent in the extreme. Captain Cuttle felt it just 
 to release Rob from the arrest in Avhich he had placed him, and to enlarge 
 him, subject to a kind of honourable inspection which he stiU resolved to 
 exercise ; and having hired a man, from Brogley the Broker, to sit in the 
 shop during their absence, the Captain, taking Rob with him, issued forth 
 upon a dismal quest after the mortal remams of Solomon Gills. 
 
 Not a station-house, or bone-house, or work-house in the metropolis 
 escaped a visitation from the hard glazed hat. Along the wharves, among 
 the shipping, on the bank-side, up the river, down the river, here, there, 
 everywhere, it 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 
 
2o4! DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 found and missing people in all the newspapers and handbills, and went 
 forth on expeditions at all hours of the day to identify Solomon Gills, in 
 poor little ship-boys who had fallen overboard, and in tall foreigners with 
 dark beards who had taken poison — " to make sure," Captain Cuttle said, 
 "that it warn't him." It is a sure thing that it never was, and that the 
 good Captain had no other satisfaction. 
 
 Captain Cuttle at last abandoned these attempts as hopeless, and set 
 himself to consider what was to be done next. After several new perusals 
 of his poor friend's letter, he considered that the maintenance of " a home 
 in the old place for Walter" was the primaiy duty imposed upon him. 
 Therefore, the Captain's decision was, that he would keep house on the 
 premises of Solomon Gills himself, and would go into the instrument 
 business, and see what came of it. 
 
 But as this step involved the relinquishment of his apartments at Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger's, and he knew that resolute woman would never hear of his 
 deserting them, the Captain took the desperate determination of running 
 away. 
 
 " Now, look ye here, my lad," said the Captain to Eob, when he had 
 matui'ed this notable scheme, "to-morrow, I shan 't be found in this here 
 roadstead till night — not till arter midnight p'raps. But you keep 
 watch till you hear me knock, and the moment you do, turn-to, and open 
 the door." 
 
 " Very good, Captain," said Kob. 
 
 " You '11 continue to be rated on this here books," pursued the Captain 
 condescendingly, " and I don't say but what you may get promotion, if 
 you and me should pull together with a will. But the moment you hear 
 me knock to-morrow night, whatever time it is, turn-to and show yourself 
 smart with the door." 
 
 " I '11 be sure to do it. Captain," replied Eob. 
 
 " Because you understand," resumed the Captain, coming back again 
 to enforce this charge upon his mind, " there may be, for anything I can 
 say, a chase ; and I might be took while I was waiting, if you didn't show 
 yourself smart with the door." 
 
 Eob again assured the Captain that he would be prompt and wakeful ; 
 and the Captain having made this prudent arrangement, went home to 
 IVIrs. Mac Stinger's for the last time. 
 
 The sense the Captain had of its being the last time, and of the awful 
 purpose hidden beneath his blue waistcoat, inspired him with such a 
 mortal dread of Mi's. Mac Stinger, that the sound of that lady's foot 
 downstairs at any time of the day, was sufficient to throw him into a fit of 
 trembling. It fell out, too, that Mrs. Mac Stinger was in a charming 
 temper — ^mild and placid as a house-lamb ; and Captain Cuttle's con- 
 science suffered terrible twinges, when she came up to inquire if she could 
 cook him nothing for his dinner. 
 
 " A nice small kidney-pudding now, Cap'en Cuttle," said Ms landlady : 
 " or a sheep's heart. Don't mind fny trouble." 
 
 " No thank 'ee, Ma'am," returned the Captain, 
 
 "Have a roast fowl," said Mrs. Mac Stinger, "with a bit of Aveal 
 stuffing and some egg sauce. Come, Cap'en Cuttle ! Give yourself a 
 little treat ! " 
 
 " No thank 'ee, Ma'am," returned the Captain very humbly. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 255 
 
 " I 'm sure you 're out of sorts, and Avant to be stimilated," said Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger. "Why not have, for once in a way, a bottle of sherry 
 wme r 
 
 " Well Ma'am," rejoined the Captain, "if you'd be so good as take 
 a glass or two, I think I would tiy that. Would you do me the favoiu", 
 Ma'am," said the Captain, torn to pieces by his conscience, " to accept a 
 quarter's rent a-head ? " 
 
 " And why so, Cap'en Cuttle ? " retorted Mrs. Mac Stinger — sharply, as 
 the Captain thought. 
 
 The Captain was frightened to death. " 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." 
 
 "Well, Cap'en Cuttle," said the unconscious Mac Stinger, rubbing her 
 hands, " you can do as you please. It 's not for me, with my family, to 
 refuse, no more than it is to ask." 
 
 " And would you, Ma'am," said the Captain, taking 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 famUy all round ? 
 If you could make it convenient, Ma'am, to pass the word presently for 
 them cliildren to come for'ard, in a body, I should be glad to see 'em." 
 
 These innocent Mac Stingers were so many daggers to the Captain's 
 breast, when they appeared in a swarm, and tore at him with the con- 
 fiding trustfulness he so little deserved. The eye of Alexander Mac 
 Stinger, who had been his favourite, Avas insupportable to the Captain ; 
 the voice of Juliana Mac Stinger, who was the picture of her mother, 
 made a coward of him. 
 
 Captain Cuttle kept up appearances, nevertheless, tolerably well, and 
 for an hour or two was very hardly used and roughly handled by the 
 young Mac Stingers : who in their childish frolics, did a little damage also 
 to the glazed hat, by sitting in it, two at a time, as in a nest, and drum- 
 ming 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 sUence of night, the Captain packed up his heavier property in 
 a chest, which he locked, intending to leave it there, in aU probability for 
 ever, but on the forlorn chance of one day finding a man sufficiently bold 
 and desperate to come and ask for it. Of his lighter necessaries, the 
 Captain made a bundle ; and disposed his plate about his person, ready 
 for flight. At the hour of midnight, when Brig Place was buried in 
 slumber, and Mrs. Mac Stinger was luUed in sweet oblivion, with her in- 
 fants around her, the guilty Captain, stealing down on tiptoe, in the dark, 
 opened the door, closed it softly after liim, and took to his heels. 
 
 Pursued by the image of Mrs. Mac Stinger springing out of bed, and, 
 regardless of costume, following and bringing him back ; pursued also by 
 a consciousness of his enormous crime ; Captain Cuttle held on at a great 
 pace, and allowed no grass to grow under his feet, between Brig Place 
 and the Instrmnent-maker's door. It opened when he knocked — for Eob 
 was on the watch — and when it was bolted and locked behind him, 
 Captain Cuttle felt comparatively safe. 
 
 " Whew ! " cried the Captain, looking round him, "It 's a breather ! " 
 
 " Nothing the matter, is there, Captain ? " cried the gaping Eob. 
 
256 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " No, no ! " said Captain Cuttle, after changing colour, and listening to 
 a passing footstep in tlie street. " But mind ye, my lad ; if any lady, 
 except either of them two as you see t 'other day, ever comes and asks 
 for Cap'en Cuttle, be sure to report no person of that name known, nor 
 never heard of here ; observe them orders, will you ? " 
 
 " I '11 take care, Captain," returned Eob, 
 
 " 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, 
 emigrating, along Avith 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 him if he obeyed orders, dismissed him, 
 yawning, to his bed under the counter, and went aloft to the chamber of 
 Solomon Gills. 
 
 What the Captain suffered next day, whenever a bonnet passed, or how 
 often he darted out of the shop to elude imaginary Mac Stingers, 
 and sought safety in the attic, cannot be told. But to avoid the fatigues 
 attendant on this means of self preservation, the Captain curtained the 
 glass door of communication between the shop and parlour, on 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 appearing, the Captain instantly slipped into his 
 garrison, locked himself up, and took a secret observation of the enemy. 
 Finding it a false alarm, the Captain instantly slipped out again. And the 
 bonnets in the street were so very numerous, and alarms were so inseparable 
 from their appearance, that the Captain was almost incessantly slipping in 
 and out all day long. 
 
 Captain Cuttle found time, however, in the midst of this fatiguing 
 service to inspect the stock ; in connexion with which he had the general 
 idea (very laborious to Eob) that too much friction could not be bestoAved 
 upon it, and that it could not be made too bright. He also ticketed a 
 few attractive looking articles at a venture, at prices ranging from ten 
 shillings to fifty pounds, and exposed them in the window to the great 
 astonishment of the public. 
 
 After eflecting these improvements, Captain Cuttle, smTOunded by the 
 instruments, began to feel scientific : and looked up at the stars at night, 
 through the skylight, when he was smoking his pipe in the little back 
 parlour before going to bed, as if he had established a kind of property 
 in them. As a tradesmen in the city, too, he began to have an interest 
 in the Lord Mayor, and the Sheriffs, and in Public Companies; and felt 
 bound to read the quotations of the Funds every day, though he was 
 unable to make out, on any principle of navigation, what the figures meant, 
 and could have very well dispensed with the fractions. Florence, the 
 Captain waited on, Avith his strange news of Uncle Sol, immediately after 
 taking possession of the Midshipman ; but she was aAvay from home. So 
 the Captain sat himself doAvn in his altered station of life, with no company 
 but Eob the Grinder ; and losing count of time, as men do when great 
 changes come upon them, thought musingly of Walter, and of Solomon 
 Gills, and even of Mrs. Mac Stinger herself, as among the things that had 
 been. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 SHADOWS OF THE PAST AND FUTURE. 
 
 " Your most obedient, Sir," said the Major. " Damme, Sir, a friend 
 of my friend Dombey's, is a friend of mine, and I 'm glad to see yon ! " 
 
 " I am infinitely obliged, Carker," explained Mr, Dombey, " to ]\Iajor 
 Bagstock, for his company and conversation. Major Bagstock has ren- 
 dered me great service, Carker." 
 
 ]Mr. Carker the Manager, hat in hand, just aiTived at Leamington, and 
 just introduced to the ]\Iajor, showed the Major his whole double range of 
 teeth, and 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 Gad, Sir," said the Major, in reply, " there are no thanks due to 
 me, for it 's a give and take afi^air. A great creature like our friend 
 Dombey, Sir," said the Major, lowering his voice, but 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 man, Sir, 
 does Dombey, in his moral nature." 
 
 IVIr. 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 Dombey, Sir," added the Major, " talks to you 
 of INIajor Bagstock, I must crave leave to set him and you right. He 
 means plain Joe, Sir — Joey B. — Josh. Bagstock — Joseph — rough and 
 tough Old J., Sir. A.t your sendee." 
 
 Mr. Carker's excessively friendly inclinations towards the Major, and 
 ]Mr. Carker's admu-ation of his roughness, toughness, and phiinness, 
 gleamed out of every tooth in Mr. Carker's head. 
 
 " And now Sir," said the Major, " you and Dombey have the devil's, 
 own amount of business to talk over," 
 
 " By no means. Major," observed Mr, Dombey. 
 
 " Dombey," said the Major defiantly, " 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 seven, Mr. Carker." 
 
 With that, the Major, greatly swoUen as to his face, withdrew ; but 
 immediately putting in his head at the door again, said : 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Dombey, have you any message to 'em ? " 
 
 Mr. Dombey in some embarrassment, and not without a glance at the 
 courteous keeper of his business confidence, intrusted the Major with his 
 compliments. 
 
 " By the Lord, Sir," said the Major, " you must make it something 
 warmer than that, or Old Joe will be far from welcome." 
 
 " Regards then, if you will, Major," returned Mr. Dombey. 
 
 s 
 
258 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "Damme, Sir," said the Major, shaking his shoulders and his great 
 cheeks jocularly : "make it something warmer than that." 
 
 " What you please then, Major," observed Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Our friend is sly Sir, sly Sir, de-vilish sly," said the Major, staring 
 round the door at Carker. " So is Bagstock." But stopping in the 
 midst of a chuckle, and drawing himself up to his fuU height, the Major 
 solemnly exclaimed, as he struck himself on the chest, " Dombey ! I 
 envy your feehngs. 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 here, no doubt," pursued Carker. " I perceive, from 
 what he has said, that you go into society here. Do you know," smiling 
 horribly, " I am so very glad that you go into society ! " 
 
 ]VIr. Dombey acknowledged this display of interest on the part of his 
 second in command, by twirling his watch-chain, and slightly moving his 
 head. 
 
 " You were formed for society," said Carker. " Of all the men I know, 
 you are the best adapted, by natm-e, and by position, for 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 reasons, Carker. I liave been alone, and indifferent to 
 it. But you have great social qucilifications yourself, and are the more 
 likely to have been surprised." 
 
 "Oh! /.■'" returned the other, with 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 neckcloth, settled his chin in it, 
 coughed, and stood looking at his faithful friend and servant for a few 
 moments in silence. 
 
 "I shall have the pleasure, Carker," 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 agieeable people." 
 
 "Ladies among them, I presume?" insinuated the smooth Manager. 
 
 "They are all — that is to say, they 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." 
 
 " Sisters, perhaps ? " quoth Carker. 
 
 "Mother and daughter," replied Mr. Dombey. 
 
 As IVIr. Dombey dropped his eyes, and adjusted his neckcloth again, the 
 smiling face of Mr. Carker the Manager became in a moment, and without 
 any stage of transition, transformed into a most intent and frowning face, 
 scanning his closely, and with an ugly sneer. As Mr. Dombey raised his 
 eyes, it changed back, no less quickly, to its old expression, and showed 
 him every gum of which it stood possessed. 
 
 " You are very kind," said Carker. " I shall be delighted to know them. 
 Speaking of daughters, I have seen Miss Dombey." 
 
 There was a sixdden rush of blood to Mr. Dombey's face. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 259 
 
 " I took the liberty of waiting on her," said Carker, to " inquire if she 
 covJd charge me with any httle 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 then, with even the hot tongue revealing itself 
 through the stretched mouth, as the eyes encountered Mr. Dombey's ! 
 
 "What business intelligence is there? " inqxiired the latter gentleman, 
 after a silence, during 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 late, but that is of little moment to 
 you. At Lloyd's, they give up the Son and Heir for lost. Well, she 
 was insured, from her keel to her masthead." 
 
 " Carker," said Mr. Dombey, taking a chair near him, " I caimot say 
 that young man, Gay, ever impressed me favourably — " 
 
 "Nor me," interposed the Manager. 
 
 " But I wish," said Mr. Dombey, without heeding the interruption, 
 " he had never gone on board that slu'p. I wish he had never been 
 sent out." 
 
 " It is a pity you didn't say so, in good time, is it not ? " retorted 
 Carker, coolly. " However, I think it 's aU for the best. I really think 
 it 's all for the best. Did I mention that there was sometliing like a little 
 confidence between Miss Dombey and myself? " 
 
 " No," said Mr. Dombey, sternly. 
 
 " I have no doubt," rctimied Mr. Carker, after an impressive pause, 
 " that wherever Gay is, he is much better where he is, than at home here. 
 If I were, or could be, in your place, I should be satisfied of thaL I am 
 quite satisfied of it myself. IVIiss Dombey is confiding and young — ^perhaps 
 hardly proud enough, for your daughter — if she have a faidt. Not that that 
 is much though, I am sure. Will you check these balances with me ? " 
 
 Mr. Dombey leaned back in his chair, instead of bending over the 
 papers that were laid before him, and looked the Manager steadily in the 
 face. The Manager, with his eyelids slightly raised, affected to be 
 glancing at his figures, and to await the leisure of his principal. He 
 showed that he affected this, as if from great delicacy, and with a design 
 to spare Mr. Dombey's feelings ; and the latter, as he looked at him, was 
 cognizant of his intended consideration, and felt that but for it, this 
 confidential Carker would have said a great deal more, which he, Mr. 
 Dombey, was too proud to ask for. It was his way in biisiness, often. 
 Little by httle, Mr. Dombey's gaze relaxed, and his attention became 
 diverted to the papers before him ; but while busy with the occupation 
 they afforded him, he frequently stopped, and looked at Mr. Carker again. 
 Whenever he did so, Mr. Carker was demonstrative, as before, in his 
 delicacy, and impressed it on his gi-eat chief more and more. 
 
 While they were thus engaged ; and under the skilfid cidtme of the 
 Manager, angry thoughts in reference to poor Florence brooded and bred in 
 Mr. Dombey's breast, usurping the place of the cold dislike that generally 
 reigned there; Major Bagstock, much admired by the old ladies of 
 Leamington, and followed by the Native, carrying the usual amount of 
 light baggage, straddled along the shady side of the way, to make a 
 morning call on Mrs. Skewton. It being mid-day when the Major 
 
 s 2 
 
260 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 readied tlie bower of Cleopatra, he had the good fortune to find his 
 Princess on her usual sofa, languishing over a cup of coffee, with the 
 room so darkened and shaded for her more luxurious repose, that Withers, 
 who was in attendance on her, loomed like a phantom page, 
 
 " What insupportable creature is this, coining in ! " said Mrs. Skewton. 
 " I cannot bear it. Go away, whoever you are ! " 
 
 " You have not the heart to banish J. B., Ma'am ! " said the Major, 
 halting midway, to remonstrate, with his cane over his shoulder. 
 
 " Oh it 's you, is it ? On second thoughts, you may enter," observed 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 The Major entered accordingly, and advancing lo the sofa pressed her 
 charming hand to his lips. 
 
 " Sit down," said Cleopatra, listlessly waving her fan, " a long way 
 off. Don't come too near me, for I am frightfully faint and sensitive this 
 morning, and you smeU of the Sun. You are absolutely tropical." 
 
 " By George, Ma'am," said the Major, " the time has been when 
 Joseph Bagstock has been grilled and blistered by the Sun ; the time was, 
 when he was forced. Ma'am, into such full blow, by high hothouse heat in 
 the West Indies, that he was known as the Flower. A man never heard 
 of Bagstock, Ma'am, in those days ; he heard of the Elower — the Elower 
 of Our's. The Flower may have faded, more or less. Ma'am," observed 
 the Major, dropping into a much nearer chair than had been indicated bj 
 his cruel Divinity, " but it is a tough plant yet, and constant as the 
 evergreen." 
 
 Here the Major, under cover of the dark room, shut up one eye, rolled 
 his head like a Harlequin, and, in 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 Mi-s. Skewton. "Go away, and shut the door, I 
 am engaged," 
 
 As Withers disappeared, Mrs, Skewton turned her head languidly 
 towards the Major, without otherwise moving, and asked him how liis 
 friend was. 
 
 " Dombey, Ma'am," returned the Major, with a facetious giu'gling in his 
 throat, " is as well as a man in his condition can be. His condition is a 
 desperate one. Ma'am, He is touched, is Dombey ! Touched ! " cried 
 the Major. " He is bayonetted through the body," 
 
 Cleopatra cast a sharp look at the Major, that contrasted forcibly with 
 the affected drawl in Avhich she presently said : 
 
 " Major Bagstock, although I know but little of the world, — nor can I 
 really regi-et my inexperience, for I fear it is a false place : full of withering 
 conventionalities : where Nature is but little regarded, and where the music 
 of the heart, and the gushing of the soid, and all that sort of thing, which is 
 so truly poetical, is seldom heard, — I cannot misunderstand your meaning. 
 There is an allusion to Edith — to my extremely dear child," said Mrs. 
 Skewton, tracing the outline of her eyebrows with her forefinger, "in your 
 words, to which the tenderest of chords vibrates excessively." 
 
 "Blnntness, Ma'am," returned the Major, "has ever been the charac- 
 teristic of the Bagstock breed. You are right. Joe admits it. 
 
 >9 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 261 
 
 " And that allusion," pursued Cleopatra, "would involve one of the 
 most — if not positively the most — touching, and thrilling, and sacred 
 emotions of which our sadly-fallen nature is susceptible, I conceive." 
 
 The Major laid his hand upon his Ups, and wafted a kiss to Cleopatra, 
 as 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. Skewton, trimming her Ups with the laced edge of her pocket-hand- 
 kerchief ; "but I can hardly approach a topic so excessively momentous 
 to my dearest Edith without a feeling of faintness. Nevertheless, bad 
 man, as you have boldly remarked upon it, and as it has occasioned me 
 great anguish :" Mrs. Skewton touched her left side with her fan : " I 
 will not shrink from my duty." 
 
 The Major, under cover of the dimness, swelled, and swelled, and rolled 
 his purple face about, and winked his lobster eye, until he fell into a fit 
 of wheezing, which obliged him to rise and take a turn or two about the 
 room, before his fair friend could proceed. 
 
 "Mr. Dombey," said IVIrs. Skewton, when she at length resumed, "was 
 obliging enough, now many weeks ago, to do us the honour of visiting us 
 here ; in company, my dear Major, with yourself. I acknowledge — let me 
 be open — that it is my faihng to be the creature of impidse, and to wear my 
 heart, as it were, outside, 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 world, and am content to bear this imputation 
 justly." 
 
 Mrs. Skewton arranged her tucker, pinched her wiry throat to give it a 
 soft surface, and went on, with gi-eat complacency. 
 
 " It gave me (my dearest Edith too, I am sure) infinite pleasure to 
 receive Mr. Dombey. As a friend of yours, my dear Major, we were 
 naturally disposed to be prepossessed in his favour ; and I fancied that I 
 observed an amount of Heart in Mr. Dombey, that was excessively 
 refreshing." 
 
 " There is devilish little heart in Dombey now, Ma'am," said the Major. 
 
 " Wretched man ! " cried Mrs. Skewton, looking at him languidly, 
 " pray be silent." 
 
 " J. B. is dumb. Ma'am," said the Major. 
 
 " Ml*. Dombey," pursued Cleopatra, smoothing the rosy hue upon her 
 cheeks, " accordingly repeated his visit ; and possibly finding some attrac- 
 tion in the simplicity and primitiveness of our tastes — for there is always 
 a charm in nature^ — it is so very sAveet — became one of our little circle 
 every evening. Little did I think of the awful responsibility into which I 
 plunged when I encouraged Mi-. Dombey — to — " 
 
 " To beat up these quarters. Ma'am," suggested Major Bagstock. 
 
 "Coarse person!" said Mrs. Skewton, "you anticipate my meaning, 
 though in odious language." 
 
 Here Mi's. 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 
 manner, dangled her fan to and fro, and lazily admired her hand while 
 speaking. 
 
 "^The agony I have endured," she said, mincingly, " as the truth Las 
 
262 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 by degi'ees dawned upon me, has 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 pet, who has positively garnered up 
 her heart since the death of that most delightful creature, Granger — is the 
 most affecting thing in the world." 
 
 Mrs. Skewton's world was not a veiy trying one, if 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 
 life, is said to resemble me. I believe we «re alike." 
 
 *' There is one man in the world who never will admit that any one 
 resembles you, Ma'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 
 relenting, smiled \ipon him and proceeded : 
 
 " If my charming girl inherits any advantages from me, wicked 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 moved, she 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 chin, and pursing up his blue lips into 
 a soothing expression, affected the profoundest sympathy. 
 
 *' The confidence," said Mrs. Skewton, " that has subsisted between 
 us — the free development of soul, and openness of sentiment — is touch- 
 ing to think of. We have been more hke sisters than mama and child." 
 
 " J. B.'s o^vn sentiment," observed the Major, " expressed by J. B. 
 fifty thousand times ! " 
 
 " Do not interrupt, rude man !" said Cleopatra. " What are my feel- 
 ings, then, when 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 descrip- 
 tion, of course." 
 . The Major left his chair, and took one nearer to the little table. 
 
 " From day to day I see this, my dear Major," proceeded Mrs. Skewton. 
 " From day to day I feel this. From hour to horn* I reproach myself for 
 that excess of faith and trustfulness which has led to such distressing 
 consequences ; and almost from minute to mimite, I hope that Mr. 
 Dombey may explain himself, and relieve the torture I undergo, which 
 is extremely wearing. But nothing happens, my 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 
 done, or what good creature I can advise with." 
 
 Major Bagstock, encouraged perhaps by the softened and confidential 
 tone into which IMi's. Skewton, after several times lapsing into it for a 
 moment, seemed now to have subsided for good : stretched out his hand 
 across the little table, and said with a leer, 
 
 "Advise with Joe, Ma'am." 
 
 "Then, you aggi-avating monster," said Cleopatra, giving one hand to 
 the Major, and tapping his knuckles with her fan, which she held in the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 263 
 
 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 laughed, and 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 earnest, my dear 
 Major ? Would you recommend his being spoken to, or his being left 
 alone ? Now tell me, like a dear man, what you would advise." 
 
 " Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, Ma'am? " chuckled the Major 
 hoarsely. 
 
 " Mysterious creature ! " returned Cleopatra, bringing her fan to bear 
 upon the Major's nose. " How can loe many him ? " 
 
 " Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, Ma'am, I say ? " chuckled the 
 Major again. 
 
 Mrs, Skewton retm*ned no answer in words, but smiled upon the Major 
 with so much archness and vivacity, that that gallant officer considering 
 himself chaRenged, would have imprinted a kiss on her exceedingly red 
 lips, but for her interposing the fan with a very Avinning and juvenile 
 dexterity. It might have been in modesty ; it might have been in appre- 
 hension of some danger to their bloom. 
 
 "Dombey, Ma'am," said the Major, "is a great catch." 
 
 " Oh, mercenary wretch ! " cried Cleopatra, with a little shiiek, " I am 
 shocked." 
 
 " And Dombey, Ma'am," pursued the Major, thrusting 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 himself. 
 Ma'am. Dombey is safe. Ma'am. Do as you have done j do no more ; and 
 trust to J. B. for the end." 
 
 "You really think so, my dear Major?" returned Cleopatra, who had 
 eyed him very cautiously, and very searcliingly, in spite of her listless 
 bearing. 
 
 " Sure of it. Ma'am," rejoined the Major. " Cleopatra the peerless, and 
 her Antony Bagstock, will often speak of this, triumphantly, when sharing 
 the elegance and wealth of Edith Dombey's establishment. Dombey's 
 right-hand man. Ma'am," said the Major, stopping abruptly in a chuckle, 
 and becoming serious, " has arrived." 
 
 " This morning ? " said Cleopatra. 
 
 " This morning, Ma'am," retm'ned the Major. " And Dombey's anxiety 
 for his arrival. Ma'am, is to be referred — take J. B.'s word for this ; for 
 Joe is de-viUsh sly" — the Major tapped his nose, and screwed up one of 
 his eyes tight : which did not enhance Ids native beauty — " to his desire 
 that what is in the wind should become known to him, without Dombey's 
 teUing and consulting him. Tor Dombey is as proud. Ma'am," said the 
 Major, " as Lucifer." 
 
 "A charming quaUty," lisped ]\Irs. Skewton; "reminding one of 
 dearest Edith." 
 
 " Well, Ma'am," said the Major. " I have thi-own out hints already, and 
 the right-hand man understands 'em ; and I '11 throw out more, before the 
 day is done. Dombey projected this morning a ride to Warwick Castle, and 
 to Kenilworth, to-morrow, to be preceded by a breakfast with us, I under- 
 
261- DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 took tlie delivery of this invitation. Will you honour us so far, Ma'am ?" 
 said the Major, swelling with shortness of breath and slyness, as he produced 
 a note, addressed to the Honourable Mrs. Skew ton, by favour of Major 
 Bagstock, wherein her's ever faithfully, Paul Dombey, besought her and her 
 amiable and accomplished daughter to consent to the proposed excursion ; 
 and in a postscript unto which, the same ever faithfully Paul Dombey 
 entreated to be recalled to the remembrance of Mrs. Granger. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Cleopatra, suddenly, " 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 could, in any other place than 
 in the grave. But hurriedly dismissing whatever shadow of earnestness, 
 or faint confession of a purpose, laudable or wicked, that her face, or 
 voice, or manner, had, for the moment, betrayed, she lounged upon the 
 couch, her most insipid and most languid self again, as Edith entered the 
 room. 
 
 Edith, so beautiful and stately, but so cold and so repelling. Who, 
 slightly acknowledging the presence of Major Bagstock, and directing a 
 keen glance at her mother, drew back the curtain from a window, and sat 
 down there, looking out. 
 
 "My dearest Edith," said Mrs. Skewton, " where on earth have you 
 been ? I have wanted you, my love, most sadly." 
 
 " You said you were engaged, and I stayed away," she answered, with- 
 out tiu-ning her head. 
 
 " It was cruel to Old Joe, Ma'am," said the Major in his gallantry. 
 
 " It was very cruel, I know," she said, still looking out — and said 
 with such calm disdain, that the Major was discomfited, and could think 
 of nothing in reply. 
 
 " Major Bagstock, my darling Edith," drawled her mother, " who is 
 generally the most useless and disagreeable creature in the world : as you 
 know — " 
 
 " It is surely not worth while. Mama," said Edith, looking 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 herself, no less than them — was so intense and deep, that her 
 mother's simper, for the instant, though of a hardy constitution, drooped 
 before it. 
 
 " My darling girl," she began again, 
 
 " Not woman yet ? " said Edith, with a smile. 
 
 " Plow very odd you are to-day, my dear ! Pray let me say, my love, 
 that Major Bagstock has brought the kindest of notes from Mi*. Dombey, 
 proposing that we should breakfast with him to-morrow, and ride to 
 Warwick and KenUworth. Will you go, Edith? " 
 
 "Win I go ! " she repeated, tm'ning very red, and breathing quickly as 
 she looked round at her mother. 
 
 " I knew you would, my own," observed the latter, carelessly. " It is, 
 as you say, quite a form to ask. Here is Mi*. Dombey's letter, Edith." 
 
 " Thank you. I have no desire to read it," was her answer. 
 
 "Then perhaps I had better answer it myself," said Mrs. Skewton ^ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 265 
 
 " though. I had thought of asking you to be my secretary, darling." As 
 Edith made no movement, and no answer, Mrs. Skewton begged the' 
 Major to wheel her little table nearer, and to set open the desk it 
 contained, and to take out pen and paper for her ; all which congenial 
 offices of gallantry the Major discharged, with much submission and 
 devotion, 
 
 " Your regards, Edith, my dear ? " said INIrs. Skewton, pausing, pen in 
 hand, at the postscript. 
 
 " What you will, Mama," she answered, without tmniing her head, and 
 with supreme indifference. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton wrote what she would, without seeking for any more 
 explicit directions, and handed her letter to the Major, who receiving it 
 as a precious charge, made a show of laying it near his heart, but 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 ladies, which the elder one acknowledged in her usual 
 manner, while the younger, sitting with her face addressed to the window, 
 bent her head so slightly that it would have been a gi'eater 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 her, Sir," 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 front, and walked in the shadow of 
 that expatriated prince : " as to alteration. Sir, and pining, and so forth, 
 that won't go down with Joseph Bagstock. None of that. Sir. It won't 
 do here. But as to there being something of a division between 'em — or 
 a gulf as the mother calls it — damme. Sir, that seems true enough. And 
 it's odd enough ! Well, Sir ! " panted the Major, " Edith Granger 
 and Dombey are well matched ; let 'em fight it out ! Bagstock backs the 
 winner ! " 
 
 The Major, by saying these latter words aloud, in the vigour of his 
 thoughts, caused the unhappy Native to stop, and tura round, in the belief 
 that he was personally addressed. Exasperated to the last degree by this 
 act of insubordination, the Major (though he was swelling with enjoy- 
 ment of his own humour, at the moment of its occurrence) instantly 
 thrust his cane among the Native's ribs, and continued to stir him up, 
 at short intervals, all the way to the Hotel. 
 
 Nor was the Major less exasperated as he dressed for dinner, during 
 which operation the dark servant underwent the pelting of a shower of 
 miscellaneous objects, varying in size from a boot to a hairbrush, and 
 including everything that came within his master's reach. Eor 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 this, that he maintained the Native about his person as a counter- 
 irritant against the gout, and all other vexations, mental as well as bodily ; 
 and the Native would appear to have earned his pay — which was not 
 large. 
 
 At length, the Major having disposed of all the missiles that were con- 
 venient to his hand, and having called the Native so many new names as 
 must have given him great occasion to marvel at the resources of the 
 
266 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Englisli language, submitted to have his cravat put on ; and being dressed, 
 and finding himself in a brisk flow of spirits after this exercise, went down 
 stairs to enliven "Dombey" and his right-hand man. 
 
 Dombey was not yet in the room, but the right-hand man was there, 
 and his dental treasures were, as usual, ready for the Major. 
 
 " Well, Sir! " 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," retui'ned Carker. " We 
 have been so much occupied." 
 
 " Business, eh ? " said the Major. 
 
 "A variety of little matters necessary to be gone through," replied 
 Carker. " But do you know — tliis is quite unusual with me, educated in 
 a distrustful school, and who am not generally disposed to be communi- 
 cative," he said, breaking off", and speaking in a charming tone of frank- 
 ness — "but I feel quite confidential with you. Major Bagstock." 
 
 " You do me honour, Su%" returned the Major. " You may be." 
 
 "Do you know then," pursued Carker, "that I have not found my 
 friend — our friend, I ought rather to call liim — " 
 
 " Meaning Dombey, Sir ? " cried the Major. " You see me, Mr. 
 Carker, standing here ! J. B. ? " 
 
 He was piiify enough to see, and blue enough ; and Mr. Carker inti- 
 mated that he had that pleasure. 
 
 " Then you see a man. Sir, who would go through fii*e and water to 
 serve Dombey," returned Major Bagstock. 
 
 IVIr. Carker smiled, and said he was sure of it. " Do you know, Major," 
 he proceeded: " to resume where I left oft" : that I have not found our friend 
 so attentive to business to-day, as usual ? " 
 
 "No? " observed the dehghted Major. 
 
 " I have found him a little abstracted, and with his attention disposed 
 to wander," said Carker. 
 
 "By Jove, Sir," cried the Major, " there 's a lady in the case." 
 
 "Indeed, I begin to believe there really is," retm-ned 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 cough, and shook his head and shoulders, 
 as much as to say, " Well ! we are gay dogs, there 's no denying." He 
 then seized ]\Ir. Carker by the button-hole, and with starting eyes whis- 
 pered in his ear, that she was a woman of extraordinary charms. Sir. 
 That she was a young widow. Sir. That she was of a fine famUy, Sir. 
 That Dombey was over head and ears in love with her, Sir, and that it 
 would be a good match on both sides ; for she had beauty, blood, and 
 talent, and Dombey had fortune ; and what more could any couple have t 
 Hearing Mr. Dombey's footstep without, the Major cut himself short by 
 saying, that Mr. Carker would see her to-morrow morning, and would 
 judge for himself; and between his mental excitement, and the exertion 
 of saying all this in wheezy whispers, the Major sat gurgling in the 
 throat and watering at the eyes, until dinner was ready. 
 
 The Major, like some other noble animals, exhibited himself to great 
 advantage at feeding time. On this occasion, he shone resplendent at one 
 end of the table, supported by the milder lustre of Mx. Dombey at the 
 
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DOMBEY AND SON. 267 
 
 other ; while Carker on one side lent his ray to either light, or suffered 
 it to merge into both, as occasion arose. 
 
 During the first course or two, the Major was usually grave ; for the 
 Native, in obedience to general orders, secretly issued, collected every 
 sauce and cruet round him, and gave him a great deal to do, in taking out 
 the stoppers, and mixing up the contents in his plate. Besides which, the 
 Native had private zests and flavours on a side-table, with which the Major 
 daily scorched himself ; to say nothing of strange machines out of which 
 he spirted unknown liquids into the Major's drink. But on this occasion, 
 Major Bagstock, even amidst these many occupations, found 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 that gentleman, " I am doing very well ; I 
 have no great appetite to-day." 
 
 "Why, Dombey, what's become of it?" asked the Major. "Where's it 
 gone ? You haven't left it with our friends, I 'U swear, for I can ans^ver 
 for their having none to-day at luncheon. I can answer for one of 'em, at 
 least ; I won't say which." 
 
 Then the Major winked at Carker, and became so frightfully sly, that 
 his dark attendant was obliged to pat him on the back, without orders, 
 or he would probably have disappeared under the table. 
 
 In a later stage of the dinner : that is to say, when the Native stood at 
 the IVIajor's elbow ready to serve the fii'st bottle of champagne : the Major 
 became still slyer. 
 
 " Fdl this to the brim, you scoundrel," said the Major, holding up his 
 glass. "FiU IVIr. Carker's to the brim too. And Mr. Dombey's too. 
 By Gad, gentlemen," said the Major, winking at his new friend, while 
 Mr. Dombey looked into his plate with a conscious air, " we 'U consecrate 
 this glass of wine to a Divinity whom Joe is proud to know, and at a 
 distance humbly and reverently to admire. Edith," said the Major, " is 
 her name ; angelic Edith ! " 
 
 " To angelic Edith ! " cried the smiling Carker. 
 
 " Edith, by aU means," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 The entrance of the waiters with new dishes caused the Major to be 
 slyer yet, but in a more serious vein. " Eor though, among oui'selves, 
 Joe Bagstock mingles jest and earnest on this subject, Sir," said the 
 Major, laying his finger on his lips, and speaking half apart to Carker, 
 " he holds that name too sacred to be made the property of these fellows, 
 or of any fellows. Not a word. Sir, while they are here !" 
 
 This was respectful and becoming on the Major's part, and IMr. Dombey 
 plainly felt it so. Although embarrassed in his own frigid way, by the 
 Major's allusions, Mr. Dombey had no objection to such rallying, it was 
 clear, but rather courted it. Perhaps the IVIajor had been pretty near the 
 truth, when he had divined that morning that the great man who was too 
 haughty formally to consult with, or confide in his prime minister, on 
 Such a matter, yet wished him to be fully possessed of it. Let this be how 
 it may, he often glanced at Mr. Carker while the Major plied his Light 
 artillery, and seemed watchful of its effect upon him. 
 
 But the INIajor, having secured an attentive listener, and a smiler who 
 
268 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 had not his match in all the world — " in short, a de-vilish intelligent and 
 agreeable fellow," as he often afterwards declared — was not going to let 
 him off with a little slyness personal to Mr. Dombey, Therefore, on the 
 removal of the cloth, the Major developed himself as a choice spirit in the 
 broader and more comprehensive range of narrating regimental stories, and 
 cracking regimental jokes, which he did with such prodigal exuberance, 
 that Carker was (or feigned to be) quite exhausted with laughter and 
 admiration : while Mi\ Dombey looked on over his starched cravat, hke 
 the Major's proprietor, or like a stately shoAvman who was glad to see his 
 bear dancing well. 
 
 When the Major was too hoarse with meat and drink, and the display of 
 his social powers, to render himself intelligible any longer, they adjourned 
 to coffee. After which, the Major inquned of Mr. Carker the Manager, 
 Avith little apparent hope of an answer in the affirmative, if he played 
 picquet. 
 
 " Yes, I play picquet a little," said Mr. Carker. 
 
 "Backgammon, perhaps?" observed the Major, hesitating. 
 
 " Yes, I play backgammon a little, too," replied the man of teeth. 
 
 " Carker plays at aU games, I believe," said Mi-, Dombey, laying him- 
 self on a sofa like a man of wood without a hinge or a joint in him ; " and 
 plays them well." 
 
 In sooth, he played the two in question, to such perfection, that the 
 Major was astonished, and asked him, at random, if he played chess. 
 
 " Yes, I play chess a little," answered Carker. " I have sometimes 
 played, and won a game — it's a mere trick — without seeing the board." 
 
 " By Gad, Sir ! " said the Major, staring, " you're a contrast to Dombey, 
 who plays nothing." 
 
 " Oh ! He ! " returned the Manager. " He has never had occasion to 
 acquire such little arts. To men like me, they are sometimes useful. 
 As at present, Major Bagstock, when they enable me to take a hand 
 with you," 
 
 It might be only the false mouth, so smooth and wide ; and yet there 
 seemed to hu'k, beneath the humility and subserviency of this short 
 speech, a something like a snarl ; and, for a moment, one 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 shut, during the whole of the play, which 
 lasted until bed time. 
 
 By that time, Mr. Carker, though the winner, had mounted high into the 
 Major's good opinion, insomuch that when he left the Major at his OAvn 
 room before going to bed, the Major, as a special attention, sent the 
 Native — who always rested on a mattress spread upon the ground at his 
 master's door — along the gaUery, to light him to his room in state. 
 
 There was a faint blur on the surface of the mirror in Mr. Carker's 
 chamber, and its reflection was, perhaps, a false one. But it showed, 
 that night, the image of a man, who saw, in his fancy, a crowd of people 
 slumbering on the ground at his feet, like 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 269 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 DEEPER SHADOWS. 
 
 Mr. Carker the Manager rose with the lark, and went out, walking 
 in the summer day. His meditations — and he meditated with con- 
 tracted brows while he strolled along — hardly seemed to soar as high as 
 the lark, or to mount in that direction ; rather they kept close to their 
 nest upon the earth, and looked about, among the dust and worms. But 
 there was not a bird in the air, singing unseen, farther beyond the reach 
 of human eye than ^Ir. Carker's thoughts. He had liis face so perfectly 
 under control, that few coidd say more, in distinct terms, of its expression, 
 than that it smiled or that it pondered. It pondered now, intently. As 
 the lark rose higher, he sank deeper in thought. As the lark poured out 
 her melody clearer and stronger, he fell into a graver and profounder 
 silence. At length, when the lark came headlong down, with an accu- 
 nudating stream of song, and dropped among the green wheat near him, 
 rippling in the breath of the morning like a river, he sprang up from his 
 reverie, and looked round with a sudden smile, as courteous and as soft 
 as if he had had numerous observers to propitiate ; nor did he relapse, 
 after being thus awakened ; but clearing his face, Uke one who bethought 
 himself that it might otherwise wrinkle and tell tales, went smiling on, as 
 if for practice. 
 
 Perhaps with an eye to first impressions, ]VIr. Carker was very carefully 
 and trimly dressed, that morning. Though always somewhat formal, in 
 his dress, in imitation of the great man whom he served, he stopped short 
 of the extent of Mr. Dombey's stiffness : at once perhaps because he knew 
 it to be ludicrous, and because in doing so he found another means of 
 expressing his sense of the difference and distance between them. Some 
 people quoted him indeed, in this respect, as a pointed commentary, 
 and not a flattering one, on his icy patron — but the world is prone 
 to misconstruction, and Mr. Carker was not accountable for its bad 
 propensity. 
 
 Clean and florid : with his light complexion, fading as it were, in the 
 sun, and his dainty step enhancing the softness of the turf : Mr. Carker 
 the Manager strolled about meadows, and green lanes, and glided among 
 avenues of trees, until it was time to return to breakfast. Taking a 
 nearer way back, ]\lr. Carker pursued it, airing his teeth, and said aloud 
 as he did so, " Now to see the second Mrs. Dombey ! " 
 
 He had strolled beyond the town, and re-entered it by a pleasant walk, 
 where there was a deep shade of leafy trees, and 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 hoiu*, and wearing at that time of the stiU morning 
 the ah* of being quite deserted and retired, Mr. Carker had it, or thought 
 he had it, all to himself. So, with the whim of an idle man, to whom 
 
270 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 there yet remained twenty minutes for reacliing a destination easily 
 accessible in ten, Mr. Carker threaded tlie great boles of the trees, and 
 went passing in and out, before this one and behind that, weaving a chain 
 of footsteps on the dewy ground. 
 
 But he found he was mistaken in supposing there was no one in the 
 grove, for as he softly rounded the trunk of one large tree, on which the 
 obdurate bark was knotted and overlapped like the hide of a rhinoceros 
 or some kindred monster of the ancient days before the flood, he saw an 
 unexpected figure sitting on a bench near at hand, about which, in another 
 moment, he would have wound the chain he was making. 
 
 It was that of a lady, elegantly dressed and very handsome, whose dai'k 
 proud eyes were fixed upon the ground, and in whom some passion or 
 struggle was raging. For as she sat looking down, she held a corner of 
 her under lip within her mouth, her bosom heaved, her nostril quivered, 
 her head trembled, indignant tears were on her cheek, and her foot was set 
 upon the moss as though she would have crushed it into nothing. And yet 
 ahnost the self-same glance that showed him this, showed him the self- 
 same lady rising with a scornful air of weariness and lassitude, and tui'ning 
 away with nothing expressed in face or figui'e but careless beauty and 
 imperious disdain, 
 
 A withered and very ugly old woman, dressed not so much like a gipsey 
 as like any of that medley race of vagabonds who tramp about the country, 
 begging, and stealing, and tinkering, and weaving rushes, by turns, or all 
 together, had been observing the lady, too ; for, as she rose, this 
 second figure strangely confronting the first, scrambled up from the ground 
 — out of it, it almost appeai'ed — and stood in the way. 
 
 "Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady," said the old woman, 
 munching with her jaws, as if the Death's Head beneath her yellow skin 
 were impatient to get out. 
 
 " I can tell it for myself," was the reply. 
 
 " Aye, aye, pretty lady ; but not right. You didn't tell it right when 
 you were sitting there. I see you ! Give me a piece of silver, pretty 
 lady, and I '11 tell your fortune true. There's riches, pretty lady, in 
 your face." 
 
 " I know," returned the lady, passing her, with a dark smile, and 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 fortune, pretty lady ? How much will 
 you give me not to tell it, then ? Give me something, or I '11 call it after 
 you ! " croaked the old woman, passionately. 
 
 Mr. Carker, whom the lady was about to pass close, slinking against his 
 tree as she crossed to gain the path, advanced so as to meet her, and 
 pulling off liis hat as she went by, bade the old woman hold her peace. 
 The lady acknowledged liis interference with an inclination of the head, 
 and went her way. 
 
 " You give me something, then, or I '11 call it after her ! " screamed 
 the old woman, throwing up lier arms, and pressing forward against his 
 outstretched hand, " Or come," she added, di-opping her voice suddenly, 
 looking at him earnestly, and seeming in a moment to forget the object of 
 her wi-ath, " give me sometliing, or I '11 call it after you I " 
 
DOMBET AND SON. 271 
 
 " After vie, old lady ! " returned the Manager, putting his hand in his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Tes," said the woman, steadfast in her scrutiny, and holding out her 
 shrivelled hand. " I know ! " 
 
 " What do you know ? " demanded Carker, throwing her a shilling. 
 " Do you know who the handsome lady is ? " 
 
 Munching like that sailor's wife of yore, who had chesnuts in her lap, and 
 scowling Hke the witch who asked for some in vain, the old woman picked 
 the shilling up, and going backwards, like a crab, or like a heap of crabs : for 
 her alternately expanding and contracting hands might have represented 
 two of that species, and her creeping face, some half-a-dozen more : 
 crouched on the veinous root of an old tree, pulled out a short black pipe 
 from within the crown of her bonnet, lighted it with a match, and smoked 
 in silence, looking fixedly at her questioner. 
 
 Mr. Carker laughed, and turned upon his heel. 
 
 " Good ! " said the old woman. " One child dead, and one child 
 living : one wife dead, and one wife coming. Go and meet her 1" 
 
 In spite of himself, the Manager looked round again, and stopped. 
 The old woman, who had not removed her pipe, and was munching and 
 mumbling while she smoked, as if in conversation with an invisible fami- 
 liar, pointed with her finger in the direction he was going, and laughed. 
 
 " What was that you said, Beldamite ? " he demanded. 
 
 The woman mumbled, and chattered, and smoked, and still pointed 
 before him ; but remained silent. Muttering a farewell that was not com- 
 plimentary, Mr. Carker pursued his way ; but as he turned out of that 
 place, and looked over his shoulder at the root of the old tree, he could 
 yet see the finger pointing before him, and thought he heard the woman 
 screaming, "Go and meet her ! " 
 
 Preparations for a choice repast were completed, he found, at the 
 hotel ; and Mr. Dombey, and the Major, and the breakfast, were 
 awaiting the ladies. Individual constitution has much to do with the 
 development of such facts, no doubt ; but in this case, appetite carried 
 it hoUow over the tender passion ; Mr. Dombey being very cool and 
 collected, and the Major fretting and fuming in a state of violent heat 
 and irritation. At length the door was thrown open by the Native, 
 and, after a pause, occupied by her languishing along the gallery, a very 
 blooming, but not very youthfid lady, appeared. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Dombey," said the lady, " I am afraid we are late, but 
 Edith has been out already looking for a favourable point of view for a 
 sketch, and kept me waiting for her. Falsest of Majors," giving him her 
 little finger, " how do you do ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Skewton," said Mr. Dombey, "let me gi'atify my friend 
 Carker : " Mr. Dombey unconsciously emphasised the word friend, as 
 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 charmed, I am sure," said Mrs. Skewton, graciously. 
 
 Mr. Carker was charmed, of course. Woidd he have been more 
 charmed on Mr. Dombey's behalf, if Mrs. Skewton had been (as he at 
 first supposed her) the Edith whom they had toasted over night ? 
 
 " Why, where, for Heaven's sake, is Edith ? " exclaimed Mrs. Skewton, 
 looking round. "Still at the door, giving Withers orders about the 
 
273 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 mounting of tliose drawings ! My dear Mr. Donabey, will you have the 
 kindness — " 
 
 Mr. Dombey was abeady 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 manifest, that Mr. Dombey stopped surprised. 
 
 " I am obliged to the gentleman," said Edith, with a stately bend, 
 " for sparing me some annoyance from an importunate beggar just now." 
 
 "lam obliged to my good fortune," said Mr. Carker, bowing low, 
 " for the opportunity of rendering so shght a service to one whose servant 
 I am proud to be." 
 
 As her eye rested on him for an instant, and then lighted on the 
 ground, he saw in its bright and searching glance a suspicion that he had 
 not come up at the moment of his interference, but had secretly observed 
 her sooner. As he saw that, she saw in his eye that her distrust was not 
 without foundation. 
 
 " Eeally," cried Mrs. Skewton, who had taken this opportunity of 
 inspecting Mr. Carker through her glass, and satisfying herself (as she 
 lisped audibly to the Major) that he was all heart ; " really now, this is 
 one of the most enchanting coincidences that I ever heard of. The idea ! 
 My dearest Edith, there is such an obvious destiny in it, that really one 
 might almost be induced to cross one's arm upon one's frock, and say, 
 like those wicked Turks, there is no What's-his-name but Thingummy, 
 and What-you-may-call-it is liis prophet ! " 
 
 Edith deigned no revision of this extraordinary quotation from the 
 Koran, but IVIr. Dombey felt it necessary to offer a few polite remarks. 
 
 " It gives me great pleasure," said Mr. Dombey, with cumbrous 
 gallantry, " that a gentleman so nearly connected with myself as Carker is 
 should have had the honour and happiness of rendering the least assist- 
 ance to Mrs. Granger." Mr. Dombey bowed to her. " But it gives me 
 some pain, and it occasions me to be really envious of Carker ; " he 
 unconsciously laid stress on these words, as 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. Edith, saving for a ciu'l of her lip, was motionless. 
 
 " By the Lord, Su*," cried the Major, bursting into speech at sight of 
 the waiter, who 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 tlu'ough the head ^^'ithout being brought to book for it. 
 But here 's an arm for Mrs. Granger if she '11 do J. B. the honour to 
 accept it ; and the greatest service Joe can render you, Ma'am, just now, 
 is, to lead you in to table ! " 
 
 With this, the Major gave his arm to Edith ; Mr. Dombey led the way 
 with Mrs. Skewton ; Mr. Cai-ker went last, smiling on the party. 
 
 "I am quite rejoiced, Mr. Carker," said the lady-mother, at breakfast, 
 after another approving survey of him through her glass, " that you have 
 timed yom- visit so happily, as to go with us to-day. It is the most 
 enchanting expedition !" 
 
 " Any expedition w^ould be enchanting in such society," retm-ned Car- 
 ker ; " but I believe it is, in itself, fuU of interest." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 273 
 
 " Oh !" cried Mrs. Skewton, with a faded little scream of rapture, " the 
 Castle is charming ! — associations of the IMiddle ages — and all that — which 
 is so truly exquisite. Don't you dote upon the Middle ages, Mr. Carker?" 
 "Very much, indeed," said Mr. Carker. 
 
 " Such charming times !" cried Cleopatra. " So full of Paith ! So vigor- 
 ous and forcible ! So picturesque ! So perfectly removed from common- 
 place ! Oh dear ! If they would only leave us a little more of the poetry of 
 existence in these terrible days 1 " 
 
 Mrs. Skewton was looking sharp after Mr. Dombey all the time she 
 said this, who was looking at Edith : who was listening, but who never 
 lifted up her eyes. 
 
 " We are dreadfully real, Mr. Carker," said Mi-s, Skewton ; "are we not ?" 
 Few people had less reason to complain of their reality than Cleopatra, 
 who had as much that was false about her as could well go to the composi- 
 tion of anybody with a real individual existence. But Mr. Carker com- 
 miserated our reality nevertheless, and agreed that we were very hardly 
 used in that regard. 
 
 "Pictures at the Castle, quite divine!" said Cleopatra. "I hope you 
 dote upon pictures ? " 
 
 "I assure you, Mrs. Skewton," said Mr. Dombey, with solemn encou- 
 ragement of his Manager, " that Carker has a very good taste for pictures ; 
 quite a natural power of appreciating them. He is avery creditable artist him- 
 self. He win be delighted, I am sure, with Mrs. Granger's taste and skill." 
 "Damme, Sir!" cried Major Bagstock, "my opinion is, that you're 
 the admirable Carker, and can do anything." 
 
 "Oh!" smiled Carker, with 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 acquire, and to which, in his very different 
 sphere, he is far superior, that — •" Mr. Carker shrugged his shoulders, 
 deprecating further praise, and said no more. 
 
 All this time, Edith never raised her eyes, unless to glance towards her 
 mother when that lady's fervent spirit shone forth in words. But as Carker 
 ceased, she looked at Mr. Dombey for a moment. Eor a moment only ; 
 but with a transient gleam of scornful wonder on her face, not lost on one 
 observer, who was smiling round the board. 
 
 Mr. Dombey caught the dark eye-lash in its descent, and took the op- 
 portunity of arresting it. 
 
 " You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately?" said Mr. Dombey. 
 " Several times." 
 
 " The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid." 
 " Oh no ; not at all." 
 
 " Ah ! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest Edith," said Mrs. 
 Skewton. " He has been to Warwick Castle fifty times, if 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 enthusiastic, are we not. Mama?" said Edith, with a 
 cold smile. 
 
 " Too much so, for our peace, perhaps, my dear," returned her mother ; 
 " but we won't complain. Our own emotions are our recompense. If, 
 as your cousin Eeenix says, the sword wetirs out the what's-its-name— " 
 
 X 
 
274 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " The scabbard, perhaps," said Edith. 
 
 " Exactly — a little too fast, it is because it is bright and glowing, you 
 know, nay dearest love," 
 
 Mrs. Skewton heaved a gentle sigh, supposed to cast a shadow on the 
 surface of that dagger of lath, whereof her susceptible bosom was the 
 sheath : and leaning her head on one side, in the Cleopatra manner, looked 
 with pensive aifection on her darling child. 
 
 Edith had turned her face towards Mr. Dombey when he first addressed 
 her, and had remained in that attitude, while speaking to her mother,. 
 and while her mother spoke to her, as though offering him her attention, 
 if he had anything more to say. There Avas something in the manner of 
 this simple courtesy : almost defiant, and giving it the character of being 
 rendered on compulsion, or 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 fii'st seen her, 
 when she had believed herself to be alone among the trees. 
 
 Mr. Dombey, having nothing else to say, proposed — ^the breakfast being 
 now finished, and the Major gorged, like any Boa Constrictor — that they 
 should start. A barouche being in waiting, according to the orders of 
 that gentleman, the two ladies, the Major and himself, took their seats in 
 it ; the Native and the wan page mounted the box, 'Mr. Towlinson being 
 left behind ; and Mr. Carker, on horseback, brought up the rear. 
 
 Mr. Carker cantered behind the carriage, at the distance of a hundred 
 yards or so, and watched it, during all the ride, as if he were a cat, indeed, 
 and its four occupants, mice. Whether he looked to one side of the 
 road, or to the other — over distant landscape, with its smooth undulations, 
 wind-mills, corn, grass, bean fields, wild-flowers, farm-yards, hayricks, 
 and the spire among the wood — or upwards in the sunny air, where 
 butterfhes were sporting round his head, and birds were pouring out their 
 songs — or downward, where the shadows of the branches interlaced, and 
 made a trembling carpet on the road — or onward, where the overhanging 
 trees formed aisles and arches, dim with the softened light that steeped 
 through leaves — one corner of his eye was ever on the formal head of 
 Mr. Dombey, addressed towards him, and the feather in the bonnet, 
 drooping so neglectfully and scornfully between them : much as he had 
 seen the haughty eyelids droop ; not least so, when the face met that 
 now fronting it. Once, and once only, did his wary glance release these 
 objects; and that was, when a leap over a low hedge, and a gallop across 
 a field, enabled him to anticipate the carriage coming by the road, and to 
 be standing ready, at the journey's end, to hand the ladies out. Then, 
 and but then, he met her glance for an instant in her first surprise ; but 
 when he touched her, in alighting, with his soft white hand, it overlooked 
 him altogether as before. 
 
 Mi-s. Skewton was bent on taking charge of Mr. Carker herself, and 
 showing him the beauties of the Castle. She was determined to have his 
 arm, and 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 times, Mr. Carker," said Cleopatra, "with 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 275 - 
 
 their delicious fortresses, and their dear old dungeons, and their delightful 
 places of torture, and their romantic vengeances, and their picturesque 
 assaults and sieges, and everything that makes life truly charmhig ! How 
 dreadfully we have degenerated ! " 
 
 " Yes, we have fallen oif deplorably," said Mr. Carker. 
 
 The peculiarity of their conversation was, that Mrs. Skewton, in spite of 
 hear ecstacies, and Mr. Carker, in spite of his m-banity, were both intent 
 on watching Mr. Dombey and Edith. With all then- conversational endow- 
 ments, they spoke somewhat distractedly, and at random, in consequence. 
 
 " We have no Faith left, positively," said Mrs. Skewton, advancing her 
 shrivelled ear ; for Mr. Dombey was saying something to Edith. " We 
 have no Faith in the dear old Barons, who were the most delightful crea- 
 tures — or in the dear old Priests, who were the most warlike of men — or 
 even in the days of that inestimable Queen Bess, upon the wall there, 
 which were so extremely golden. Dear creatiixe ! She was all Heart 1 
 And that charming father of hers ! I hope you dote on Harry the Eighth ! " 
 
 "I admire him very much," said Carker. 
 
 "So bluff! " cried Airs. Ske^vton, " wasn't he? So burly. So truly 
 Enghsh. Such a picture, too, he makes, with his dear little peepy eyes, 
 and his benevolent chin ! " 
 
 "All, Ma'am ! " said Carker, stopping short ; " but if you speak of pic- 
 tures, there 's a composition ! What gallery in the world can produce the 
 counterpart of that ! " 
 
 As the smiling gentleman thus spake, he 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 arm, they had the appearance of being more divided than if seas had 
 Tolled betAveen them. There was a dift'erence even in the pride of the two, 
 that removed them farther from each other, than if one had been the 
 proudest and the other the humblest specimen of humanity in all creation. 
 He, self-important, unbending, formal, austeie. She, lovely and graceful, 
 in an uncommon degree, but totally regardless of herself and him and 
 everything around, and spurning her own attractions Tsith her haughty 
 brow and bp, as if they were a badge or livery she hated. So unmatched 
 were they, and opposed, so forced and linked together by a chain wliich 
 adverse hazard and mischance had forged : that fancy might have imagined 
 the pictures on the walls around them, startled by the unnatm-al con- 
 junction, and observant of it in then- several expressions. Grim knights 
 and warriors looked scowling on them. A churchman, with his hand 
 upraised, denounced the mockery of such a couple coming to God's altar. 
 Quiet waters in landscapes, with the sun reflected in their depths, asked, 
 if better means of escape were not at hand, was there no di'owning left ? 
 Euins cried, ' Look here, and see what We are, wedded to uncongenial 
 Time ! ' Animals, opposed by nature, worried one another, as a moral 
 to them. Loves and Cupids took to flight afraid, and Martyrdom had no 
 such torment in its painted history of suffering. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mrs. Skewton was so charmed by the sight to which Mi: 
 Carker invoked her attention, that she could not refrain from saying, half 
 aloud, how sweet, how very full of soul it was 1 Edith, overhearing, 
 looked round, and flushed indignant scarlet to her hair. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 _ " My dearest Edith knows I was admiring her ! " said Cleopatra, tap- 
 ping her, almost timidly, on 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 it, and hide it like a cloud. 
 
 She did not raise her eyes to him; but with a slight peremptoiy 
 motion of them, seemed to bid her mother come near. Mrs. Skewton 
 thought it expedient to understand the hint, and advancing quickly, with 
 her two cavaliers, kept near her daughter from that time. 
 
 Mr. Carker now, having nothing to distract his attention, began to dis- 
 course upon the pictures, and to select the best, and point them out to 
 Mr. Dombey : speaking with his usual familiar recognition of Mr. Dom- 
 bey's greatness, and rendering homage by adjusting his eye-glass for him, 
 or finding out the right place in his catalogue, or holding his stick, or the 
 like. These services did not so much originate with Mr. Carker, in truth, 
 as with Mr. Dombey himself, who was apt to assert his chieftainship by 
 saying, with subdued authority, and in an easy way — for him — " Here, 
 Carker, have the goodness to assist me, vnR you ! " which the smiling 
 gentleman always did, with pleasure. 
 
 They made the tour of the pictures, the walls, crow's nest, and so forth ; 
 and as they were still one little party, and the Major was rather in the 
 shade : being sleepy during the process of digestion : Mr. Carker became 
 communicative and agreeable. At first, he addressed himself for the most 
 part to Mrs. Skewton ; but as that sensitive lady was in such ecstacies \vith 
 the works of art, after the first quarter of an hour, that she could do 
 nothing but yawn (they were such perfect inspirations, she observed as a 
 reason for that mark of rapture), he transferred his attentions to Mr. 
 Dombey. Mr. Dombey said little beyond an occasional "Very true, 
 Carker," or "Indeed, Carker," but he tacitly encouraged Carker to 
 proceed, and inwardly approved of his behaviour very much : deeming it 
 as well that somebody should talk, and thinking that his remarks, which 
 were, as one might say, a branch of the parent establishment, might amuse 
 Mrs. Granger. Mr. Carker, who possessed an excellent discretion, never 
 took the liberty of addressing that lady, direct ; but she seemed to listen, 
 though she never looked at him ; and once or twice, when he was emphatic 
 in his pecidiar humility, the twilight smile stole over her face, not as a 
 light, but as a deep black shadow. 
 
 Warwick Castle being at length pretty weU exhausted, and the Major 
 very much so : to say nothing of Mrs. Skewton, whose peculiar demon- 
 strations of delight had become very frequent indeed : the carriage was 
 again put in requisition, and they rode to several admired points of view 
 in the neighbourhood. Mr. Dombey ceremoniously observed of one of 
 these, that a sketch, however slight, from the fair hand of Mrs. Granger, 
 would be a remembrance to him of that agreeable day : though he wanted 
 no artificial remembrance, he was sure (liere Mr. Dombey made another 
 of his bows), which he must always higlily value. Withers the lean 
 having Edith's sketch-book under his arm, was immediately called upon 
 by Mrs. Skewton to produce the same : and the carriage stopped, that 
 Edith might make the drawing, which Mr. Dombey was to put away 
 among his treasures. 
 
 " But I am afraid I trouble you too much," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 277 
 
 "By no means. Where would you wisli it taken from ? " she answered, 
 turning to him with the same enforced attention as before. 
 
 Mr. Dombey, with another bow, which cracked the starch in his cravat, 
 woidd beg to leave that to the Artist. 
 
 " I would rather you chose for yom'self," said Edith. 
 " Suppose then," said Mi-. Dombey, " we say from here. It appears 
 a good spot for the purpose, or — Carker, what do you think ? " 
 
 There happened to be in the foreground, at some little distance, a 
 grove of trees, not unlike that in which Mr. Carker had made his chain of 
 footsteps in the morning, and with a seat under one tree, greatly resem- 
 bling, in the general character of its situation, the 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 eyes, and raised 
 them quickly to his face. It was the second glance they had exchanged 
 since their introduction ; and would have been exactly like the first, but 
 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 Edith, without moving from her seat, and opening 
 her sketch-book with her usual proud indift'erence, began to sketch. 
 " My pencils are all pointless," she said, stopping and turning them over. 
 " Pray allow me," said Mr. Dombey. " Or Carker wiU do it better, as 
 he understands these things. Carker, have 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 neck, took the pencils from her 
 hand with a smile and a bow, and sat in the saddle leisurely mending 
 them. Having done so, he 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 side, looking over the drawing as she made it. 
 Mr. Dombey in the meantime stood bolt upright in the can-iage like a 
 highly respectable ghost, looking on too ; while Cleopatra and the Major 
 dallied as two ancient doves might do. 
 
 " Are you satisfied with that, or shall I finish it a little more? " said 
 Edith, showing the sketch to Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Mr. Dombey begged that it might not be touched ; it was perfection. 
 " It is most extraordinary," said Carker, bringing every one of his red 
 gums to bear upon his praise. " I was not prepared for anything so 
 beautiful, and 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 alone, but 
 as to his whole spirit. So it continued to be while the drawing was laid 
 aside for Mr. Dombey, and while the sketching materials were put up ; 
 then he handed in the pencils (which were received with a distant acknow- 
 ledgment of his help, but without a look), and tightening his rein, fell 
 back, and followed the carriage again. 
 
 Thinking, perhaps, as he rode, that even this trivial sketch had been made 
 
278 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 and delivered to its owner, as if it had been bargained for and bought. 
 Thinking, perhaps, that although she had assented with such perfect readi- 
 ness to his request, her haughty face, bent over the drawing, or glancing 
 at the distant objects represented in it, had been the face of a proud 
 woman, engaged in a sordid and miserable transaction. Thinking, per- 
 haps, of such things : but smiling certainly, and wliile he seemed to look 
 about him freely, in enjoyment of the air and exercise, keeping always that 
 sharp corner of his eye upon the carriage. 
 
 A stroll among the haunted ruins of Kenilworth, and more rides to 
 more points of view : most of which, Mrs. Skewton reminded IVIr. Dom- 
 bey, Edith had already sketched, as 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 evening, to hear some of Edith's music ; and the three gentlemen 
 repaired to their hotel to dinner. 
 
 The dinner was the counterpart of yesterday's, except 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 fuU of interest and praise. 
 
 There were no other visitors at Mrs. Skewton's. Edith's drawings 
 were strewn about the room, a little more abundantly than usual perhaps ; 
 and Withers, the wan page, handed round a little stronger tea. The harp 
 was there ; the piano was there ; and Edith sang and played. But 
 even the music was paid by Edith to Mi-. Dombey's order, as it were, 
 in the same uncompromising way. As thus. 
 
 " Edith, my dearest love," said Mrs. Skewton, half an hour after tea, 
 "Mr. Dombey is dying to hear you, I know." 
 
 " Mr. Dombey has life enough left to say so for himself, Mama, I have 
 no doubt." 
 
 " I shall be immensely obliged," said IVIi*. Dombey. 
 
 "What do you wish?" 
 
 " Piano ? " hesitated Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Whatever you please. You have only to choose." 
 
 Accordingly, she 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 constrained, yet prompt 
 and pointed acquiescence with the wishes he imposed upon her, and on 
 no one else, was sufficiently remarkable to penetrate through all the mys- 
 teries of picquet, and impress itself on Mr. Carker's keen attention. Nor 
 did he lose sight of the fact that Mr. Dombey was evidently proud of his 
 power, and liked to show it. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mr. Carker played so well — some games with the Major, 
 and some with Cleopatra, whose vigilance of eye in respect of Mr. Dombey 
 and Edith no lynx could have surpassed — that he even heightened his po- 
 sition in the lady-mother's good graces ; and when on taking leave he 
 regretted that he would be obliged to retm-n to London next morning, 
 Cleopatra 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. Carker, with an expressive look at the couple in 
 the distance, as hedrew towards the door, following the Major. "I think so." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 279 
 
 Mr. Dombey, who had taken a stately leave of Edith, bent, or made 
 some approach to a bend, over Cleopatra's couch, and said, in a low voice: 
 
 " I have requested Mrs, Granger's permission to call on her to-morrow 
 morning — for a pui-pose — and she has appointed twelve o'clock. May I 
 hope to have the pleasure of finding you at home, Madam, afterwards ?" 
 
 Cleopatra was so much fluttered and moved, by hearing this, of course, 
 incomprehensible speech, that she could only shut her eyes, and shake her 
 head, and give Mr. Dombey her hand ; which Mr. Dombey, not exactly 
 knowing what to do Avith, dropped. 
 
 " Dombey, come along ! " cried the Major, looking in at the door. 
 *' Damme, Sir, old Joe has a great mind to propose an alteration in the 
 name of the Royal Hotel, and that it shoidd be called the Tlu-ee Jolly 
 Bachelors, in honour of ourselves and Carker." With this, the Major 
 slapped Mr. Dombey on the back, and winking over liis shoulder at the 
 ladies, with a frightful tendency of blood to the head, carried him oif. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton reposed on her sofa, and Edith sat apart, by her harp, in 
 «ilence. The mother, trifling with her fan, looked stealthily at the 
 daughter more than once, but the daughter, brooding gloomily with down- 
 cast eyes, was not to be disturbed. 
 
 Thus they remained for a long hour, without a word, until Mrs. 
 Skewton's maid appeared, according to custom, to prepare her gradually 
 for night. At night, she should have been a skeleton, with dart and 
 hom'-glass, rather than a woman, this attendant ; for her touch was as the 
 touch of Death. The painted object shrivelled underneath her hand ; the 
 form collapsed, the hail* dropped off, the arched dark eye-brows changed 
 to scanty tufts of grey; the pale lips shrunk, the skin became cadaverous 
 and loose ; an old, worn, yellow nodding woman, with red eyes, alone 
 remained in Cleopatra's place, huddled up, like a slovenly bundle, in a 
 greasy flannel gown. 
 
 The very voice was changed, as it addressed Edith, when they were 
 alone again. 
 
 " Why don't you tell me," it said, sharply, " that he is coming heie 
 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 him, 
 and may be had sufficiently cheap ; and he will buy to-morrow. God, 
 that I have lived for this, and that T feel it 1 " 
 
 Compress into one handsome face the conscious self-abasement, and 
 the burning indignation of a hundred women, strong in passion and iu 
 pride ; and there it hid itself with two white shuddering arms. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " retiurned the angry mother. " Haven't you 
 from a child — " 
 
 " A child ! " said Edith, looking at her, " when was I a child ! What 
 childhood did you ever leave to me ? I was a woman — artfid, designing 
 mercenary, laying snares for men — before I knew myself, or you, or 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 
 to-night." 
 
280 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 And as slie spoke, she struck her hand upon her beautiful bosom, as 
 though she would have beaten down herself. 
 
 " Look at me," she said, " who have never known what it is to have an 
 honest heart, and love. Look at me, taught 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 indifterence. Look at me, Avhom he left a 
 widow, dying 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 paraded, Mother, as I have been, for ten 
 shameful years," cried Edith, with a burning brow, and 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 fools, have profligates, have boys, have 
 dotards, dangled after me, and one by one rejected me, and fallen off, 
 because you. were too plain with aU your cunning : yes, and too true, with 
 all those false pretences : until we have almost come to be notorious ? The 
 licence of look and touch," she said, with flashing eyes, "have I submitted 
 to it, in half the places of resort upon the map of England ? Have I been 
 hawked and vended here and there, until the last grain of self-respect is 
 dead within me, and I loathe myself? Has tins been my late chddhood? 
 I had none before. Do not tell me that I had, to-night, of aU nights in 
 my life ! " 
 
 " You might have been well married," said her mother, " twenty times 
 at least, Edith, if you had given encoiu-agement enough." 
 
 " No! Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as I well deserve to be," she 
 answered, raising her head, and trembling in her energy of shame and 
 stormy pride, " shall take me, as this man does, with no art of mine put 
 forth to lure him. He sees me at the auction, and 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 them, to justify Ids purchase to his men, 
 I require of him to say which he demands, and I exhibit it. I will do no 
 more. He makes the purchase of his own will, and with his own sense 
 of its worth, and the power of his money ; and I hope it may never dis- 
 appoint him. I have not vaunted and pressed the bargain ; neither have 
 you, so far as I have been able to prevent you." 
 
 " You talk strangely to-night, Edith, to yom* 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 now, and have 
 fallen too low, by degrees, to take a new course, and to stop yom's, and to 
 help myself. The germ of all that purifies a woman's breast, and'makes it true 
 and good, has never stirred in mine, and I have nothing else to sustain 
 me when I despise myself." There had been a touching sadness in her 
 voice, but it was gone, when she went on to say, with a cuided lip, " So, 
 as we are genteel and poor, I am content that we should be made rich by 
 these means ; aU I say, is, I have kept the only purpose I have had the 
 strength to form — I had almost said the power, with you at my side. 
 Mother — and have not tempted this man on." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 281 
 
 " This man ! You speak," said her mother, " as if you hated him." 
 
 "And you thought I loved him, did you not?" she answered, 
 stopping on her way across the room, and looking round. " Shall I tell 
 you," she continued, with her eyes fixed on her mother, "who ah'eady 
 knows us 'thoroughly, and reads us right, and 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 attack, I suppose," returned her mother, coldly, " on 
 poor, unfortunate what's-his-name — ^Mr. Carker ! Your want of self- 
 respect and confidence, my dear, in reference to that person (who is very 
 agreeable, it strikes me), is not likely to have much effect on yom* esta- 
 blishment. Why do you look at me so hard ? Ai'eyouill?" 
 
 Edith suddenly let fall her face, as if it had been stung, and while she 
 pressed her hands upon it, a terrible tremble crept over her whole frame. 
 It was quickly gone ; and with her usual step, she passed out of the room. 
 
 The maid who should have been a skeleton, then re-appeared, and giving 
 one arm to her mistress, who appeared to have taken ofi:" her manner with 
 her charms, and to have put on paralysis with her flannel gown, collected 
 the ashes of Cleopatra and carried them away in the other, ready for 
 to-morrow's revivification. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 ALTEUATIONS. 
 
 " So the day has come at length, Susan," 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 
 described, and further relieving her feelings with a smart cough, answered, 
 "Very quiet indeed. Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so." 
 
 " When I was a child," said Florence, thoughtfully, and after musing 
 for some moments, " did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the 
 trouble to ride down here to speak to me, now tlu'ee times — three times, 
 I think, Susan?" 
 
 " Three times. Miss," returned the Nipper. " Once was you was out 
 a walking with them Sket — " 
 
 Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper checked herself. 
 
 " With Sir Bamet and his lady, I mean to say, Miss, and the young 
 gentleman. And two evenings since then." 
 
 " When I was a child, and when company used to come to visit Papa, 
 did you ever see that gentleman at home, Susan ? " asked Florence. 
 
 " Well, Miss," returned her maid, after considering, " I reaUy couldn't 
 say I ever did. When yom* poor dear Ma died, Miss Floy, I was very new in 
 the family, you see, and 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 Florence, still thoughtfully; "you ajre not likely to 
 have known who came to the house. I quite forgot." 
 
 "Not, Miss, but what we talked about the family and visitors," said 
 
3^8^ DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Susan, " and but what I lieard much said, although the nurse before Mrs. 
 Eichards did make unpleasant remarks when I was in company, and 
 hint at little Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor thing," 
 observed Susan with composed forbearance, " to habits of intoxication, for 
 which she was reqmred to leave, and did." 
 
 Florence, who was seated at her chamber window, with her face resting 
 on her hand, sat looking out, and hai'dly seemed to hear what Susan said, 
 she was so lost in thought. 
 
 " At all events, Miss," said Susan, " I remember very well that this 
 same gentleman, Mr. Carker, was almost, if not quite, as great a gentle- 
 man with your Papa then, as he is now. It used to be said in the house 
 then, Miss, that he was at the head of all your Pa's affairs in the city, and 
 managed the whole, and that your Pa minded him more than anybody, 
 which, begging your pardon Miss Ploy he might easy do, for he never 
 minded anybody else. I knew that. Pitcher as I might have been." 
 
 Susan Nipper, with an injured remembrance of the nurse before Mrs. 
 Eichards, emphasised ' Pitcher ' strongly. 
 
 " And that Mr. Carker has not fallen off. Miss," she pursued, "but has 
 stood his ground, and kept his credit with your Pa, I know from what is 
 always said among oui* people by that Perch, whenever he comes to the 
 house, and though he 's the weakest weed in tlie world, IVIiss Ploy, and no 
 one can have a moment's patience with the man, he knows what goes on in 
 the city tolerable well, and says that your Pa does nothing without 
 Mr. Carker, and leaves all to Mr. Carker, and acts according to Ma*. Carker, 
 and has Mr. Carker always at his elbow, and I do believe that he believes 
 (that washiest of Perches) that after your Pa, the Emperor of India is the 
 child unborn to Mr. Carker." 
 
 Not a word of this was lost on Florence, who, with an awakened interest 
 in Susan's speech, no longer gazed abstractedly on the prospect without, 
 but looked at her, and listened with attention. 
 
 " Yes, Susan," she said, when that young lady had concluded. " He is 
 in Papa's confidence, and is his friend, I am sure." 
 
 Florence's mind ];an high on this theme, and had done for some days. 
 Mr. Carker, in the two visits with which he had followed up his first one, 
 had assumed a confidence between himself and her — a right on his part 
 to be mysterious and stealthy, in telHng her that the ship was stiU miheard 
 of — a kind of mildly restrained power and authority over her — that made 
 her wonder, and caused her gi'cat uneasiness. She had no means of 
 repelling it, or of freeing herself from the web he was gradually winding 
 about her ; for that would have required some art and knowledge of the 
 world, opposed to such address as his ; and Florence had none. True, 
 he had said no more to her than that there was no news of the ship, 
 and that he feared the worst ; but how he came to know that she was 
 interested in the ship, and why he had the right to signify his knowledge 
 to her, so insidiously and darkly, troubled Florence very much. 
 
 This conduct on the part of Mr. Carker, and her habit of often con- 
 sidering it with wonder and uneasiness, began to invest him with an 
 uncomfortable fascination in Florence's thoughts. A more distinct remem- 
 brance of his features, voice, and manner : which she sometimes corn-ted, 
 as 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 283 
 
 vague impression. And yet lie never frowned, or looked upon her withi an 
 aic of dislike or animosity, but was always smiling and serene. 
 
 Again, Florence, in pursuit of her strong pui'pose with reference to her 
 father, and her steady resolution to believe that she was herself unwittingly 
 to blame for their so cold and distant relations, would recall to mind that 
 this gentleman was his confidential friend, and would think, with an 
 anxious heart, could her strugghng tendency to dislike and fear him be a 
 part of that misfortune in her, which had turned her father's love adrift, 
 and left her so alone ? She dreaded that it might be ; sometimes beUeved 
 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. 
 
 Thus, with 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 Mi*. Carker, Uke a scaly monster of the deep, 
 swam down below, and 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 sometimes, that in her absence she might miss some hopeful 
 chance of testifying her affection for her father. Heaven knows, she 
 might have set her mind at rest, poor child ! on this last point ; but her 
 slighted love was fluttering within her, and, even in her sleep, it flew away 
 in dreams, and nestled, Uke a wandering bird come home, upon her 
 father's neck. 
 
 Of Walter she thought often. Ah ! how often, when the night was 
 gloomy, and the wind was blowing round the house ! But hope was strong 
 in her breast. It is so diflftcult for the young and ardent, even with 
 such experience as hers, to imagine youth and ardour quenched like 
 a weak flame, and the bright day of life merging into night, at noon, that 
 hope was strong yet. Her tears fell frequently for Walter's sufferings ; 
 but rarely for his supposed death, and never long. 
 
 She had written to the old Instrument -maker, but had received no answer 
 to her note : which indeed required none. Thus matters stood with Florence 
 on the morning when she was going home, gladly, to her old secluded hfe. 
 
 Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, accompanied (much against his will) by their 
 valued charge, Master Barnet, were already gone back to Brighton, where 
 that young gentleman and his fellow pilgrims to Parnassus were then, no 
 doubt, in 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 guest, however, albeit not resident within the house, 
 who had been very constant in his attentions to the family, and who still 
 remained devoted to them. This was Mr. Toots, who after renewing, 
 some weeks ago, the acquaintance he had had the happiness of Jforming 
 with Skettles Junior, on the night when he burst the Bhmberian bonds 
 and soared into freedom with his ring on, called regularly every other day, 
 and left a perfect pack of cards at the haU-door ; so many indeed, that the 
 ceremony was quite a deal on the part of Mx: Toots, and. a hand at whist 
 on the part of the servant. 
 
284 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Mr. Toots, likewise, witli tlie bold and happy idea of preventing the 
 family from forgetting him (but there is reason to suppose that tliis 
 expedient originated in the teeming brain of the Chicken), had established 
 a six-oared cutter, manned by aquatic friends of the Chicken's and steered 
 by that illustrious character in person, who wore a bright red fireman's 
 coat for the purpose, and concealed the perpetual black eye with which he 
 was afflicted, beneath a green shade. Previous to the institution of this 
 equipage, Mr. Toots sounded the Chicken on a hypothetical case, as, sup- 
 posing the Chicken to be enamoured of a young lady named Mary, and to 
 have conceived the intention of starting a boat of his own, what would he 
 caU that boat ? The Chicken replied, with divers strong asseverations, 
 that he would either christen it Poll or The Chicken's Delight. Improving 
 on tliis idea, Mr. Toots, after deep study and the exercise of much invention, 
 resolved to call his boat The Toots's Joy, as a delicate compliment to 
 Florence, of which no man knowing the parties, could possibly miss the 
 appreciation. 
 
 Stretched on a crimson cushion in his gallant bark, with his shoes in 
 the air, ]\Ir. Toots, in the exercise of his project, had come up the river, 
 day after day, and week after week, and had flitted to and fro, near Sir 
 Barnet's garden, and had caused his crew to cut across and across the 
 river at sharp angles, for his better exhibition to any lookers-out from Sir 
 Barnet's windows, and had had such evolutions performed by the Toot's 
 Dehght as had filled all the neighbouring part of the water-side with 
 astonishment. But whenever he saw any one in Sir Barnet's garden on 
 the brink of the river, Mr. Toots always feigned to be passing there, by a 
 combination of coincidences of the most singular and unlikely description. 
 
 *' How are you. Toots ! " Sir Barnet would say, waving his hand from 
 the lawn, while the artful Chicken steered close in shore. 
 
 " How de do. Sir Barnet ! " Mr, Toots would answer. " What a sur- 
 prising thing that I shoidd see you here ! " 
 
 Mr. Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, instead of that being 
 Sir Barnet's house, it were some deserted edifice on the banks of the Nile, 
 or Ganges. 
 
 "I never was so surprised!" Mr. Toots would exclaim. — "Is Miss 
 Dombey there? " 
 
 Whereupon Florence would appear, perhaps. 
 
 " Oh, Diogenes is quite well. Miss Dombey," Mr. Toots would cry. 
 " I called to ask this morning." 
 
 " Thank you very much ! " the pleasant voice of Florence would reply. 
 
 " Won't you come ashore. Toots ? " Sir Barnet would say then. 
 " Come ! You 're in no hm-ry. Come and see us." 
 
 " Oh it 's of no consequence, thank you ! " Mr. Toots would blush- 
 ingly rejoin. " I thought Miss Dombey might like to know, that 's all. 
 Good bye ! " And poor Mr. Toots, who was dying to accept the invitation, 
 but hadn't the courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, with an aching 
 heart and away went the Delight, cleaving the water like an arrow. 
 
 The Delight was lying in a state of extraordinary splendour, at the 
 garden steps, on the morning of Florence's departure. When she went 
 down-stairs to take leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mi-. Toots 
 awaiting her in the drawing-room. 
 
 "Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey?" said the stricken Toots, always 
 
DOMBEY AND SOX. 285 
 
 dreadfully disconcerted when the desire of his heart was gained, and he 
 was speaking to her ; " thank you I'm very well indeed, I hope you're 
 the same, so was Diogenes yesterday." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Florence. 
 
 " Thank you, it 's of no consequence," retorted IVIi-. Toots. " I thought 
 perhaps you wouldn't mind, in this fine weather, coming home by Avater, 
 Miss Dombey. There's plenty of room in the boat for your maid." 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you," said Florence, hesitating. " I reaUy 
 am — but I would rather not." 
 
 " Oh, it 's of no consequence," retorted !Mr. Toots, " Good morning ! " 
 
 " Won't you wait and see Lady Skettles ? " asked Florence, kindly. 
 
 "Oh no, thank you," returned Mr. Toots, "it's of no consequence 
 at all." 
 
 So shy was Mr. Toots on such occasions, and so flurried ! But Lady 
 Skettles entering at the moment, Mr. Toots was suddenly seized with a 
 passion for asking her how she did, and 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 losing, to-day, Toots," said Sir Barnet, turning towards 
 Florence, " the light of our house, I assure you." 
 
 " Oh, it's of no conseq 1 mean yes, to be sure," faltered the 
 
 embarrassed Toots. " Good morning ! " 
 
 Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, Mr. Toots, 
 instead of going away, stood leering about him, vacantly. Florence, to 
 relieve him, bade adieu, with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her 
 arm to Sir Barnet. 
 
 " May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey," said her host, as he 
 conducted her to the carriage, " to present my best compliments to your 
 dear Papa ? " 
 
 It Avas distressing to Florence to receive the commission, for she felt as 
 if she were imposing on Sir Barnet, by allowing him to believe that a 
 kindness rendered to her, was rendered to her father. As she could not 
 explain, however, she bowed her head, and thanked him ; and again she 
 thought that the duU home, free from such embarrassments, and such 
 reminders of her sorrow, was her natural and best retreat. 
 
 Such of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at the 
 villa, came running from within, and from the garden, to say good bye. 
 They were all attached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of her. 
 Even the household were sorry for her going, and the servants came 
 nodding and curtseying round the carriage door. As Florence looked round 
 on the kind faces, and saw among them those of Sir Barnet and his lady, 
 and of Mr. Toots, who was chuckling and staring at her from a 
 distance, she was reminded of the night when Paul and she had come 
 from Doctor Blimber's : and when the carriage drove away, her face was 
 wet with tears. 
 
 Sorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too ; for all the softer 
 memories connected with the duU old house to which she was returning 
 made it dear to her, as they rose up. How long it seemed since she had 
 wandered through the silent rooms : since she had last crept, softly and 
 afraid, into those her father occupied : since she had felt the solemn but yet 
 
286 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 sootlimg influence of tlie beloved dead in every action of her daily life ! 
 This new farewell reminded her, besides, of her parting with poor 
 Walter : of his looks and words that night : and of the gracious blending 
 she had noticed in him, of tenderness for those he left behind, with 
 courage and liigh spirit. His little history was associated with the old 
 house too, and gave it a new claim and hold upon her heart. 
 
 Even Susan Nipper softened towards the home of so many years, as 
 they were on their way towards it. Gloomy as it was, and rigid justice 
 as she rendered to its gloom, she forgave it a great deal. " I shall be 
 glad to see it again, I don't deny. Miss," said the Nipper. " There aint 
 much in it to boast of, but I wouldn't have it burnt or pulled down, 
 neither ! " 
 
 "Tou'U be glad to go through the old rooms, won't you, Susan? " said 
 Florence, smUing. 
 
 "Well Miss," returned the Nipper, softening more and more towards 
 the house, as they approached it nearer, " I won't deny but what I shall, 
 though I shall hate 'em again, to-morrow, very likely." 
 
 Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace within it than else- 
 where. It was better and easier to keep her secret shut up there, among 
 the tall dark walls, than to carry it abroad into the light, and try to hide 
 it from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue the study of her 
 loving heart, alone, and find no new discoiuragements in loving hearts 
 about her. It was easier to hope, and pray, and love on, all uncared for, 
 yet with constancy and patience, in the tranquil sanctuary of such remem- 
 brances : although it mouldered, rusted, and decayed about her : than in 
 a new scene, let its gaiety be what it would. She welcomed back her old 
 enchanted dream of life, and longed for the old dark door to close upon 
 h.er, once again. 
 
 Full of such thoughts, they turned into the long and sombre street. 
 Florence was not on that side of the carriage which was neai-est to her 
 home, and as the distance lessened between them and it, she looked out 
 of her window for the children over the way. 
 
 She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from Susan caused her to 
 turn quickly round. 
 
 " Why Gracious me ! " cried Susan, breathless, "where 's our house ! " 
 
 " Our house ! " said Florence. 
 
 Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust it out again, drew 
 it in again as the carriage stopped, and 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 stones, and heaps of 
 mortar, and piles of wood, blocked up half the width and length of the 
 broad street at the side. Ladders were raised against the walls ; labourers 
 were chmbing 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 
 workmen, and the implements of their several trades, swarming from the 
 kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike : bricklayers, painters, 
 carpenters, masons : hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw, and trowel : aU at 
 work together, infuH chorus! 
 
>s 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 287 
 
 Florence descended from the coacli, half doubting if it were, or could be 
 the right house, until she recognised Towlinson, with a sun-buxnt face, 
 standing at the door to receive her. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter ? " inquired Florence. 
 
 " Oh no, IVIiss." 
 
 " There are great alterations going on 
 
 "Yes, Miss, great alterations," said Towlinson. 
 
 Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and hunied up-stairs. The 
 garish light was in the long-darkened drawing-rooms, and there were steps 
 and platforms, and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her mother's 
 picture was gone with the rest of the moveables, and on the mark where it 
 had been, was scrawled in chalk, " this room in panel. Green and gold." 
 The staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like the outside of the 
 house, and a whole Olympus of plumbers and glaziers was reclining in 
 various attitudes, on the skylight. Her own room was not yet touched 
 within, but there were beams and boards raised against it without, baulk- 
 ing the daylight. She went up swiftly to that other bed-room, where the 
 little bed was ; and a dark giant of a man with a pipe in his mouth, and 
 his head tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, was staring in at the window. 
 
 It was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in quest of Florence, 
 found her, and said, would she go down stairs to her Papa, who wished 
 to speak to her. 
 
 " At home ! and wishing to speak to me ! " cried Florence, trembling. 
 
 Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Florence herself, re- 
 peated her errand ; and Florence, pale and agitated, hurried down again, 
 without a moment's hesitation. She thought upon the way down, would 
 she dare to kiss him ? The longing of her heart resolved her, and she 
 thought she would. 
 
 Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it came into his pre- 
 sence. One instant, and 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 emotion, that 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 scream, and that diverted her atten- 
 tion from herself — she would have swooned upon the floor. 
 
 " Florence," said her father, putting out his hand : so stiffly that it held 
 her off : " how do you do ? " 
 
 Florence took the hand between her own, and putting it timidly to her 
 lips, yielded to its withdrawal. It touched the door in shutting it, with 
 quite as much endearment as it had touched her. 
 
 "What dog is that ? " said Mr. Dombey, displeased. 
 
 " It is a dog, papa from Brighton." 
 
 " Well ! " said Mr. Dombey ; and a cloud passed over his face, for he 
 understood her. 
 
 " He is very good-tempered," said Florence, addressing herself with her 
 natm-al grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. " He is only glad 
 to see me. Pray forgive him." 
 
 She saw in the glance they interchanged, that the lady who had 
 screamed, and who was seated, was old; and that the other lady, who stood 
 near her papa, was very beautiful, and of an elegant figure. 
 
288 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "Mrs. Skewton," said her fatlier, turning to the fost, and holding out 
 his hand, " this is my daughter Florence." 
 
 " Charming, I am sure," observed the lady, putting up her glass. " So 
 natural ! My darling Florence, you mast kiss me, if you please." 
 
 Florence having done so, turned towards the other lady, by whom her 
 father stood waiting. 
 
 "Edith," said Mr. Dombey, "this is my daughter Florence. Florence, 
 this lady will soon be your mama." 
 
 Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict of 
 emotions, among which the tears that name awakened, struggled for a 
 moment with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of 
 fear. Then she cried out, " Oh, papa, may you be happy ! may you be 
 very, very happy all your life ! " and then fell weeping on the lady's bosom. 
 There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who at first had 
 seemed to hesitate whether or no she should advance to Florence, held 
 her to her breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her, close 
 about her waist, as if to reassure and comfort her. Not one word passed 
 the lady's lips. She bent her head down over Florence, and she kissed 
 her on the cheek, but she said no word. 
 
 " Shall we go on through the rooms," said Mr. Dombey, "and see how 
 our workmen are doing ? Pray allow me, my dear madam." 
 
 He said this, in oft'ering his arm to Mrs. Skewton, who had been look- 
 ing at Florence tlu'ough her glass, as though picturing to herself what she 
 might be made, by the infusion — from her own copious storehouse, no 
 doubt — of a little more Heart and Natm-e. Florence was still sobbing 
 on the lady's breast, and holding to her, when Mr. Dombey was heard to 
 say from the Conservatory : 
 
 " Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she ? " 
 
 "Edith, my dear!" cried Mrs. Skewton, "where are you? Looking for 
 Mr. Dombey somewhere, I know. We are here, my love." 
 
 The beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and pressing her lips 
 once more upon her face, withdrew hurriedly, and joined them. Florence 
 remained standing in the same place : happy, sorry, joyful, and in tears, 
 she knew not how, or how long, but all at once : when her new Mama 
 came back, and took her in her arms again. 
 
 "Florence," said the lady, hurriedly, and looking into her face with 
 great earnestness. "You will not begin by hating me? " 
 
 "By hating you, Mama!" cried Florence, winding her arm round her 
 neck, and returning the look. 
 
 " Hush ! Begin by thinking weU of me," said the beautiful lady. 
 " Begin by believing that I will try to make you happy, and that I am 
 prepared to love you, Florence. Good bye. We shall meet again, soon. 
 Good bye ! Don't stay here, now." 
 
 Again she pressed her to her breast — she had spoken in a rapid manner, 
 but 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 Mama, how to gain her father's love ; and in her sleep that night, 
 in her lost old home, her own Mama smiled radiantly upon the hope, and 
 blessed it. Dreaming Florence ! 
 
^ 
 
 (CZf i/i^'WM/:^^:^^' //y^j ,<i^i<^^A/M-' ^.^^^I^^Tt^^i^c- 
 
 cr-yy 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE EYES OF MES, CHICK. 
 
 Miss Tox, all unconscious of any sucli rare appearances in connexion 
 with Mr. Dombey's house, as scaffoldings and ladders, and men "with their 
 heads tied up in pocket-handkerchiefs, glaring in at the windows like 
 flying genii or strange birds, — having breakfasted one morning at about this 
 eventful period of time, on her customary viands ; to wit, one French 
 roll rasped, one egg new laid (or warranted to be), and one little pot of 
 tea, wherein was infused one little silver scoop-full of that herb on behalf 
 of Miss Tox, and one little silver scoop-full on behalf of the teapot — a 
 flight of fancy in which good housekeepers delight ; went up stairs to set 
 forth the bird waltz on the harpsichord, to water and arrange the plants, 
 to dust the nick-nacks, and, according to her daily custom, to make her 
 little drawing-room the garland of Princess's Place, 
 
 !Miss Tox endued herself with the pair of ancient gloves, like dead leaves, 
 in which she was accustomed to perfonn these avocations — hidden from 
 human sight at other times in a table drawer — and went methodically to 
 work ; beginning with the bird waltz ; passing, by a natural association 
 of ideas, to her bird — a very high-shouldered canary, stricken in years, 
 nnd much rumpled, but a piercing singer, as Princess's Place well knew ; 
 taking, next in order, the little china ornaments, paper fly-cages, and so 
 forth ; and coming round, in good time, to the plants, which generally 
 required to be snipped here and there with a pair of scissors, for some 
 botanical reason that was very powerful with Miss Tox. 
 
 Miss Tox was slow in coming to the planis, this morning. The weather 
 was warm, the wind southerly ; and there was a sigh of the summer time 
 in Princess's Place, that 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 water, in a flowing pattern, all over Princess's Place, and it 
 gave the weedy ground a fresh scent — quite a growing scent, Miss Tox 
 said. There was a tiny blink of sun peeping in from the great street 
 round the corner, and the smoky sparrows hopped over it and back again, 
 brightening as they passed : or bathed in it, like a stream, and became 
 glorified sparrows, unconnected with chimneys. Legends in praise of 
 Oinger Beer, with pictorial representations of tliirsty customers submerged 
 in the effervesence, or stunned by the flying corks, were conspicuous in the 
 window of the Princess's Arms. They were making late hay, somewhere out 
 of town ; and though the fragrance had a long way to come, and 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 ancestors, and do their little best to keep those 
 dwellings miserable !), yet it was wafted faintly into Princess's Place, 
 whispering of Nature and her wholesome air, as such things will, even 
 
 u 
 
290 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 unto prisoners and captives, and those who are desolate and oppressed, 
 in very spite of aldermen and knights to boot : at Avhose sage nod — and 
 how they nod ! — the rolling world stands still ! 
 
 Miss Tox sat down upon the window-seat, and thought of her good papa 
 deceased — Mr. Tox, of the Customs Department of the public service ; and 
 of her chUdhood, passed at a seaport, among a considerable quantity of 
 cold tar, and some rusticity. She fell into a softened remembrance of 
 meadows, in old time, gleaming with buttercups, like so many inverted 
 firmaments of golden stars ; and how she had made chains of dandelion- 
 stalks for youthful vowers of eternal constancy, dressed chiefly in nankeen ; 
 and how soon those fetters had withered and broken. 
 
 Sitting on the window-seat, and looking out upon the sparrows and the 
 bHnk of sun. Miss Tox thought like\vise 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 legs, and a rough voice, and 
 a heavy basket on his head that crushed his hat into a mere black muffin, 
 came crying flowers down Princess's Place, making his timid little roots 
 of daisies shudder in the vibration of every yeU he gave, as though he had 
 been an ogre, hawking little children, summer recollections were so 
 strong upon Miss Tox, that she shook her head, and mm-mured she 
 would be comparatively old before she knew it — which seemed likely. 
 
 In her pensive mood, Miss Tox's thoughts went wandering on Mr. 
 Dombey's track ; probably because the Major had returned home to his 
 lodgings opposite, and had just bowed to her from liis 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 yes, whom ? What sort of person now ! 
 
 A flush — it was warm weather — overspread Miss Tox's face, as, while 
 entertaining these meditations, she tm-ned her head, and 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 Place, and 
 make straight for her own door. Miss Tox arose, took up her scissors 
 hastily, and so coming, at last, to the plants, was very busy with them 
 when !Mrs. Chick entered the room. 
 
 " How is my sweetest friend ! " exclaimed Miss Tox, with open aims. 
 
 A little stateUness was mingled with Mss Tox's sweetest friend's 
 demeanour, but she kissed Miss Tox, and said, " Lucretia, thank you, I 
 am pretty well. I hope you are the same. Hem !" 
 
 Mrs. Chick was labouring under a peculiar little monosyllabic cough ; 
 a sort of primer, or easy introduction to the art of coughing. 
 
 " You call very early, and how kind that is, my dear ! " pursued Miss 
 Tox. " Now, have you breakfasted ? " 
 
 " Thank you, Lucretia," said Mrs. Chick, " I have. _ I took an early 
 breakfast " — the good lady seemed curious on the subject of Princess's 
 Place, and looked all round it as she spoke, " with my brother, who lias 
 come home." 
 
 " He is better, I trust, my love," faltered Miss Tox. 
 
 '• He is greatly better, thank you. Hem 1 " 
 
 " My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough," remarked Miss Tox. 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 9^Q\ 
 
 " It 's uotliing," returned Mrs. Chick. " It 's merely change of 
 weather. We must expect change." 
 
 " Of weather ? " asked Miss Tox, in her simplicity. 
 
 " Of eveiything," returned Mrs. Chick. " Of course we must. It 's 
 a world of change. Any one would surprise me very much, Lucretia, and 
 would greatly alter my opinion of their understanding, if they attempted 
 to contradict or evade what is so perfectly evident. Change ! " exclaimed 
 IVIrs. Chick, with severe philosophy. " Whj, my gracious me, what is 
 there that does not change ! even the silkworm, who I am sure might be 
 supposed not to trouble itself about such subjects, changes into all sorts of 
 unexpected things continually." 
 
 " My Louisa," said the mild IVIiss Tox, " is ever happy in her 
 illustrations." 
 
 " You are so kind, Lucretia," returned IVIi's. Cliick, a little softened, 
 " aa to say so, and to think so, I believe. I hope neither of us may ever 
 have any cause to lessen owe opinion of the other, Lucretia;" 
 
 " I am sure of it," retiirned Miss Tox. 
 
 Mrs. Chick coughed as before, and drew lines on the carpet with the 
 ivory end of her parasol. Miss Tox, who had experience of her fair friend, 
 and knew that under the pressure of any slight fatigue or vexation she was 
 prone to a discui'sive kind of rrritabiUty, availed herself of the pause, to 
 change the subject. 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear Louisa," said Miss Tox, " but have I caught 
 sight of the manly form of jVIr. Chick in the carriage ? " 
 
 " He is there," said Mrs. Chick, " but pray leave him there. He has 
 his newspaper, and woxdd be quite contented for the next two hours. 
 Go on with your flowers, Lucretia, and allow me to sit here and rest." 
 
 " My Louisa knows," observed Miss Tox, " that between friends like 
 ourselves, any approach to ceremony would be out of the question. 
 Therefore — " Therefore Miss Tox finished the sentence, not in words 
 but action ; and putting on her gloves again, which she had taken off, 
 and arming herself once more with her scissors, began to snip and clip 
 among the leaves with microscopic industry. 
 
 " Florence has returned home also," said Mrs. Chick, after sitting 
 silent for some time, with her head on one side, and her parasol sketching 
 on the floor ; " and really Eloreuceis a great deal too old now, to continue 
 to lead that solitary life to which she has been accustomed. Of course 
 *he is. There can be no doubt about it. I should have very little 
 respect, indeed, for anybody who could advocate a diff"erent opinion. 
 Whatever my wishes might be, I could not respect them. We cannot 
 command our feehngs to such an extent as that." 
 
 Miss Tox assented, without 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 society, after aU the sad things 
 that have happened, and all the terrible disappointments that have been 
 undergone, then, what 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 ! J am of no consequence — " 
 
 u 2 
 
292 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " My dearest love," remonstrated Miss Tox. 
 
 Mrs. Chick dried her eyes, which were, for the moment, overflowing ; 
 and proceeded : 
 
 " And consequently he is more than ever bound to make an effort. 
 And though his having done so, comes upon me with a sort of shock — 
 for mine is a very weak and foolish natui'c ; which is anything but a 
 blessing I am sure; I often wish my heart was a marble slab, or a 
 paving stone — " 
 
 " My sweet Louisa," remonstrated Miss Tox, again, 
 
 " StUl, it is a triumph to me to know that he is so true to himself, and 
 to his name of Dombey ; although, of course, I always knew he would be, 
 I only hope," said Mrs. Chick, after a pause, " that she may be worthy 
 of the name too," 
 
 Miss Tox filled a little green watering-pot from a jug, and happening 
 to look up when she had done so, was so surprised by the amount of 
 expression Mrs. Chick had conveyed into her face, and was bestowing 
 upon her, that she put the little watering-pot on the table for the present, 
 and sat down near it. 
 
 " My dear Louisa," said Miss Tox, " will it be the least satisfaction to 
 you, if I venture to observe in reference to that remark, that I, as a 
 humble individual, think your sweet niece in every way most promising?" 
 
 " What do you mean, Lucretia ? " returned Mrs. Chick, with increased 
 stateliness of manner, " To what remark of mine, my dear, do you 
 refer?" 
 
 " Her being worthy of her name, my love," replied Miss Tox. 
 
 " If," said Mrs. Chick, with solemn patience, " I have not expressed 
 myself with clearness, Lucretia, the fault of course is mine. There is, 
 perhaps, no reason why I should express myself at all, except the inti- 
 macy that has subsisted between us, and which I very much hope, Lucretia 
 — confidently hope — nothing will occm- to disturb. Because, why should 
 I do anything else? There is no reason; it would be absm'd. But I 
 wish to express myself clearly, Lucretia ; and therefore to go back to 
 that remark, I must beg to say that it was not intended to relate to 
 Florence, in any way." 
 
 " Indeed ! " returned Miss Tox. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Chick, shortly and decisively. 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear," rejoined her meek friend; "but I cannot 
 have understood it. I fear I am duU." < 
 
 Mrs. Chick looked round the room, and over the way ; at the plants, at 
 the bird, at the watering-pot, at almost everything within view, except 
 Mss Tox ; and finally dropping her glance upon Miss Tox, for a moment, 
 on its way to the ground, said, looking meanwhile with elevated eyebrows 
 at the carpet : 
 
 " When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the name, I speak of 
 my brother Paul's second wife. I beheve I have already said, in effect, 
 if not in the very words I now use, that it is his intention to marry a 
 second wife." 
 
 Miss Tox left her seat in a huny, and returned to her plants ; clipping 
 among the stems and leaves, with as little favour as a barber working 
 at so many pauper heads of hair. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 293 
 
 " Whetlier slie will be fully sensible of the distinction conferred upon 
 lier," said IVIrs. Chick, in a lofty tone, " is quite another question. I hope 
 she may be. We are bound to think well of one another in this world, 
 and I hope she may be. I have not been advised with myself. If I had 
 been advised with, I have no doubt my advice would have been cavalierly 
 received, and therefore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer it, 
 as it is." 
 
 Miss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among the plants. Mrs. 
 Chick, with energetic shakings of her own head from time to time, con- 
 tinued to hold forth, as if in defiance of somebody. 
 
 " If my brother Paul had consulted with me, which he sometimes does 
 — or rather, sometimes used to do ; for he will naturally do that no more 
 now, and this is a circumstance which I regai'd as a relief from responsi- 
 bility," said Mrs. Chick, hysterically, " for I thank Heaven I am not 
 jealous — " here Mrs. Chick again shed tears : " if my brother Paul had 
 come to me, and had said, * Louisa, what kind of qualities would you 
 advise me to look out for, in a wife ? ' I should certainly have answered, 
 ' Paul, you must have family, you must have beauty, you must have dig- 
 nity, you must have connexion.' Those are the words I should have used. 
 You might have led me to the block immediately afterwards," said Mrs. 
 Chick, as if that consequence were highly probable, " but I should have 
 used them. I should have said, ' Paul ! You to marry a second time 
 without family ! You to marry without beauty ! You to marry without 
 dignity ! You to marry without coimexion ! There is nobody in the 
 world, not mad, who could dream of daring to entertain such a prepos- 
 terous idea ! ' " 
 
 Miss Tox stopped clipping ; and with her head among the plants, 
 listened attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox thought there was hope in this 
 exordium, and 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 con- 
 sidered a person of superior intellect — though I beheve some people have 
 been extraordinary enough to consider me so ; one so little humoured 
 as I am, wovdd very soon be disabused of any such notion ; but I trust I 
 am not a downright fool. And to teU me," said Mrs. Chick with ineffable 
 disdain, "that my brother Paul Dombey could ever contemplate the 
 possibility of uniting liimself 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 Iiave got, as much as if I was to be told that I was 
 born and bred an elephant, which I mai/ be told next," said Mrs. Chick, 
 with resignation. " It wouldn't sm-prise me at all. I expect it." 
 
 In the moment's silence that ensued, Miss Tox's scissors gave a feeble 
 clip or two; but Miss Tox's face was stiU invisible, and Miss Tox's 
 morning gown was agitated. Mrs. Chick looked sideways at her, through 
 the intervening plants ; and went on to say, in a tone of bland conviction, 
 and as one dwelling on a point of fact that hardly required to be stated : 
 
 "Therefore, of coiu'se my brother Paul has done what was to be 
 expected of him, and what anybody might have foreseen he would do, if 
 he entered the marriage state again. I confess it takes me rather by 
 surprise, however gratifying ; because when Paul went out of town I had 
 
29i DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 no idea at all that lie would form any attactment out of town, and he '* 
 certainly had no attachment when he left here. However, it seems to be 
 extremely desirable in every point of view. I have no doubt the mother 
 is a most genteel and elegant creature, and 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 choice, herself, I have only seen her picture yet, 
 but that is beautiful indeed. Her name is beautiful too," said Mrs. Chick, 
 shaking her head with energy, and arranging herself in her chair ; " Edith 
 is at once uncommon, as it strikes me, and distinguished. Consequently, 
 Lucretia, I have no doubt you wUl be happy to hear that the marriage is 
 to take place immediately — of course, you wUl : " great emphasis again ; 
 " and that you are delighted with this change in the condition of my 
 brother, who has shown you a great deal of pleasant attention at variou.s 
 times." 
 
 Miss Tox made no verbal answer, but took up the little watering-pot 
 with a trembling hand, and 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 feelings, she started, laughed aloud, 
 and 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 way, who had his double-barrelled eye-glass in fuU action, and whose 
 face and figure were dilated with Mephistophelean joy. 
 
 Not so the expatriated Native, amazed supporter of Miss Tox's swoon- 
 ing fonn, who, coming straight up stairs, with a polite inquiry touching 
 Miss Tox's health (in exact pursuance of the Major's malicious instruc- 
 tions), had accidentally arrived in the very nick of time to catch the deli- 
 cate bui-den in his arms, and to receive the contents of the little watering- 
 pot in his shoe ; both of which circumstances, coupled with his conscious- 
 ness of being closely watched by the wrathful Major, who had threatened the 
 usual penalty in regard of every bone in his skin in case of any failm-e, 
 combined to render him a moving spectacle of mental and bodily distress. 
 
 For some moments, this afflicted foreigner remained clasping Miss Tox 
 to his heart, with an energy of action in remarkable opposition to Ms 
 disconcerted face, while that poor lady trickled slowly down upon him the 
 very last sprinklings of the little watering-pot, as if he were a delicate 
 exotic (which indeed he was), and might be almost expected to blow while 
 the gentle rain descended. Mrs. Chick, at length recovering sufficient 
 presence of mind to interpose, commanded him to drop Miss Tox upon 
 the sofa and withdraw ; and the exile promptly obeying, she applied herself 
 to promote Miss Tox's recovery. 
 
 But none of that gentle concern which usually characterises the daugh- 
 ters of Eve in their tending of each other ; none of that freemasonry in 
 fainting, by which they are generally bound together in a mysterious bond 
 of sisterhood ; was visible in Mrs. Chick's demeanom-. Eather like the 
 executioner who restores the victim to sensation previous to proceeding 
 with the torture (or was wont to do so, in the good old times_ for which 
 all true men wear perpetual mom-ning), did Mrs. Chick administer the 
 smelling-bottle, the slapping on the hands, the dashing of cold water on 
 the face, and the other proved remedies. And when, at length. Miss Tox 
 opened her eyes, and gradually became restored to animation and con- 
 sciousness, Mrs. Chick drew off as from a criminal, and reversing the pre- 
 
I 
 
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 ^yMp„ fe^^sj/ ale^ ^A^^z^ /ir^ -. - y-^6^yteJi^!^^ d/t^j^. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 295 
 
 cedent of the miixdered 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 opened, all at once. I wouldn't have believed this, 
 if a Saint had told it to me." 
 
 " I am fooHsh to give way to faintness," Miss Tox faltered. " I shall 
 be better presently." 
 
 "You will be better presently, Lucretia!" repeated Mrs. Chick, with 
 exceeding scorn. "Do you suppose I am blind? Do you imagine I am 
 in my second childhood ? No, Lucretia ! I am obliged to you ! " 
 
 Miss Tox directed an imploring, helpless kind of look towards her 
 friend, and put her handkerchief before her face. 
 
 " If any one had told me this yesterday," said Mrs. Chick with majesty, 
 " or even half-an-hour ago, I should have been tempted, I almost believe, 
 to strike them to the earth. Lucretia Tox, my eyes are opened to you all 
 at once. The scales : " here Mrs. Chick cast down an imaginary pair, 
 such as are commonly used in grocer's shops : " have fjillen from my 
 sight. The blindness of my confidence is past, Lucretia. It has been 
 abused and played upon, and evasion is quite out of the question now, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Oh ! to what do you aUude so cruelly, my love? " asked Miss Tox, 
 through her tears. 
 
 " Lucretia," said Mi's. Chick, " ask your own heart. I must entreat you 
 not to address me by any such familiar term as you have just used, if you 
 please. I have some self-respect left, though you may think otherwise." 
 
 " Oh, Louisa ! " cried Miss Tox. " How can you speak to me like that ? " 
 
 "How can I speak to you like that? " retorted Mrs. Cliick, who, in 
 default of having any particidar argument to sustain herself upon, relied 
 principally on such repetitions for her most withering effects. " Like 
 that ! You may well say like that, indeed ! " 
 
 Miss Tox sobbed pitifully. 
 
 " The idea ! " said Mrs. Chick, " of your having basked at my brother's 
 fireside, like a serpent, and wound yourseK, through me, almost into his 
 confidence, Lucretia, that you might, in secret, entertain designs upon him, 
 and dare tp aspire to contemplate the possibility of his uniting himself to 
 yow ! Why, it is an idea," said Mrs. Chick, with sarcastic dignity, " the 
 absurdity of which almost relieves its treachery." 
 
 "Pray, Louisa," urged !Miss Tox, "do not say such dreadfid things." 
 
 " Dreadful things ! " repeated Mrs. Chick. " Dreadful things ! Is it 
 not a fact, Lucretia, that you have just now been unable to command your 
 feelings even before me, whose 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 news, Louisa, and have ever 
 had any lingering thought that Mr. Dombey was inclined to be particular 
 towards me, surely you will not condemn me." 
 
 " She is going to say," said Mrs. Chick, addressing herself to the whole 
 of the fm'niture, in a comprehensive glance of resignation and appeal, 
 " She is going to say — I know it — that I have encom-aged her ! " 
 
 " I don't wish to exchange reproaches, dear Louisa," sobbed Miss Tox 
 " Nor do I wish to complain. But, in my own defence — " 
 
 " Yes," cried Mrs. Chick, looking roimd the room with a prophetic 
 
296 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 smile, " that's wliat she's going to say. I knew it.' Yoxi had better say 
 it. Say it openly ! Be open, Lucretia Tox," said IMi's. Chick, with 
 desperate sternness, " whatever you are." 
 
 " In my own defence," faltered Miss Tox, " and only in my own 
 defence against your unkind words, my dear Louisa, I would merely ask you 
 if you haven't often favoured such a fancy, and even said it might happen, 
 for anything we could teU ? " 
 
 " There is a point," said Mrs. Chick, rising, not as if she were going to 
 stop at the floor, but as if she were about to soar up, high, into her native 
 skies, " beyond which endurance becomes ridiculous, if not cidpable. I 
 can bear much ; but not too much. What spell was on me when I came 
 into this house this day, I don't know ; but I had a presentiment — a dark 
 presentiment," said Mrs. Chick, with a shiver, " that something was 
 going to happen. Well may I have had that foreboding, Lucretia, when my 
 confidence of many years is destroyed in an instant, when my eyes are 
 opened all at once, and when I find you revealed in your true colours. 
 Lucretia, I have been mistaken in you. It is better for us both that this 
 subject should end here. I wish you well, and I shall ever wish you 
 well. But, as an individual who desires to be true to herself in her own 
 poor position, whatever that position may be, or 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 add, as a Dombey ? — I can wish you nothing else but good 
 morning." 
 
 These words, delivered with cutting suavity, tempered and chastened 
 by a lofty air of moral rectitude, carried the speaker to the door. There 
 she incUned her head in a ghostly and statue-like manner, and so withdrew 
 to her carriage, to seek comfort and consolation in the arms of Mr. Cliick, 
 her lord. 
 
 Figuratively speaking, that is to say ; for the arms of Mr. Chick were 
 full of his newspaper. Neither did that gentleman address liis eyes 
 towards his wife otherwise than by stealth. Neither did he off'er any 
 consolation whatever. In short, he sat reading, and humming fag ends 
 of tunes, and sometimes glancing furtively at her without delivering 
 himself of a word, good, bad, or indifferent. 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Chick sat swelling and bridling, and tossing lier 
 head, as if she were still repeating that solemn formula of farewell to 
 Lucretia Tox. At length, she said aloud, ' Oh the extent to which her 
 eyes had been opened that day ! ' 
 
 " To which your eyes have been opened, my dear ! " repeated Mr. Chick. 
 
 " Oh, don't talk to me ! " said Mrs. Chick. " If you can bear to see 
 me in this state, and not ask me what the matter is, you had better hold 
 your tongue for ever." 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear ? " asked Mr. Chick. 
 
 "To think," said Mrs. Chick, in 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 wheu 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." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 297 
 
 " I really thouglit, my dear," said Mr. Chick slowly, after rubbing the 
 bridge of his nose for some time with his newspaper, " that you had gone 
 on the same tack yourself, all along, until this morning ; and had thought 
 it would be a convenient thing enough, if it could have been brought 
 about." 
 
 Mrs. Chick instantly burst into tears, and told Mr. Chick that if he 
 wished to trample upon her with his boots, he had better do it. 
 
 " But with Lucretia Tox I have done," said Mrs. Chick, after abandon- 
 ing herself to her feehngs for some minutes, to Mr. Chick's great terror. 
 " I can bear to resign Paid's confidence in favour of one who, I hope and 
 trust, may be deserving of it, and with whom he has a perfect right to 
 replace poor Fanny if he chooses ; I can bear to be informed, in Paul's 
 cool manner, of such a change in his plans, and never to be consulted 
 until all is settled and determined ; but deceit I can not bear, and mth 
 Lucretia Tox I have done. It is better as it is," said Mrs. Cliick, 
 piously ; " 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 know, as Paul is going to be very grand, and these are people of 
 condition, that she would have been quite presentable, and might not have 
 compromised myself. There 's a providence in everything ; everything 
 works for the best ; I have been tried to-day, but, upon the whole, I don't 
 regret it." 
 
 In which Christian spirit, Mrs. Chick dried her eyes, and smoothed her 
 lap, and sat as became a person calm under a great wrong. Mr. Chick, 
 feeling his unworthiness no doubt, took an early opportunity of being set 
 down at a street corner and walking away, whistling, with his shoulders 
 very much raised, and his hands in his pockets. 
 
 Wliile poor excommunicated Miss Tox, who, if she were a fawner and 
 toad-eater, was at least an honest and a constant one, and 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 — 
 Avhile poor excommunicated Miss Tox watered her plants with her tears, 
 and felt that it was winter in Princess's Place. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE INTERVAL BEFORE THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Although the enchanted house was no more, and the working world 
 had broken into it, and was hammering and crashing and tramping up 
 and down stairs all day long, keeping Diogenes in an incessant paroxysm 
 of barking, from sunrise to sunset — evidently convinced that his enemy 
 had got the better of him at last, and was then sacking the premises in 
 triumphant defiance — there was, at first, no other great change in the 
 method of Florence's life. At night, when the workpeople went away, the 
 house was dreary and deserted again ; and Florence, listening to their 
 voices echoing through the haU and staircase as they departed, pictured to 
 herself the cheerful homes to which they were returning, and the children 
 
298 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 who were waiting for them, and was glad to think that they were merry 
 and well pleased to go. 
 
 She welcomed back the evening silence as an old friend, but it came 
 now with an altered face, and looked more kindly on her. Fresh hope was 
 in it. The beautiful lady who had soothed and caressed her, in the very 
 room in which her heart had been so wrung, was a spiiit of promise to 
 her. Soft shadows of the bright life dawning, when her father's affection 
 should be gradually won, and aU, or much should be restored, of what she 
 had lost on the dark day when a mother's love had faded with a mother's 
 last breath on her cheek, moved about her in the twilight and were wel- 
 come company. Peeping at the rosy children her neighbours, it was a 
 new and precious sensation to think that they might soon speak together 
 and know eacli other ; when she would not fear, as of old, to show herself 
 before them, lest they should be grieved to see her in her black dress 
 sitting there alone ! 
 
 In her thoughts of her new mother, and in the love and trust overflow- 
 ing her pure heart towards her, Florence 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 root, she knew. 
 Every gentle word that had fallen from the lips of the beautiful lady, 
 sounded to Florence like an echo of the voice long hushed and silent. 
 How could she love that memory less for living tenderness, when it was 
 her memory of all parental tenderness and love ! 
 
 Florence was, one -day, sitting reading in her room, and thinking of the 
 lady and her promised \dsit soon — for her book turned on a kindred sub- 
 ject — when, raising her eyes, she saw her standing in the doorway. 
 
 " Mama ! " cried Florence, joyfully meeting her. " Come again ! " 
 
 "Not Mama yet," returned the lady, with a serious smile, as she 
 encu"cled Florence's neck with her arm. 
 
 "But very soon to be," cried Florence. 
 
 " Very soon now, Florence : very soon. 
 
 Edith bent her head a little, so as to press the blooming cheek of Florence 
 against her own, and for some few moments remained thus silent. There 
 was something so very tender in her manner, that Florence was even more 
 sensible of it than on the first occasion of their meeting. 
 
 She led Florence to a chair beside her, and sat down : Florence looking 
 in her face, quite wondering at its beauty, and willingly leaving her hand 
 in hers. 
 
 " Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here last ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! " smiled Florence, hastily. 
 
 She hesitated and cast down her eyes ; for her new mama was very 
 earnest in her look, and 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 together, sometimes." Florence might have 
 said, whole weeks, and months. 
 
 " Is Di your maid, love ? " 
 
 " My dog. Mama," said Florence, laughing. " Susan is my maid." 
 
 " And these are your rooms," said Edith, looking round. " I was not 
 shown these rooms the other day. We must have them improved, 
 Florence. They shall be made the prettiest in the house." 
 
 >) 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 299 
 
 " If I might change them, Mama," retm-ned Florence ; " there is one 
 up-staii's I should like much better." 
 
 " Is this not high enough, dear girl P " asked Edith, smiling. 
 
 " 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 home, 
 and found the workmen here, and everything changing ; but — " 
 
 Florence dropped her eyes, lest 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 soon. Mama, and are the mistress of everything, I determined 
 to take courage and ask you." 
 
 Edith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes intent upon her face, 
 until Florence raising her own, she, in her turn, withdrew her gaze, and 
 turned it on the ground. It was then that Florence thought how different 
 this lady's beauty was, from what she had supposed. She had thought it 
 of a proud and lofty kind ; yet her manner was so subdued and gentle, 
 that if she had been of Florence's own age and character, it scarcely 
 could have invited confidence more. 
 
 Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept over her ; and 
 then she seemed (but Florence hardly understood this, though she could 
 not choose but notice it, and think about it) as if she were humbled before 
 Florence, and ill at ease. When she had said that she was not her Mama 
 yet, and when Florence had called her the mistress of everything there, 
 this change in her was quick and startling ; and now, while the eyes of 
 Florence rested on her face, she sat as though she would have shi'unk and 
 hidden from her, rather than as one about to love and cherish her, in 
 right of such a near connexion. 
 
 She gave Florence her ready promise, about her new room, and 
 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 time, told Florence she had come to take her to her own home. 
 
 " We have come to London now, my mother and I," said Edith, " and 
 you shall stay with us until I am married. I wish that we should know 
 and trast each other, Florence." 
 
 " You are very kind to me," said Florence, " dear Mama. How much 
 I thank you ! " 
 
 "Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity," continued 
 Edith, looking round to see that they were quite alone, and speaking in a 
 lower voice, " that when I am married, and have gone away for some 
 weeks, I 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 added, checking herself, " that I 
 know well you are best at home, dear Florence." 
 
 " I will come home on the very day. Mama." 
 
 " Do so. I rely on that promise. Now, prepare to come with me, 
 dear girl. You will find me down stairs 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 aU 
 the elegance and splendour it began to display. The same indomi- 
 table haughtiness of soul, the same proud scorn expressed in eye and 
 lip, the same fierce beauty, only tamed by a sense of its own little worth, and 
 
300 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 of the little worth of everything around it, went through the grand saloons 
 and halls, that had got loose among the shady trees, and raged and rent 
 themselves. The mimic roses on the walls and floors were set round with 
 sharp thorns, that tore her breast ; in every scrap of gold so dazzling to 
 the eye, she saw some hateful atom of her purchase-money ; the broad 
 high mirrors showed her, at full length, a woman with a noble quality 
 yet dwelling in her nature, who was too false to her better self, and too 
 debased and lost, to save herself. She believed that all this was so plain, 
 more or less, to all eyes, that she had no resource or power of self- 
 assertion but in pride : and with this pride, which tortured her own heart 
 night and day, she fought her fate out, braved it, and defied it. 
 
 Was this the woman whom Florence — an innocent girl, strong only in 
 her earnestness and simple truth — could so impress and quell, that by her 
 side she was another creature, with her tempest of passion hushed, and 
 her very pride itself subdued ? Was this the woman who now sat beside 
 her in a carriage, with their arms entwined, and who, while she courted 
 and entreated her to love and trust her, drew her fair head to nestle on 
 her breast, and would have laid down life to shield it from wrong or 
 harm? 
 
 Oh, Edith ! it were well to die, indeed, at such a time ! Better and 
 happier far, perhaps, to die so, Edith, than to live on to the end ! 
 
 The Honourable ^Irs. Skewton, who was thinking of anything rather 
 than of such sentiments — for, like many genteel persons who have 
 existed at various times, she set her face against death altogether, and 
 objected to the mention of any such low and levelling upstart — had 
 borrowed a house in Brook-street, Grosvenor-square, from a stately rela- 
 tive (one of the Eeenix brood), who was out of town, and who did not 
 object to lending it, in the handsomest manner, for nuptial purposes, 
 as the loan implied his final release and acquittance from all further loans 
 and gifts to Mrs, SkeAvton and her daughter. It being necessary for the 
 credit of the family to make a handsome appearance at such a time, Mrs. 
 Skewton, with the assistance of an accommodating tradesman resident in the 
 parish of Mary-le-bone, who lent out all sorts of articles to the nobility 
 and gentry, from a service of plate to an army of footmen, clapped into 
 this house a silver-headed butler (who was charged extra on that 
 account, as having the appearance of an ancient family retainer), two very 
 tall young men in livery, and a select staff of kitchen-servants ; so that a 
 legend arose, down stairs, that Withers the page, released at once from 
 his numerous household duties, and from the propulsion of the wheeled- 
 chair (inconsistent with the metropolis), had been several times observed 
 to rub his eyes and pinch his liml3s, as if he misdoubted his having over- 
 slept himself at the Leamington milkman's, and 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 source, with several 
 miscellaneous articles, including a neat chariot and a pair of bays, Mrs, 
 Skewton cushioned herself on the principal sofo, in the Cleopatra attitude, 
 and held her com't in fair state. . 
 
 "And how," said Mrs. Skewton, on the entrance of her daughter and 
 her charge, "is my charming Florence? You must come and kiss me, 
 Florence, if you please, my love." 
 
 Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in the white part of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 301 
 
 Mrs. Skewton's face, wlien tliat lady presented her ear, and reKeved lier 
 of her difficulty. 
 
 " Edith, my dear," said Mrs. Skewton, " positively, I — stand a little 
 more in the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment." 
 
 Florence blushingly complied. 
 
 " You don't remember, dearest Edith," said her mother, " what you 
 were when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious 
 Florence, or a few years younger ? " 
 
 " I have long forgotten, mother." 
 
 " For positively, my dear," said Mrs. Skewton, " I do think that I 
 see a decided resemblance to what you were then, in our extremely fasci- 
 nating young friend. And it shows," said Mrs. Skewton, in a lower 
 voice, which conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very unfinished 
 state, " what cultivation will do." 
 
 " It does, indeed," was Edith's stern reply. 
 
 Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feeling herself on 
 unsafe ground, said, as a diversion : 
 
 " My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you 
 please, my love." 
 
 Florence complied, of coui'se, and again imprinted her lips on Mrs. 
 Skewton's ear. 
 
 " And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet," said Mi-s. Skewton, 
 detaining her hand, " that your Papa, whom we all perfectly adore and 
 dote upon, is 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 mother, gaily, " is it possible you 
 have not told Florence ? " 
 
 " Why should I tell Florence ? " she returned, so suddenly and harshly, 
 that Florence could scarcely believe it was the same voice. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer diversion, that 
 her father was coming to dinner, and that he would no doubt be charm- 
 ingly surprised to see her ; as he had spoken last night of dressing in the 
 city, and had known nothing of Edith's design, the execution of which, 
 according to Mi's. Skewton's expectation, would throw him into a perfect 
 ecstacy. Florence Avas troubled to hear this ; and her distress became so 
 keen, as the dinner-hour approached, that if she had known how to frame 
 an entreaty to be suffered to return home, without involving her father in 
 her explanation, she woidd have hurried back on foot, bareheaded, breatL- 
 less, and alone, rather than incur the risk of meeting his displeasure. 
 
 As the time drew nearer, she could hardly breathe. She dared not 
 approach a window, lest he should see her from the street. She dared 
 not go up stairs to hide her emotion, lest, in passing out at the door, she 
 should meet him unexpectedly ; besides which dread, she felt as though 
 she never could come back again if she were summoned to his presence. 
 In this conflict of her fears, she was sitting by Cleopatra's couch, endea- 
 vouring to imderstand and to reply to the bald discom-se of that lady, when 
 she heard his foot upon the stair. 
 
 " I hear him now ! " cried Florence, starting. " He is coming ! " 
 
 Cleopatra, who in her juvenility was always playfully disposed, and 
 who in her self-engrossment did not trouble herself about the nature of 
 
302 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 this agitation, pushed Florence behind her couch, and dropped a shawl over 
 her, preparatory to giving Mr. Dombey a rapture of surprise. It was 
 so quickly done, that in a moment Florence heard liis awful step in the 
 room. 
 
 He saluted his intended mother-in-law, and 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 teU me how your 
 pretty Florence is." 
 
 " Florence is very v.ell," said Mr. Dombey, advancing towards the 
 couch. 
 
 "At home?" 
 
 " At home," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " My dear Dombey," returned Cleopatra, with bewdtching 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 declaration, but upon 
 my honour I am afraid you are the falsest of men, my dear Dombey." 
 
 Though he had been ; and had been detected, on the spot, in the most 
 enormous falsehood that was ever said or done ; he could hardly have 
 been more disconcerted than he was, when Mrs. Skewton plucked the 
 shawl away, and Florence, pale and trembling, rose before him like a 
 ghost. He had not yet recovered his presence of mind, when Florence 
 had run up to him, clasped her hands round his neck, kissed his face, and 
 hurried out of the room. He looked round as if to refer the matter to 
 somebody else, but Edith had gone after Florence, instantly. 
 
 " Now, corifess, my dear Dombey," said Mrs. Skewton, giving him her 
 hand, " that you never were more surprised and pleased in your life." 
 
 " I never was more surprised," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Nor pleased, my dearest Dombey ? " returned Mrs. Skewton, holding 
 up her fan. 
 
 " I — yes, I am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here," said Mr. 
 Dombey. He appeared to consider gravely about it for a moment, and 
 then said, more decidedly, " Yes, I really am very glad indeed to meet 
 Florence here." 
 
 "You wonder how she comes here?" said Mrs. Skewton, "don't 
 
 you ? " 
 
 " Edith, perhaps — " suggested ]\Ir. Dombey, 
 
 " Ah ! wicked guesser ! " replied Cleopatra, shaking her head. " Ah ! 
 cunning, cunning man ! One shouldn't tell these things ; your sex, my 
 *lear Dombey, are so vain, and so apt to abuse om- weaknesses ; but, you 
 know my open soul — very well ; immediately." 
 
 This was addressed to one of the very tall young men who announced 
 diimer. 
 
 " But Edith, my dear Dombey," she continued in a whisper, " when 
 she cannot have you near her — and as I tell her, she cannot expect that 
 always — will at least have near her something or somebody belonging^ to 
 you. Well, how extremely uatiu-al that is ! And in this spirit, nothing 
 would keep her from riding off to-day to fetch our darling Florence. 
 Well, how excessively charming that is ! " 
 
 As she waited for an answer, Mr. Dombey answered, " Eminently so." 
 
 "Bless you, my dear Dombey, for that proof of heart ! " cried Cleo- 
 patra, squeezing his hand. " But I am growing tot serious ! Take me 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 303 
 
 down stairs like an angel, and let us see wliat these people intend to give 
 us for dinner. Bless you, dear Dombey ! " 
 
 Cleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable briskness, after the last 
 benediction, Mr. Dombey took her arm in his and led her ceremoniously 
 down stairs ; one of the very tall young men on hire, whose organ of vene- 
 ration was imperfectly developed, thrusting his tongue into his cheek, for 
 the entertainment of the other very tail young man on hire, as the couple 
 turned into the dining-room. 
 
 Florence and Edith were already there, and sitting side by side. Flo- 
 rence would have risen when her father entered, to resign her chair to 
 him ; but Edith openly put her hand upon her arm, and 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 eyes, lest they should reveal the traces 
 of tears ; far less dared to speak ; and Edith never uttered one wordj 
 unless in answer to a question. Verily, Cleopatra 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 last, my dear 
 Dombey?" said Cleopatra, when the dessert was put upon the table, 
 and the silver-headed butler had withdrawn. " Even the lawj^ers' pre- 
 parations ! " 
 
 " Yes, madam," replied Mr. Dombey ; " the deed of settlement, the pro- 
 fessional gentlemen inform me, is now ready, and as I was mentioning to 
 you, Edith has only to do us the favoiu' to suggest her own time for its 
 execution." 
 
 Edith sat, like a handsome statue ; as cold, as silent, and as still. 
 
 " My dearest love," said Cleopatra, " do you hear what Mr. Dombey 
 says ? Ah, my dear Dombey ! " aside to that gentleman, " How her 
 absence, as the time approaches, reminds me of the days, when that most 
 agreeable of creatm'cs, her Papa, was in your situation !" 
 
 " I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you please," said Edith, 
 scarcely looking over the table at IVIr. 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 engagements, my dear Edith !" remonstrated her mother, "when 
 you are in a most terrible state of flurry aU day long, and have a thousand 
 and one appointments with all sorts of tradespeople ! " 
 
 " They are of your making," returned Edith, turning on her with a 
 slight contraction of her brow. " You and Mr. Dombey can arrange 
 between you." 
 
 " Very true, indeed, my love, and most considerate of you ! " said 
 Cleopatra. " My darling Florence, you must reaUy come and kiss me 
 once more, if you please, my dear ! " 
 
 Singular coincidence, that these gushes of interest in Florence hurried 
 Cleopatra away from almost every dialogue in which Edith had a share, 
 however trifling ! Florence had certainly never undergone so much 
 embracing, and perhaps had never been, imconsciously, so useful in her life. 
 
304 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Mr, Dombey was far from quarrelling, in his own breast, with the 
 manner of his beautiful betrothed. He had that good reason for sympathy 
 with haughtiness and coldness, which is found in a feUow-feeling. It 
 flattered him to think how these deferred to him, in Edith's case, and 
 seemed to have no will apart from his. It flattered him to picture to 
 himself, this proud and stately woman doing the honours of his house, 
 and chilling his guests after his own manner. The dignity of Dombey and 
 Son would be heightened and maintained, indeed, in such hands. 
 
 So thought Mr. Dombey, when he was left alone at the dining-table, 
 and mused upon his past and future fortunes : finding no uncon geniality 
 in an aii' of scant and gloomy state that pervaded the room, in colour a 
 dark brown, with black hatchments of pictures blotching the walls, and 
 twenty -four black chairs, with almost as many nails in them as so many 
 coffins, waiting like mutes, upon the threshold of the Turkey carpet ; and 
 two exhausted negroes holding up two withered branches of candelabra on 
 the side-board, and a musty smell prevaiUng 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 Eeenix famj^y ; and the room had gradually put itself into 
 deeper and stiU deeper mourning for him, until it was become so funereal 
 as to want nothing but a body in it to be quite complete. 
 
 No bad representation of the body, for the nonce, in his unbending 
 form, if not in his attitude, Mr. 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 
 sm'face one by one, and plunging down again. Edith was there in aU her 
 majesty of brow and figm-e ; and close to her came Elorence, with her 
 timid head turned to him, as it had been, for an instant, when she left the 
 room ; and Edith's eyes upon her, and Edith's hand put out protectingly. 
 A little figure in a low arm-chair came springing next into the light, and 
 looked upon him wonderingly, with its bright eyes and its old-young face 
 gleaming as in the flickering of an evening fire. Again came Florence 
 close upon it, and absorbed his whole attention. Whether as afore-doomed 
 difficulty and disappointment to him ; whether as a rival who had crossed 
 him in his way, and might again ; whether as his child, of whom, in his 
 successful wooing, he could stoop to think, as claiming, at such a time, to 
 be no more estranged ; or whether as a hint to him that the mere appear- 
 ance of caring for his own blood should be maintained in his new relations ; 
 he best knew. Indiff"erently well, perhaps, at best ; for marriage company 
 and marriage altars, and ambitious scenes — still blotted here and there with 
 Florence — always Florence — tm-ned up so fast, and so confusedly, that he 
 rose, and went up stairs to escape them. 
 
 It was quite late at night before candles were brought; for at present they 
 made Mrs. Skewton's head ache, she 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 evening, when that affectionate lady was impelled to solicit 
 another kiss, and which always happened after Edith had said anything. 
 They were not many, however, for Edith sat apart by an open window 
 during the whole time (in spite of her mother's fears that she would 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 805 
 
 take cold), and remained there until ]\Ir. Dombey took leave. He was 
 serenely gracious to Florence when he did so ; and Florence went to bed 
 in a room within Edith's, so happy and hopeful, that 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 pity, sobbed herself to sleep. 
 
 The week fled fast. There were drives to milliners, dress-makers, 
 jewellers, lawyers, florists, pastry-cooks ; and Florence was always of the 
 party. Florence was to go to the wedding. Florence was to cast off her 
 mourning, and to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The milliner's 
 intentions on the subject of this dress — the milliner was a Frenchwoman, 
 and greatly resembled Mrs. Skewton — were so chaste and elegant, that 
 Mrs. Skewton bespoke one like it for herself. The milliner said it would 
 become her to admiration, and 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 home, and were tried on, and were loudly com- 
 mended by Mrs. Skewton and the milliners, and were put away without a 
 word from her. INIrs. Skewton made their plans for every day, and 
 executed them. Sometimes Edith sat in the carriage when thev went to 
 make purchases ; sometimes, when it was absolutely necessary, she went 
 into the shops. But IVIrs. Skewton conducted the whole business, what- 
 ever it happened to be ; and Edith looked on as iminterested and with 
 as much apparent indifi^erence as if she had no concern in it. Florence 
 might perhaps have thought she was haughty and listless, but that she 
 Avas never so to her. So Florence quenched her wonder in her gratitude 
 whenever it broke out, and soon subdued it. 
 
 The week fled faster. It had nearly winged its flight away. The last 
 night of the week, the night before the marriage, was come. In the dark 
 room — for Mi-s. Skewton's head was no better yet, though she expected 
 to recover permanently to-morrow — were that lady, Edith, and Mr. 
 Dombey. Edith was at her open window locking out into the street; Wx. 
 Dombey and Cleopatra were talking softly on the sofa. It was growing 
 late ; and Florence being fatigued, had gone to bed. 
 
 " My dear Dombey," said Cleopatra, " you will leave me Florence to- 
 morrow, when you deprive me of my sweetest Edith." 
 
 Mr. Dombey said he would, with pleasure. 
 
 " To have her about me, here, while you are both at Paris, and to think 
 that, at her age, I am assisting in the formation of her mind, my 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 moment, to one of burning interest, and, unseen in the darkness, she 
 attended closely to their conversation. 
 
 Mr. Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence in such admii-able 
 guardianship. 
 
 " My dear Dombey," returned Cleopatra, " a thousand thanks for 
 your good opinion, I feared you were going, with malice aforethought, 
 as the dreadful lawyers say — those horrid proses ! — to condemn me to 
 utter solitude." 
 
 " Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam ? " said Mr, Dombey^ 
 
 X 
 
806 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Because my cliarming Florence tells me so positively slie must go 
 home to-morrow," returned Cleopatra, " that I began to be afraid, my 
 dearest Dombey, you were quite a Bashaw." 
 
 " I assure you, madam ! " said Mr. Dombey, " I have laid no com- 
 mands on Florence ; and if I had, there are no commands like your 
 wish." 
 
 " My dear Dombey," replied Cleopatra, " what a courtier you are ! 
 Though I 'U not say so, either ; for corn-tiers have no heart, and yom-s 
 pervades your charming life and character. And are you really going so 
 early, my dear Dombey ! " 
 
 Oh, indeed ! it was late, and Mr. Dombey feared he must. 
 
 " Is this a fact, or is it all a dream!" lisped Cleopatra. " Can I 
 believe, my dearest Dombey, ihat you are coming back to-morrow morn- 
 ing to deprive me of my sweet companion ; my own Edith ! " 
 
 Mr. Dombey, who was accustomed to take things literally, reminded 
 Mrs. Skewton that they were to meet first at the church. 
 
 " The pang," said Mrs. Skewton, " of consigning a child, even to you, 
 my dear Dombey, is one of the most excruciating imaginable ; and com- 
 bined with a naturally dehcate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of 
 the pastry-cook who has undertaken the breakfast, is almost too nmch for 
 my poor strength. But I shall rally, my dear Dombey, in the morning ; do 
 not fear for me, or be uneasy on my account : Heaven bless you ! My 
 dearest Edith ! " she cried archly. " Somebody is going, pet." 
 
 Edith, who had turned her head again towards the window, and whose 
 interest in their conversation had ceased, rose up in her place, but made no 
 advance towards him, and said nothing. Mr. Dombey, with a lofty gallantry 
 adapted to iiis dignity and the occasion, betook his creaking boots towards 
 her, put her hand to liis lips, said, " To-morrow moniing 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. ^Yith the caudles appeared her maid, with the juvenile dress 
 that was to delude the world to-morrow. The dress had savage retribu- 
 tion in it, as such dresses ever have, and 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 glass, as 
 she thought of its killing eifect upon the Major ; and sufl'ering her maid 
 to take it ofi: again, and to prepare her for repose, tumbled into ruins like 
 a house of painted cards. 
 
 All this time, Edith remained at the dark window looking out into the 
 street. When she and her mother were at last left alone, she moved from 
 it for the tii-st time that evening, and came opposite to her. The yawning, 
 shaking, peevish figure of the mother, with her eyes raised to confront 
 the proud erect form of the daughter, whose glance of fire was bent down- 
 ward upon her, had a conscious aii- upon it, that no levity or temper could 
 conceal. 
 
 " I am tii-ed to death," said she. " You can't be trusted for a moment. 
 You are v,'orse than a child. Child ! No child would be half so obstinate 
 and undutiful." 
 
 " Listen to me, mother," returned Edith, passing these words by with 
 
o 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 307 
 
 a scom tliat would not descend to trifle witli them. " You must remain 
 alone here imtil I return." 
 
 "Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return!" repeated her 
 mother. 
 
 "Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow to witness what 
 I do, so falsely, and so shamefully, I swear I will refuse the hand of this 
 man in the church. If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement ! " 
 
 The mother answered mth a look of quick alarm, in no degree dimi- 
 nished by the look she met. 
 
 " It is enough," said Edith, steadily, " that we are what we are. I 
 will have no youth and truth dragged down to my level. I wEl have no 
 guileless nature undermined, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the 
 leisure of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Florence must 
 so home." 
 
 " Y^ou are an idiot, Edith," cried her angry mother. " Do you expect there 
 can ever be peace for you in that house, till she is married, and away ? " 
 
 " Ask me, or ask yourself, if I ever expect peace in that house," said 
 her daughter, " and you know the answer." 
 
 " And am I to be told to-night, after all my pains and labour, and 
 when you are going, through me, to be rendered independent," her mother 
 almost shrieked in her passion, while her palsied head shook like a leaf, 
 " that there is coiTuption and contagion in me, and that I am not fit com- 
 pany for a girl ! What are you, pray ? What are you? " 
 
 "I have put- the question to myself," said Edith, ashy pale, and point- 
 ing to the window, "more than once when I have been sitting there, and 
 something in the faded likeness of my sex has wandered past outside ; 
 and God knows I have met with my reply. Oh mother, mother, if 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 here, her mother restrained 
 herself, and fell a whimpering, and bewailed that she had lived too long, 
 and that her oidy child had cast her off, and that duty towards parents was 
 forgotten in these evil days, and that she had heard unnatural taunts, and 
 cai'ed for life no longer. 
 
 " If one is to go on living through continual scenes like this," she 
 whined, " I am sui-e 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 daughter, Edith, and addressing me in such a strain ! " 
 
 "Between us, mother," returned Edith, mournfidly, "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. Y'ou know how sen- 
 sitive I am tounkindness. At such a moment too, when I have so much 
 to think of, and am naturally anxious to appear to the best advantage ! 
 I wonder at you, Edith. To make your mother a fright upon your 
 wedding-day ! " 
 
 Edith bent the same fixed -look upon her, as she sobbed and rubbed her 
 eyes ; and said in the same low steady voice, which had neither risen nor 
 fallen since slie first addressed her, " I have said that Florence must 
 go home." 
 
 x2 
 
308 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Let her go ! " cried the afflicted and affrighted parent, hastily. " I 
 am sure I am willing she should go. What is the girl to me ? " 
 
 " She is so much to me, that rather than communicate, or suffer to be 
 communicated to her, one grain of the evil that is in my breast, mother,, I 
 would renounce you, as I would (if you gave me cause) renounce him in 
 the church to-morrow," replied Edith. " Leave her alone. She shall not, 
 while I can interpose, be 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 manner, Edith," 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 way, mother ; share as you please in what you have gained ;; 
 spend, enjoy, make 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 voice, or frame, and passing onward with a 
 foot that set itself upon the neck of every soft emotion, she bade her 
 mother good night, and repaired to her own room. 
 
 But not to rest ; for there was no rest in the tumult of her agitation 
 when alone. To and fro, and to and fro, and to and fro again, five 
 hundred times, among the splendid preparations for her adornment on the 
 morrow ; with her dark hair shaken down, her dark eyes flashing with a 
 raging light, her broad white bosom red with the cruel grasp of the 
 relentless hand with which she spiu-ned it from her, pacing up and down 
 with an averted head, as if she would avoid the sight of her own fair 
 person, and divorce herself from its companionship. Thus, in the dead 
 time of the night before her bridal, Edith Granger wrestled Avith her 
 unquiet spirit, tearless, friendless, silent, proud, and uncomplaining. 
 
 At length it happened that she touched the open door which led into 
 the room where Florence lay. 
 
 She started, stopped, and looked in. 
 
 A light was burning there, and showed her Florence in her bloom of 
 innocence and beauty, fast asleep. Edith held her breath, and felt her- 
 self drawn on towards her. 
 
 Drawn nearer, nearer, nearer yet ; at last, drawn so near, that stooping 
 down, she pressed her lips to the gentle hand that lay outside the bed, 
 and 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 knees, and laid her aching head and streaming hair upon the 
 pillow by its side. 
 
 Thus Edith Granger passed the night bsfore her bridal. Thus the sun 
 found her on her bridal morning. 
 
DOMBEY AND SOiN. 309 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE WEDDING. 
 
 Dawn, witli its passionless blank face, steals shivering to tlie chnrcli 
 beneath which lies the dust of little Paul and his mother, and looks in at 
 the windows. It is cold and dark. Night crouches yet, upon the pave- 
 ment, and broods, sombre and heavy, in nooks and corners of the build- 
 ing. The steeple-clock, perched up above the houses, emerging from 
 beneath another of the countless ripples in the tide of time that regularly 
 roll and break on the eternal shore, is greyly visible, like a stone beacon, 
 recording how the sea flows on ; but within doors, dawn, at first, can only 
 peep at night, and see that it is there. 
 
 Hovering feebly round the church, and looking in, dawn moans and 
 weeps for its short reign, and its tears trickle on the window-glass, and 
 the trees against the church-wall dow their heads, and wring their many 
 hands in sympathy. Night, growing pale before it, gradually fades out of 
 the church, but lingers in the vaidts below, and sits upon the coffins. 
 And now comes bright day, burnishing the steeple-clock, and reddening 
 the spire, and di-ying up the tears of dawn, and stifling its complaining ; 
 and the scared dawn, following the night, and chasing it from its last 
 refuge, shrinks into the vaults itself and hides, with a frightened face, 
 among the dead, untd night returns, refreshed, to drive it out. 
 
 And now, the mice, who have been busier with the prayer-books than 
 then* proper owners, and with the hassocks, more worn by their little teeth 
 than by human knees, hide their bright eyes in theii- holes, and gather close 
 together in afl"right at the resounding clasliing of the church-door. For 
 the beadle, that man of power, comes early this morning with the sexton ; 
 and Mrs. Mifi^, the wheezy little pew-opener — a mighty dry old lady, 
 sparely dressed, with not an inch of fulness anywhere about her — is also 
 here, and has been waiting at the church-gate half-an-hour, as her place 
 is, for the beadle. 
 
 A vinegary face has Mrs. Miff, and a mortified bonnet, and eke a thksty 
 soul for sixpences and shillings. Beckoning to stray people to come into 
 pews, has given Mrs. Mift' an air of mystery ; and there is reservation in 
 the eye of Mrs. Mift', as always knowing of a softer seat, but having her 
 suspicions of the fee. There is no such fact as Mr. Mifi", nor has there 
 been, these twenty years, and Mrs. Miff would rather not allude to him. 
 He held some bad opinions, it would seem, about free-seats ; and though 
 Mrs. Miff hopes he may be gone upwards, she couldn't positively un- 
 dertake to say so. 
 
 Busy is Mrs. Miff this morning at the church- door, beating and dusting 
 the altar cloth, the carpet, and the cushions ; and much has IVIi-s. Miff to 
 say, about the wedding they are going to have. Mrs. Mifi" is told, that the 
 new furniture and alterations in the house cost full five thousand pound if 
 
310 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 they cost a penny ; and Mrs. MifF lias heard, upon the best authority, that 
 the lady hasn't got a sixpence wherewithal to bless herself. Mrs. Miff 
 remembers, likewise, as if it had happened yesterday, the first wife's 
 funeral, and then the christening, and then the other funeral ; and Mrs. 
 MifF says, by-the-bye she'll soap-and-water that 'ere tablet presently, 
 against the company arrive. Mr. Sownds the Beadle, who is sitting in 
 the sun upon the church steps all this time (and seldom does anything 
 else, except, in cold weather, sitting by the fire), approves of Mrs. 'Miff's 
 discourse, and asks if Mrs. Miff has heard it said, that the lady is uncom- 
 mon handsome ? The information Mrs. Miff lias received, being of this 
 nature, Mr. Sownds the Beadle, who, though orthodox and corpulent, is 
 still an admirer of female beauty, observes, Avith unction, yes, he hears she 
 is a spanker — an expression that seems somewhat forcible to Mrs. Mift", or 
 would, from any lips but those of Mr. Sownds the Beadle. 
 
 In ]Mr. Dombey's house, at this same time, there is great stir and 
 bustle, more especially among the women: not one of whom has had a 
 wink of sleep since four o'clock, and all of whom were full dressed 
 before six. ^Mi-. TowKnson is an object of greater consideration than 
 usual to the housemaid, and the cook says at breakfast-time that one 
 wedding makes many, which the housemaid can't believe, and don't 
 think true at all. Mr. Towlinson reserves his sentim^ents on this ques- 
 tion ; 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 paii- to Paris, and who is busy packing the new 
 chariot. In respect of this personage, Mr. Towlinson admits, presently, that 
 he never knew of any good that ever come of foreigners ; and being 
 charged by the ladies with prejudice, says, look at Bonaparte who was 
 at the head of 'em, and see what he was always up to ! Which the house- 
 maid says is very true. 
 
 The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room in Brook-street, 
 and the very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the very tail 
 young men already smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to 
 become fixed in his head, and to stare at objects without seeing them. 
 The very taU young man is conscious of this fiiiling in himself j and 
 informs his comrade that it's his " exciseman." The very tall young 
 man would say excitement, but 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 fii'st, are 
 practising in a back settlement near Battlebridge ; the second, put them- 
 selves in communication, through their chief, with Mr. Towlinson, to 
 whom they offer terms to be bought oft" ; and the third, in the person of 
 an artful trombone, lurks and dodges round the corner, waiting for some 
 traitor tradesman to reveal the place and hour of breakfast, for a bribe. 
 Expectation and excitement extend further yet, and take a wider range. 
 Prom Balls Pond, Mr. Perch brings Mrs. Perch to spend the day with 
 Mr. Dombey's servants, and accompany them, surreptitiously, to see the 
 wedding. In Mr. Toots's lodgings, Mr. 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 311 
 
 the Chicken, then and there, and openly to say, " Now, Chicken, I 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 
 opinions. Chicken, in this state of things, and what, on the spot, do you 
 advise?" The so-much-to-be-astonished Chicken, in the meanwhile, dips 
 his beak into a tankard of strong beer, in Mr. Toots's kitchen, and pecks 
 up two pounds of beefsteaks. In Princess's Place, Miss Tox is up and 
 doing ; for she too, though in sore distress, is resolved to put a siiiUing 
 in the hands of Mrs. Mifi, and see the ceremony which has a cruel 
 fascination for her, from some lonely corner. The quarters of the Wooden 
 Midshipman are all alive ; for Captain Cuttle, in his ankle-jacks and with , 
 a huge shirt-coUar, is seated at his breakfast, listening to Kob the Grinder 
 as he reads the mai'riage service to him beforehand, under orders, to > 
 the end that the Captain may perfectly understand the solemnity he is 
 about to witness : for which purpose, tlie Captain gravely lays injunctions 
 on his chaplain, from time to time, to " pat about," or to " overhaul that 
 'ere article again," or to stick to his own duty, and leave the Amens to . 
 him, the Captain : one of which he repeats, whenever a pause is made by 
 Eob the Grinder, with sonorous satisfaction. 
 
 Besides all this, and much more, twenty nursery maids in Mr. Dom- 
 bey's street alone, have promised twenty families of little women, whose 
 instinctive interest in nuptials dates from their cradles, that they shall go 
 and see the marriage. Truly, Mr. Sownds the Beadle has good reason to 
 feel himself in office, as he suns his portly figure on the chm'ch steps, • 
 v/aiting for tlie marriage hour. Trul\% ]\Irs. Miff has cause to pounce on 
 an unlucky dwarf child, with a giant baby, who peeps in at the porch, 
 and drive her forth with indignation ! 
 
 Cousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly to attend the mar- 
 riage. Cousin Peenix was a man about town, forty years ago : but he is • 
 stiU so juvenile in figure and in manner, and so well got up, that stran- 
 gers are amazed when they discover latent wi*inkles in his lordship's face, 
 and crows' feet in his eyes ; and first observe him, not exactly certain when 
 he walks across a room, of going quite straight to where he wants to go. 
 But Cousin Feenbc, getting up at half-past seven o'clock or so, is quite 
 another thing from Cousin Feenix got up ; and very dim, indeed, he looks, 
 while being shaved at Long's Hotel, in Bond-street. 
 
 Mr. Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a general wliisking 
 away of the women on the staircase, who disperse in all directions, with a 
 great rustling of skirts, except Mrs. Perch, who, being (but that she always 
 is) in an interesting situation, is not nimble, and is obliged to face him, 
 and is ready to sink with confusion as she ciu^seys ; — may Heaven avert all 
 evil consequences from the house of Perch ! Mr. Dombey walks up to 
 the drawing-room, to bide his time. Gorgeous are IVIr.. Dombey 's new 
 blue coat, fawn-coloured pantaloons, and lilac waistcoat ; and a whisper 
 goes about the house, that Mr. Dombey's hair is curled. 
 
 A double knock announces the arrival of the Major, who is gorgeous 
 too, and wears a whole geranium in his button-hole, and has his hair 
 curled tight and crisp, as well the Native knows. 
 
 "Dombey!" says the Major, putting out both hands, "How are 
 you?" 
 
312 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 >j 
 
 " Major," says Mr. Dombey, " how are You ! 
 
 "By Jove, Sir," says the Major, "Joey B. is in such case this 
 morning, Sir," — and here he hits liimself hard upon the breast — " in such 
 case this morning. Sir, that, damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make 
 a double marriage of it, Sir, and take the mother." 
 
 Mr. Dombey smiles ; but faintly, even for him ; for IVIr. Dombey feels 
 that he is going to be related to the mother, and that, under those circum- 
 stances, she is not to be joked about. 
 
 " Dombey," says the Major, seeing this, " I give you joy. I congra- 
 tulate you, Dombey. By the Lord, Sir," says the Major, "you are more 
 to be envied, this day, than any man in England ! " 
 
 Here again, IVIr. Dombey's assent is qualified ; because he is going to 
 confer a great distinction on a lady ; and, no doubt, she is to be envied most. 
 
 " As to Edith Granger, Sir," pursues the Major, " there is not a 
 woman in all Europe but might — and would. Sir, you will allow Bagstock 
 to add — and would — give her ears, and her ear-rings, too, to be in Edith 
 Granger's place." 
 
 " You are good enough to say so. Major," says Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "Dombey," returns the Major, "you know it. Let us have no false 
 delicacy. You know it. Do you know it, or do you not, Dombey ? " 
 says the Major, almost in a passion. 
 
 " Oh, really. Major—" 
 
 " Damme, Sir," retorts the Major, " do you know that fact, or do you 
 not ? Dombey ! Is old Joe your friend ? Ai'e we on that footing of 
 unreserved intimacy, Dombey, that may justify a man — a blunt old 
 Joseph B., Sir — in speaking out ; or am I to take open order, Dombey, 
 and to keep my distance, and to stand on forms ? " 
 
 "My dear Major Bagstock," says Mr. Dombey, with a gratified air, 
 "you are quite Avarm." 
 
 " By Gad, Sir," says the Major, " I am warm. Joseph B. does not 
 deny it, Dombey. He is wann. This is an occasion. Sir, that calls forth 
 all the honest sympathies remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used-up, 
 invalided, J. B. carcase. And I tell you what, Dombej^ — at such a time 
 a man must blurt out what he feels, or put a muzzle on ; and Joseph 
 Bagstock tells you to your face, Dombey, as he tells his club behind your 
 back, that he never will be muzzled when Paul Dombey is in question. 
 Now, damme. Sir," concludes the Major, with 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 partial, Sir!" exclaims the choleric Major. "Do»bey, I 
 deny it ! " 
 
 " Your friendship I will say then," pursues Mr. Dombey, " on any 
 account. Nor can I forget, Major, on "such an occasion as the present, 
 how much I am indebted to it." 
 
 "Dombey," says the Major, Avith appropriate action, "that is the hand 
 of Joseph Bagstock : of plain old Joey B., Sii-, if you like that better ! 
 That is the hand, of which His Eoyal Highness the late Duke of York 
 did me the honour to observe, Sir, to his Eoyal Highness the late Duke 
 of Kent, that it was the hand of Josh. : a rough and tough, and possibly 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 313 
 
 an up-to-snuff, old vagabond. Dombey, may tlie present moment be the 
 least unhappy of our lives. God bless you ! " 
 
 Now, enters Mr. Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smiling like a wedding- 
 guest indeed. He can scarcely let Mr. Dombey's hand go, he is so con- 
 gratulatory ; and he shakes the Major's hand so heartily at the same time, 
 that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it comes sliding from 
 between his teeth. 
 
 " The very day is auspicious," says Mi". Carker. " The brightest and 
 most genial weather ! I hope I am not a moment late ? " 
 
 " Punctual to yom* time. Sir," says the Major. 
 
 *' I am rejoiced, I am sm*e," says Mr. Carker. " I was afraid I might 
 be a few seconds after the appointed time, for I was delayed by a pro- 
 cession of wagons ; 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 position, and so distinguished as to be 
 invited here, is 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 offering, may find favour for it." 
 
 " Mrs. Dombey, that is to be," returns Mr. Dombey, condescendingly, 
 " will be very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure." 
 
 " And if she is to be Mrs. Dombey this morning, Sii*," says the Major, 
 putting doAvn his coflee-cup, and looking at his watch, " it's liigh time 
 we were off ! " 
 
 Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr. Dombey, Major Bagstock, and Mr. Carker, 
 to the church. IVIr. Sownds the Beadle has long risen from the steps, and 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 organ. Miss Tox in the gallery shrinks behind the fat 
 leg of a cherubim on a monument, with cheeks like a young Wind. Cap- 
 tain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up and Waves his hook, in token 
 of welcome and encouragement. Mr, Toots informs the Chicken, behind 
 his hand, that the middle gentleman, he in the fawn-colom'cd pantaloons, 
 is 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 up, with one blow in the waistcoat. 
 
 Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Mift" are eyeing Mr. Dombey from a little 
 distance, when the noise of approaching wheels is heard, and Mr. Sownds 
 goes out. Mrs. Miff, meeting Mr. Dombey's eye as it is withdrawn from 
 the presumptuous maniac up-stairs, who salutes him with so much 
 urbanity, drops a curtsey, and informs him that she believes his " good 
 lady " is come. Then, there is a crowding and a whispering at the door, 
 and the good lady enters, with a haughty step. 
 
 There is no sign upon her face, of last night's suffering ; there is no 
 trace in her manner, of the woman on the bended knees, reposing her 
 wild head, in beautiful abandonment, upon the pillow of the sleeping girl. 
 That girl, all gentle and lovely, is at her side — a striking contrast to her 
 own disdainful and defiant figin'c, standing there, composed, erect, in- 
 scrutable of wiU, resplendent and majestic in the zenith of its charms, 
 yet beating down, and treading on, the admiration that it challenges. 
 
314 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 There is a pause wliile 'Mx. Sownds tlie Beadle glides into the vestry for 
 the clergyman and clerk. At this juncture, Mrs. Skewton speaks to IVIi-. 
 Dombey : more distinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and 
 moving, at the same time, close to Edith. 
 
 " My dear Dombey," says the good Mama, " I fear I must relinquish 
 darling Florence after all, and suffer her to go home, as she herself pro- 
 posed. After my loss of to-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not have 
 spiiits, even for her society." 
 
 " Had she not better stay with you ? " returns the Bridegroom. 
 
 " I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I shall be better 
 alone. Besides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant guar- 
 dian when you return, and I had better not encroach upon her trust, 
 perhaps. She might be jealous. Eh, dear Edith? " 
 
 The affectionate Mama presses her daughter's arm, as she says this ; 
 perhaps entreating her attention earnestly. 
 
 " To be serious, my dear Dombey," she resumes, " I will relinquish 
 om* dear chUd, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled that, 
 just now. She fully understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear, — she 
 fully understands." 
 
 Again, the good mother presses her daughter's arm. Mr. Dombey offers 
 no additional remonstrance ; for the clergyman and clerk appear ; and Mi's. 
 Miff, and Is/h. Sownds the Beadle, group the party in their proper places 
 at the altar rails. 
 
 " ' Who giveth this woman to be married to this man ? ' " 
 
 Cousin Feemx does that. He has come from Baden-Baden on pur- 
 pose. " Confound it," Cousin Eeenix says — good-natm-ed creature. Cousin 
 Feenix — " when we do get a rich city fellow into the family, let us show 
 him some attention; let us do something for him." 
 
 " / give this woman to be married to this man," saith Cousin Feenix 
 therefore. Cousin Feenix, meaning to go in a straight line, but turning oft" 
 sidevi^ays by reason of his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be mar- 
 ried to this man, at first — to wit, a bridesmaid of some condition, distantly 
 connected with the family, and ten years Mrs. Skewton's junior — but Mrs. 
 Miff, interposing her mortified bonnet, dexterously turns him back, and 
 runs him, as on castors, fiUl at the " good lady : " whom Cousin Feenix 
 giveth to be married to this man accordingly. 
 
 And will they in the sight of heaven — ? 
 
 Aye, that they wall : Mr. Dombey says he will. And what says Edith ? 
 Slie wilL 
 
 So, from that day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, 
 in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, tiU death do them part, 
 they plight their troth to one another, and are married. 
 
 In a firm, free hand, the Bride subscribes her name in the register, when 
 they adjom-n to the vestry. " There an't a many ladies comes here," IMi's. 
 Mift" says with a curtsey — to look at Mrs. Miff, at such a season, is to make 
 her mortified bonnet go down with a dip — " wiites then- names like this 
 good lady ! " Mr., Sownds the Beadle thinks it is a truly spanking sig- 
 nature, and worthy of the writer — this, however, between liimself and 
 conscience. 
 
 Florence signs too, but unapplauded, for her hand shakes. All the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 315 
 
 party sign ; Cousin Feenix last ; who puts liis noble name into a wrong 
 place, and enrols himself as having been born, that morning. 
 
 The Major now salutes the Bride right gallantly, and carries out that 
 branch of mihtary tactics in reference to all the ladies : notwithstanding 
 ]Mr3. Skcwton's being extremely hard to kiss, and squeaking shrilly in the 
 sacred edifiee. The example is followed by Cousin Feenix, and even by 
 Mr. Dombey. Lastly, Mr. Carker, Avith his wlute teeth glistening, 
 approaches Edith, more as if he meant to bite her, than to taste the sweets 
 that linger on her lips. 
 
 There is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing in her eyes, that 
 may be meant to stay him ; but it does not, for he salutes her as the rest 
 have done, and wishes her all happiness. 
 
 " If wishes," says he in a low voice, " are not superfluous, applied to 
 such a union." 
 
 " I tliank you, Sir," she answers, with a cm-led lip, and a heaving 
 bosom. 
 
 But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she knew that Mr. 
 Dombey would return to ofl^er his alliance, that Carker knows her 
 thoroughly, and reads her right, and that she is more degraded by liis 
 knowledge of her, than by aught else ? Is it for this reason that her 
 haughtiness shrinks beneath his smile, like snow within the hand that 
 grasps it firmly, and that her imperious glance di'oops in meeting his, and 
 seeks the ground ? 
 
 " I am proud to see," says Mr. Carker, with a servile stooping of his 
 neck, which the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim to be a 
 lie, " I am proud to see that my humble ofi"ering is graced by Mrs. 
 Dombey's hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyfid an 
 occasion." 
 
 Though she bends her head, in answer, there is something in the 
 momentary action of her hand, as if she would crush the flowers it holds, 
 and fling them, with contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts the 
 hand through the arm of her new husband, who has been standing 
 near, conversing with the Major, and is proud again, and motionless, and 
 silent. 
 
 The carriages are once more at the church door. Mi*. Dombey, with 
 his bride upon his arm, conducts her through the twenty families of little 
 women who are on the steps, and every one of whom remembers the 
 fashion and the colour of her every article of dress from that moment, and 
 reprodu.ces it on her doU, who is for ever being married. Cleopatra and 
 Cousin Eeenix enter the same carriage. The Major hands into a second 
 carriage, Florence, and the bridesmaid who so narrowly escaped being 
 given away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and is followed by Ms. 
 Carker. Horses prance and caper; coaclmien and footmen shine in 
 fluttering favours, flowers, and new-made liveries. Away they dash and 
 rattle through the streets ; and as they pass along, a thousand heads 
 are turned to look at them, and a thousand sober moralists revenge 
 themselves for not being married too, that morning, by reflecting that these 
 people Little think such happiness can't last. 
 
 Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim's leg, when aU is quiet, 
 and comes slowly down, from the gallery. ]\Iiss Tox's eyes are red, and 
 
316 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 hex pocket-liandkercliief is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, 
 and she hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to herself the beauty 
 of the bride, and her own comparatively feeble and faded attractions ; but 
 the stately image of Mr. Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his fawn- 
 coloured pantaloons, is present to her mind, and Miss Tox weeps afresh, 
 behind her veil, on her way home to Princess's Place. Captain Cuttle, 
 having joined in all the amens and responses, with a devout growl, feels 
 much improved by his religious exercises; and in a peaceful frame of mind 
 pervades the body of the church, glazed hat in hand, and reads the tablet 
 to the memory of little Paul. The gallant Mi*. Toots, attended by the 
 faithful Chicken, leaves the building in torments of love. The Chicken is 
 as yet unable to elaborate a scheme for winning Florence, but his first 
 idea has gained possession of him, and he thinks the doubling up of Mr. 
 Dombey would be a move in the right direction. Mr. Dombey's ser- 
 vants come out of their hiding-places, and prepare to rush to Brook Street, 
 when they are delayed by symptoms of indisposition on the part of Mrs, 
 Perch, Avho entreats a glass of water, and becomes alarming ; Mrs. Perch 
 gets better soon, however, and is borne away ; and Mrs. Miif, and ]VIr. 
 Sownds the Beadle, sit upon the steps to count what they have gained by 
 the affair, and talk it over, Avhile the sexton tolls a funeral. 
 
 Now, the carriages arrive at the Bride's residence, and the players on 
 the bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr. Punch, that 
 model of connubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the people run, and 
 push, and press round in a gaping throng, while Mr. Dombey, leading 
 Mrs. Dombey by the hand, advances solemnly into the Peenix Halls. 
 Now, the rest of the Avedding party alight, and enter after them. And 
 why does Mr. Carker, passing through the people to the hall-door, 
 think of the old woman who called to him in the grove that morning ? 
 Or why does Plorence, as she passes, think, with a tremble, of her child- 
 hood, when she was lost, and of the visage of good Mrs, Brown ? 
 
 Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more 
 company, though not much ; and now they leave the drawing-room, and 
 range themselves at table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no con- 
 fectioner can brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted negroes with as 
 many flowers and love-knots as he will. 
 
 The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, and a rich break- 
 fast is set forth. Mr. and Mrs. Chick have joined the party, among 
 others. Mrs. Chick admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect 
 Dombey ; and is affable and confidential to Mi*s. Skewton, whose mind is 
 relieved of a great load, and who takes her share of the champagne. The 
 very tali 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 man, and wrests dishes from him by violence, 
 and takes a grim delight in disobliging the company. The company are 
 cool and calm, and do not outrage the black hatchments of pictures look- 
 ing down upon them, by any excess of mirth. Cousin Peenix and the 
 Major are the gayest there; but ]\Ir. Carker has a smile for the whole 
 table. Pie has an especial smile for the Bride, who very, very, seldom 
 meets it. 
 
 Cousin Peenix rises, when the company have breakfasted, and the 
 
N 
 
 \ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 317 
 
 servants liave left tte room ; and wonderfully young he looks, with his 
 white wristbands almost covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and 
 the bloom of the champagne in his cheeks. 
 
 " Upon my honour," says Cousin Peenix, " although it 's an unusual 
 sort of thing in a private gentleman's house, I 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. Carker, bending 
 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 Teenix beginning again, thus, comes 
 to a dead stop. 
 
 " Hear, hear ! " says the Major, in a tone of conviction. 
 
 Mr, Carker softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the table 
 again, smdes and nods a great many more times than before, as if he were 
 particularly struck by this last observation, and desired personally to express 
 his sense of the good it has done him. 
 
 " It is," says Cousin Feenix, " an occasion, in fact, when the general 
 usages of life may be a little departed from, without impropriety ; and 
 although I never was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House 
 of Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, was — in fact, 
 was laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure — " 
 
 The Major and Mr. Carker are so much delighted by this fragment of 
 personal history, that Cousin Feenix laughs, and addressing them, indivi- 
 dually, goes on to say : 
 
 " And in point of fact, when I was devilish lU — still, you know, I feel 
 that a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves upon auEiiglish- 
 man, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best way he can. 
 Well ! our family has had the gratification, to-day, of connecting itself, in 
 the person of my lovely and accomplished relative, whom I now see — in 
 point of fact, present — " 
 
 Here there is general applause. 
 
 " Present," repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a neat point which 
 will bear repetition, — " with one who — that is to say, with a man, at whom 
 the finger of scorn can never — in fact, with my honourable friend Dombey, 
 if 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 extra- 
 ordinary, and perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feeUngs. 
 
 " I have not," says Cousin Feenix, " enjoyed those opportunities which 
 I could have desired, of cultivating the acquaintance of my friend Dombey, 
 and studying those qualities which do equal honour to his head, and, in 
 point of fact, to his heart ; for it has been my misfortune to be, as we 
 used to say in my time in the House of Commons, when it was not the 
 custom to allude to the Lords, and when the order of parliamentary pro- 
 ceedings was perhaps better observed than it is now — to be in— in point of 
 fact," says Cousin Feenix, cherishing his joke, with great slyness, and 
 finally bringing it out with a jerk, " ' in another place ! ' " 
 
 The Major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with difficulty. 
 
 " But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey," resumes Cousin Feenix 
 in a graver tone, as if he had suddenly become a sadder and a wiser man. 
 
318 BOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " to know that he is, in point of fact, what may be emphatically called a — 
 a merchant — a British merchant — and a — -and a man. And although I 
 have been resident abroad, for some years (it would give me great pleasure 
 to receive my friend Dombey, and everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and to 
 have an opportunity of making 'em known to the Grand Duke), still I 
 knoAv enough, I flatter myself, of my lovely and accomplished relative, to 
 know that she possesses every requisite to make a man happy, and 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 fjimily of which 
 I am a member, on 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 all, in point of fact, to congi-atulate both my friend Dom- 
 bey and my lovely and accomplished relative, on the present occasion." 
 
 The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with gi'eat applause, and Mr. 
 Dombey returns thanks on behalf of himself and Mrs. Dombey. J. B. 
 shortly afterwards proposes Mrs. Skewton. The breakfast languishes 
 when that is done, the violated hatchments are avenged, and Edith rises 
 to assume her travelling dress. 
 
 All the servants, in the meantime, have been breakfasting below. 
 Champagne has gi'own too common among them to be mentioned, and 
 roast fowls, raised pies, and lobster salad, have become mere drugs. 
 The very tall young man has recovered his spirits, and again aUudes to 
 the exciseman. His comrade's eye begins to emulate his own, and he, 
 too, stares at objects, without talking cognizance thereof. There is a 
 general redness in the faces of the ladies ; in the face of Mrs. Perch par- 
 ticularly, who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far above the cares of 
 life, that if she were asked just now to du-ect a wayfarer to Ball's Pond, 
 where her own cares lodge, she would have some difficulty in recalling 
 the way. Mr. Towlinson has proposed the happy pair ; to which the 
 silver-headed butler has responded neatly, and with emotion ; for he half 
 begins to think he is an old retainer of the family, and that he is bound 
 to be affected by these changes. The whole party, and especially the 
 ladies, are very frolicsome. Mr. Dombey's cook, who generally takes the 
 lead in society, has said, it is impossible to settle down after this, and why 
 not go, in a party, to the play ? Everybody (Mrs. Perch included) has agTced 
 to this ; even the Native, who is tigerish in his drink, and who alarms the 
 ladies (Mi's. Perch particularly) by the rolling of his eyes.. One of the 
 very tall young men has even proposed a ball after the play, and it pre- 
 sents itself to no one (Mrs. Perch included) in the light of an impossibility. 
 Words have arisen between the housem,aid and Mr. Towlinson ; she, on 
 the authority of an old saw, asserting marriages to be made in Heaven : he, 
 affecting to trace the manufacture elsewhere ; he, supposing that she says 
 so, because she thinks of being married her own self : she, saying. Lord 
 forbid, at any rate, that she should ever marry Mm. To calm these flying 
 taunts, the silver-headed butler rises to propose the health of Mr. Towlin- 
 son, whom to know is to esteem, and to esteem is to wish well settled in 
 life with the object of his choice, wherever (here the silver-headed butler 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 319 
 
 eyes the housemaid) she may be. Mr. Towlinson returns thanks in a 
 speech replete with feeling, of which the peroration turns on foreigners, 
 regarding whom, he says they may find favour, sometimes, with weak and 
 inconstant intellects that can be led away by hair, but aU he hopes, is, 
 he may never hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of no 
 travelling chariot. The eye of Mr. Towlinson is so severe and so ex- 
 pressive here, that the housemaid is turning hysterical, when she and all 
 the rest, roused by the intelligence that the Bride is going away, hnrry up 
 stairs to Matness 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 Nipper, who has held a middle state between the parlour 
 and the kitchen, is prepared to accompany her. As Edith appears, 
 Florence hastens tov/ards her, to bid her farewell. 
 
 Is Edith cold, that she should tremble ! Is there anything unnatural 
 or unwholesome in the touch of Florence, that the beautiful form recedes 
 and contracts, as if it could not bear it ! Is there so much hrn'ry in 
 this going away, that Edith, with a wave of her hand, sweeps on, and 
 16 gone ! 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a mother, sinks on her 
 sofa in the Cleopatra attitude, when the clatter of the chariot wheels is 
 lost, and sheds several tears. Tlie Major, coming with the rest of the 
 company from table, endeavours to comfort her ; but she will not be 
 comforted on any terms, and so the Major takes his leave. Cousin Feenix 
 takes his leave, and jMr. Carker takes his leave. The guests all go away. 
 Cleopatra, left alone, feels a little giddy from her strong emotion, and 
 falls asleep. 
 
 Giddiness prevails below stairs too. The very taU young man whose 
 excitement came on so soon, appears to have his head glued to the table 
 in the pantry, and cannot be detached from it. A violent revulsion has 
 taken place in the spirits of Mrs. Perch, who is low on account of Mr. 
 Perch, and tells cook that she fears he is not so much attached to his 
 home, as he used to be, when they were only nine in family. Mr. Towlin- 
 son 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 likewise, in those lower regions, on the subject 
 of time ; everj'body conceiving that it ought to be, at the earliest, ten 
 o'clock at night, whereas it is not yet three in the afternoon. A shadowy 
 idea of wickedness committed, haunts every individual in the party ; and 
 each one secretly thinks the other a companion in guilt, whom it would be 
 agreeable to avoid. No man or woman has the hardihood to hint at the 
 projected visit to the play. Any one reviving the notion of the ball, would 
 be scouted as a mabgnant idiot, 
 
 Mrs, Skewton sleeps up-stairs, two hours afterwards, and naps are not 
 yet over in the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining-room look down on 
 crumbs, dirty plates, spilhngs of wine, half-thawed ice, stale discoloured 
 heel-taps, scraps of lobster, drumsticks of fowls, and pensive jellies, 
 gradually resolving themselves into a lukewarm gummy soup. The 
 marriage is, by this time, almost as denuded of its show and garnish as the 
 
320 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 breakfast. Mr. Dombey's servants moralise so much about it, and are so 
 repentant over their early tea, at home, that by eight o'clock or so, they 
 settle down into confirmed seriousness ; and Mr. Perch, arriving at that 
 time from the city, fresh and jocular, with a white waistcoat and a comic 
 song, ready to spend the evening, and prepared for any amount of dissi- 
 pation, is amazed to find himself coldly received, and Mrs. Perch but 
 poorly, and to have the pleasing duty of escorting that lady home by the 
 next omnibus. 
 
 Night closes in. Florence, having rambled through the handsome house, 
 from room to room, seeks her own chamber, where the care of Edith has 
 surrounded her with luxuries and comforts ; and divesting herself of her 
 handsome dress, puts on her old simple mourning for dear Paul, and sits 
 down to read, with Diogenes winking and blinking on the ground beside 
 her. But Florence cannot read to-night. The house seems strange and 
 new, and 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 book, 
 and gruff Diogenes, who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon her 
 lap, and rubs his ears against her caressing hands. But Florence cannot 
 see him plainly, in a little time, for there is a mist between her eyes 
 and him, and her dead brother and dead mother shine in it like angels. 
 Walter, too, poor wandering shipwrecked boy, oh, where is he ! 
 
 The Major don't know ; that 's for certain ; and don't care. The 
 Major, having choked and slumbered, all the afternoon, has taken a late 
 dinner at his club, and now sits over his pint of wine, driving a modest 
 young man, with a fresh-coloured face, at the next table (who would give a 
 handsome sum to be able to rise and go away, but cannot do it) to the verge 
 of madness, by anecdotes of Bagstock, Sir, at Dombey's wedding, and Old 
 Joe's devilish gentlemanly friend. Lord Fcenix. While Cousin Feenix, 
 who ought to be at Long's, and in bed, finds himself, instead, at a 
 gaming-table, where his wilful legs have taken him, perhaps, in liis own 
 despite. 
 
 Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pa"«'tement to roof, and holds 
 dominion tlu-ough the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping 
 through the windows ; and, giving place to day, sees night withdraw into 
 the vaults, and follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead. 
 The timid mice again cower close together, Avhen the great door clashes, 
 and Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff, treading the circle of theii- daily lives, un- 
 broken as a marriage ring, come in. Again, the cocked hat and the mortified 
 bonnet stand in the back gi-ound at the marriage horn- ; and again this 
 man taketh this woman, and this woman taketh this man, on the solemn 
 terms : 
 
 " To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for 
 richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until 
 death do them part." 
 
 The very words that Mr. Carker rides into town repeating, with his. 
 mouth stretched to the utmost, as he picks his dainty way. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 321 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE WOODEN MIDSHIPMAN GOES TO PIECES. 
 
 Honest Captain Cuttle, as tlie weeks flew over liim in his fortified 
 retreat, by no means abated any of liis prudent provisions against surprise, 
 because of the non-appearance of the enemy. The Captain argued that his 
 present security was too profound and Avonderful to endure much longer ; 
 he knew that when the wind stood in a fair quarter, the weathercock was 
 seldom nailed there ; and he was too well acquainted with the determined 
 and dauntless character of IVIrs. Mac Stinger, to doubt that that heroic 
 woman had devoted herself to the task of his discovery and capture. 
 Trembling beneath the Aveight of these reasons. Captain Cuttle lived a very 
 close and retired life ; seldom stii-ring 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 retreat, avoiding 
 bonnets, as if they were worn by ragrag lions. 
 
 The Captain never dreamed that in the event of his being pounced upon 
 by Mrs. Mac Stinger, in his walks, it would be possible to offer resistance. 
 He felt that it could not be done. He saw himself, in his mind's eye, put 
 meekly into a hackney coach, and carried off to his old lodgings. He fore- 
 saw that, once immured there, he was a lost man : his hat gone ; Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger watchful of him day and night ; reproaches heaped upon his 
 head, before the infant family ; himself the guilty object of suspicion 
 and distrust : an ogre in the children's eyes, and in their mother's a detected 
 traitor. 
 
 A violent perspiration, and a lowness of spirits, always 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 ran, the Captain took leave of Eob, at 
 those times, with the solemnity which became a man who might never 
 return : exhorting him, in the event of his (the Captain's) being lost sight 
 of, for a time, to tread in the paths of virtue, and keep the brazen instruments 
 weU polished. 
 
 But not to throw away a chance ; and to secure to himself a means, in 
 case of the worst, of holding communication with the external world ; 
 Captain Cuttle soon conceived the happy idea of teaching Eob the Grinder 
 some secret signal, by which that adherent might make his presence and 
 fidelity known to his commander, in the horn- of adversity. After much 
 cogitation, the Captain decided in favour of instructing him to whistle the 
 marine melody, " Oh cheerily, cheerily !" and Rob the Grinder attaining a 
 point as near perfection in that accomplishment as a landsman could hope 
 to reach, the Captain impressed these mysterious instructions on his mind : 
 
 " Now, my lad, stand by ! If ever I'm took — " 
 
 "Took, Captain!" interposed Eob, with his round eyes wide open. 
 
 Y 
 
322 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Ah !" said Captain Cuttle darkly, "if ever I goes away, meaning ta 
 come back to supper, and don't come within hail again, twenty-four hours 
 arter my loss, go you to Brig Place and whistle that 'ere tune near my old 
 moorings — not as if you was a meaning of it, you understand, but as if 
 you'd drifted there, promiscuous. If I answer in that tune, you sheer off, 
 my lad, and come back four-and-twenty hours arterwards ; if I answer in 
 another tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till I throw out further 
 signals. Do you understand them orders now ?" 
 
 " What am I to stand oft' and on of, Captain ? " 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 ? " 
 
 " Yes, Captain," said Rob. 
 
 " Very good my lad, then," said the Captain, relenting. " Do it ! " 
 
 That he might do it the better. Captain Cuttle sometimes condescended, 
 of an evening after the shop was shut, to rehearse this scene : retiring- 
 into the parlour for the purpose, as into the lodgings of a supposititious 
 Mac Stinger, and carefidly observing the behaviour of his ally, from the 
 hole of espial he had cut in the wall. Rob the Grinder discharged him- 
 self of his duty with so much exactness and judgment, when thus put to 
 the proof, that the Captain presented him, at divers times, with seven six- 
 pences, in token of satisfaction ; and gradually felt stealing over his spirit 
 the resignation of a man who had made provision for the worst, and taken 
 every reasonable precaution against an unrelenting fate. 
 
 Nevertheless, the Captain did not tempt ill-fortune, by being a whit 
 more venturesome than before. Though he considered it a point of good 
 breeding in himself, as a general friend of the family, to attend Mr, 
 J)ombey'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 venture, in his dread of Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger, but 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 again, and fell into the ordinary routine of 
 his new life, without encountering any more direct alarm from the enemy, 
 than was suggested to him by the daily bonnets in the street. But other 
 subjects began to lie 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 disappearance, and Captain Cuttle had not the 
 heart to tell her. Indeed the Captain, as his OAvn hopes of the generous, 
 handsome, gaUant-hearted youth, whom he had loved, according to his 
 rough manner, from a child, began to fade, and faded more and more from 
 day to day, shrunk with instinctive pain from the thought of exchanging 
 a word with Florence. If he had had good news to carry to her, the 
 honest Captain would have braved the newly decorated house and splendid 
 fiirniture^though these, connected with the lady he had seen at church, 
 were awfid to him — and made his way into her presence. W'ith a dark 
 horizon gathering around their common hopes, however, that darkened 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 323 
 
 every hour, the Captain almost felt as if he were a new misfortune and 
 affliction to her; and was scarcely less afraid of a visit from Florence, than 
 from Mrs. Mac Stinger herself. 
 
 It was a chill dark autumn evening, and Captain Cuttle had ordered a 
 fire to be kindled in the little back parlour, now more than ever like the 
 cabin of a ship. The rain fell fast, and the wind blew hard ; and straying 
 out on the housetop by that stormy bedroom of his old friend, to take an 
 observation of the weather, the Captain's heart died within him, when he 
 saw how wild and desolate it was. Not that he associated the weather of 
 that time with poor Walter's destiny, or doubted that if Providence had 
 doomed him to be lost and shipwrecked, it was over, long ago ; but that 
 beneath an outward influence, quite distinct from the subject-matter of his 
 thoughts, the Captain's spirits sank, and his hopes turned pale, as those 
 of wiser men had often done before him, and will often do again. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, addressing his face to the sharp wind and slanting rain, 
 looked up at the heavy scud that was flying fast over the wilderness 
 of hoxise-tops, and 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 feet, the pigeons of Eob the Grinder were cooing 
 like so many dismal breezes getting up. A crazy weathercock of a 
 midshipman, with a telescope at his eye, once visible from the street, but 
 long bricked out, creaked and complained upon his rasty pivot as the 
 shrill blast spun him roimd and round, and sported with him cruelly. 
 Upon the Captain's coarse blue vest the cold rain-drops 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 parapet, and throw him on the pavement below. If there were 
 any Hope alive that evening, the Captain thought, as he held his hat on, 
 it certainly kept house, and wasn't out of doors ; so the Captain, shaking 
 his head in a despondent manner, went in to look for it. 
 
 Captain Cuttle descended slowly to the little back parlom*, and, seated 
 in his accustomed chair, looked for it in the fire ; but it was not there, 
 though the fire was bright. He took out his tobacco-box and pipe, and 
 composing himself to smoke, looked for it in the red glow from the bowl, 
 and 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 well, and he couldn't finish it. He made a turn or two in the shop, 
 and looked for Hope among the instruments ; but they obstinately worked 
 out reckonings for the missing ship, in spite of any opposition he could 
 offer, that ended at the bottom of the lone sea. 
 
 The wind still rushing, and the rain still pattering, against the closed 
 shutters, the Captain brought to before the wooden Midshipman upon 
 the counter, and thought, as he dried the little officer's uniform with 
 his sleeve, liow 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 together one day, as it might be; and 
 of what a sweeping kind they were. Here was the little society of 
 the back parlour broken up, and scattered far and wide. Here was no 
 audience for Lovely Peg, even if there had been anybody to sing it, 
 
 y 2 
 
324 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 wliicli there was not ; for the Captain was as morally certain that nobody 
 but he could execute that ballad, as he was that he had not the spirit, 
 under existing circumstances, to attempt it. There was no bright face of 
 ""VVal'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 ; Kichard 
 Whittington was knocked on the head ; and every plan and project, in 
 connexion with the Midshipman, lay drifting, without mast or rudder, on 
 the waste of waters. 
 
 As the Captain, with a dejected face, stood revolving these thoughts, 
 and polishing the Midshipman, partly in the tenderness of old acquaint- 
 ance, and partly in the absence of his mind, a knocking at the shop-door 
 communicated a frightful start to the frame of Eob the Grinder, seated 
 on the counter, whose large eyes had been intently fixed on the 
 Captain's face, and who had been debating within himself, for the five 
 hundredth time, whether the Captain could have done a murder, that he 
 had such an evil conscience, and was always running away. 
 
 " What 's that ! " said Captain Cuttle, softly. 
 
 " Somebody's knuckles. Captain," answered Eob the Grinder. 
 
 The Captain, with an abashed and guilty air, immediately sneaked on 
 tip-toe to the little parlour and locked himself in. Eob, opening the door, 
 would have parleyed with the visitor on the threshold if the visitor had 
 come in female guise ; but the figure being of the male sex, and Eob's 
 orders only applying to women, Eob held the door open and allowed it to 
 enter ; Avhich it did very quickly, glad to get out of the driving rain. 
 
 , "A job for Burgess and Co. at any rate," said the visitor looking over 
 his shovdder compassionately at his own legs, which were very wet and 
 covered with splashes. " Oh, how-de-do, Mr. Gills ? " 
 
 The salutation was addressed to the Captain, now emerging from the 
 back parlour with a most transparent and utterly futile aft'ectation of 
 coming out by accident. 
 
 " Thankee," the gentleman w^ent on to say in the same breath ; " I 'm 
 very well indeed, myself, I 'm much obliged to you. My name is Toots, 
 —Mister Toots." 
 
 The Captain remembered to have seen this young gentleman at the 
 wedding, and made him a bow. Mr. Toots replied with a chuckle ; and 
 being embarrassed, as he generally was, breathed hard, shook hands with 
 the Captain for a long time, and then falling on Eob the Grinder, in the 
 absence of any other resource, shook hands with him in a most affectionate 
 and cordial manner. 
 
 " I say ! I should like to speak a word to you, Mr. Gills, if you please," 
 said Toots at length, with surprising presence of mind. " I say ! Miss 
 D. O. M. you know ! " 
 
 The Captain, with responsive gravity and mystery, immediately waved 
 his hook towards the little parlour, whither Mr. Toots followed him. 
 
 " Oh ! I beg your pardon though," said Mr. Toots, looking up in the 
 Captain's face as he sat down in a chair by the fire, which the Captain 
 placed for him ; " you don't happen to know the Chicken at all ; do you 
 Mr. Gills?" 
 
 "The Chicken? " said the Capatir. 
 
/f-^H^i^ ^:^ a!^^f'^^.c^^C€^^^^ , 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 325 
 
 " The Game Chicken," said Mr. Toots. 
 
 The Captain shaking his head, Mr. 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 veiy 
 much. 
 
 " Because he 's outside : that 's aU," said Mr. Toots. " But it 's of no 
 consequence ; he won't get very wet, perhaps." 
 
 " I can pass the word for him in a moment," said the Captain. 
 
 " Well, if you icould have the goodness to let him sit in the shop with 
 your young man," chuckled Mr. Toots, " I should be glad ; because, you 
 know, he 's easily ofiended, and the damp 's rather bad for his stamina. 
 /'llcaUhimin, Mr. Gills." 
 
 With that, Mr, Toots repairing to the shop-door, sent a peculiar 
 w^histle into the night, which produced a stoical gentleman in a shaggy 
 white gTcat-coat and a flat-brimmed hat, with very short hair, a broken 
 nose, and a consiflerable tract of bare and sterile country behind each ear. 
 
 " Sit down. Chicken," said Mr. Toots. 
 
 The compliant Chicken spat out some small pieces of straw on which he 
 was regaling himself, and took in a fresh supply from a reserve he carried 
 in his hand. 
 
 " There an't no drain of nothing short handy, is there ? " said the 
 Chicken, generally. " This here sluicing night is hard lines to a man as 
 lives on his condition," 
 
 Captain Cuttle proffered a glass of rum, which the Chicken, throwing 
 back his head, emptied into himself, as into a cask, after proposing the 
 brief sentiment " Towards us ! " Mr. Toots and the Captain returning 
 then to the parlour, and taking their seats before the fire, Mr. Toots 
 began : 
 
 " Mr. GiUs— " 
 
 " Awast ! " said the Captain. " My name 's Cuttle." 
 
 Mr. Toots looked greatly disconcerted, while the Captain proceeded 
 gravely, 
 
 " Cap'en Cuttle is my name, and England is my nation, this here is 
 my dwelling place, and blessed be creation — Job," said the Captain, as an 
 index to his authority. 
 
 " Oh ! I couldn't see Mr. Gills, could I?" said Mr. Toots ; " because—" 
 
 " If you could see Sol Gills, young gen'l'm'n," said the Captain, 
 impressively, and 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 
 me, than a wind astarn, to a ship becalmed. But you can't see Sol GUIs. 
 And why can't you see Sol Gills ? " said the Captain, apprised by the face 
 of Ml*. Toots that he was making a profound impression on that gentle- 
 man's mind. " Because he 's inwisible." 
 
 Mr. Toots in his agitation was going to reply that it was of no conse- 
 quence at aU. But he corrected himself, and said, " Lor bless me ! " 
 
 " That there man," said the Captain, " has left me in charge here by 
 a piece of writing, but though he was a'most as good as my sworn 
 brother, I know no more where he 's gone, or why he 's gone ; if so be to 
 seek his nevy, or if so be along of being not quite settled in his mind ; 
 
326 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 than you do. One morning at daybreak lie went over the side," said the 
 Captain, " without a splash, without a ripple. I have looked for that 
 man high and low, and never set eyes, nor ears, nor nothing else, upon 
 him from that hour." 
 
 " But, good gracious, Miss Dombey don't know — " Mr. Toots began. 
 
 " Why, I ask you as a feeling heart," said the Captain, dropping his 
 voice, " why should she know ? why should she be made to know, until 
 such time as there warn't any help for it ^ She took to old Sol Gills, did 
 that sweet creetur, with a kindness, with a affability, with a — what 's the 
 good of saying so ? you know her." 
 
 " I should hope so," chuckled jMr. Toots, with a conscious bhish tliat 
 suffused his whole countenance 
 
 " And you come here from her ? " said the Captain. 
 
 " I should think so," chuckled Mr. Toots. 
 
 " Then all I need observe, is," said the Captain, " that you know a 
 angel, and are chartered l/t/ a angel." 
 
 Mr. Toots instantly seized the Captaiu's hand, and requested the favour 
 of his friendship. 
 
 " Upon my word and honour," said Mr. Toots, earnestly, "I should be 
 veiy much obliged to you if you 'd improve my acquaintance. I should 
 like to know you, Captain, very much. I really am in want of a friend, I 
 am. Little Dombey was my friend at old Blimber's, and would have 
 been now, if he 'd have lived. The Chicken," said Mr. Toots, in 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 to, everybody says so — but 
 I don't know — he 's not everything. So she is an angel, Captain." If 
 there is an angel anywhere, it 's Miss Dombey. That 's what I 've always 
 said. Eeally though, you 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 manner, but still 
 without committing himself to its acceptance ; merely observing " Aye aye, 
 my lad. We shall see, we shall see ;" and reminding Mr. Toots of his 
 immediate mission, by 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 — Susan you know." 
 
 The Captain nodded his head once, with 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 know, 
 I go and call sometimes, on Miss Dombey. I don't go there on purpose, 
 you know, but I happen to be in the neighbourhood very often ; and when 
 I find myself there, why — why I call," 
 
 "Nat'rally," observed the Captain. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Toots. " I called this afternoon. Upon my word 
 and honour, I 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 head, implying that it might 
 not be easy to some people, but was quite so, to him. 
 
 " As I was coming out," said Mr. Toots, " the young woman, in the 
 most unexpected manner, took me into the pantry." 
 
DOMBEY AND SOX. 327 
 
 The Captain seemed, for the moment, to object to this proceeding ; and 
 leaning back in his chair, loolced 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 day, on account of some- 
 thing that was in it, about 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 said though ! " 
 
 Mr. Toots, endeavouring to concentrate his mental powers on this 
 question, unintentionally fixed the Captain's eye, and was so much dis- 
 composed by its stern expression, that his difficulty in resuming the 
 thread of his subject was enhanced to a painfid extent. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mr. Toots after long consideration. " Oh ah ! Yes t 
 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 herself, without sur- 
 prising IMiss Dombey, would I go down to Mr. Solomon Gills the 
 Instrument Maker's in this street, who was the party's imcle, and ask 
 whether he believed it was true, or had heard anything else in the city. 
 She said, if he couldn't speak to me, no doubt Captain Cuttle could. 
 By the bye ! " said Mr. Toots, as the discovery flashed upon him, 
 "you, you know ! " 
 
 The Captain glanced at the newspaper in Mr. Toots's hand, and breathed 
 short and hm-riedly. 
 
 "Well," pursued Mr. Toots, "the reason why I'm rather late is, 
 because I Avent up as far as Finchlcy first, to get some uncommonly fine ■ 
 chickweed that grows there, for Miss Dombey's bird. But I came on 
 here, directly afterwards. You 've seen the paper, I suppose ? " 
 
 The Captain, who had become cautious of reading the news, lest he 
 should find himself advertised at full length by Mxs. Mac Stinger, shook 
 his head. 
 
 " Shall I read the passage to you? " inquned Mr. Toots. 
 
 The Captain making a sign in the aflu'mative, Mr. Toots read as follows, 
 from the Shipping Intelligence : 
 
 ' ' ' Southampton. The barque Defiance, Henry James, Commander, arrived 
 in this port to-day, with a cargo of sugar, coftee, and rum, reports that 
 being becalmed on the sixth day of her passage home from Jamaica, in' — 
 in such and such a latitude, you know," said Mr. Toots, after making a 
 feeble dash at the figures, and tumbling over them. 
 
 " Aye ! " cried the Captain, striking his clenched hand on the table. 
 " Heave a head, my lad 1 " 
 
 " — latitude," repeated Mi*. Toots, with a startled glance at the 
 Captain, " aud longitude so-and-so, — ' the look-out observed, half an 
 hour before sunset, some fragments of a wreck, drifting at about the 
 distance of a mile. The weather being clear, and the barque making no 
 way, a boat was hoisted out, with orders to inspect the same, when they 
 were found to consist of sundry large spars, and a part of the main rig- 
 ging of an English brig, of about five hundred tons burden, together with 
 a portion of the stern on which the words and letters ' Son and II — ' 
 were yet plainly legible. No vestige of any dead body was to be seen 
 upon the floating fragments. Log of the Defiance states, tliat a breeze- 
 
328 DOMBEY AND SON 
 
 springing up in the night, the wreck was seen no more. There can be 
 no doubt that all surmises as to the fate of the missing vessel, the Sou 
 and Heir, port of London, bound for Barbados, are now set at rest for 
 ever ; that she broke up in the last hurricane ; and that every soul on 
 board perished.' " 
 
 Captain Cuttle, like aU mankind, little knew how much hope had 
 survived within him under discouragement, until he felt its death- 
 shock. During the reading of the paragraph, and for a minute or two 
 afterwards, he sat with his gaze fixed on the modest Mr. Toots, like a 
 man entranced; then, suddenly rising, and putting on his glazed hat,, 
 which, in his visitor's honour, he had laid upon the table, the Captain 
 tm'ned his back, and bent his head down on the little chimney-piece. 
 
 " Oh, upon my word and honour," cried Mr. Toots, whose tender 
 heart was moved by the Captain's unexpected distress, " this is a most 
 wretched sort of affair this world is ! Somebody 's always dying, or going- 
 and doing something uncomfortable in it. I 'm sure I never should have 
 looked forward so much, to coming into my property, if I had known this. 
 I never saw such a world. It 's a great deal worse than Blimber's." 
 
 Captain Cuttle, without altering his position, signed to Mr. Toots 
 not to mind him ; and presently turned round, with his glazed hat 
 thrust back upon his ears, and his hand composing and smoothing his 
 brown face. 
 
 " Wal'r my dear lad," said the Captain, "farewell! Wal'r my child, my 
 boy, and man, I loved you ! He warn't my flesh and blood," said the 
 Captain, looking at the fire — " I an't got none — but something of what 
 a father feels when he loses a son, I feel in losing Wal'r. For why ? " 
 said the Captain, " Because it an't one loss, but a round dozen. Where 's 
 that there young schoolboy with the rosy face and curly hair, that used 
 to be as merry in this here parlour, come round every week, as a piece of 
 music? Gone down with Wal'r. Where 's that there fresh lad, that nothing- 
 couldn't tire nor put out, and that sparkled up and blushed so, when we 
 joked him about Heart's Delight, that he was beautiful to look at ? Gone 
 down with Wal'r. Where 's that there man's spirit, all afire, that wouldn't 
 see the old man hove down for a minute, and cared nothing for itself ? 
 Gone down with Wal'r. It an't one Wal'r. There was a dozen Wal'rs 
 that I know'd and loved, all holding round his neck when he went down, 
 and 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 Captain, gazing at the fire, " poor nevyless 
 old Sol, where are i/ou got to ! you was left in charge of me ; his last 
 words was, ' Take care of my uncle ;' What came over i/oa, Sol, 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 upon, respecting you ! Sol GiUs, Sol 
 Gills ! " said the Captain, shaking his head slowly, " catch sight of that 
 there newspaper, away from home, with no one as know'd Wal'r by, 
 to say a word; and broadside to you broach, and down you pitch,, 
 head-foremost ! " 
 
 Drawing a heavy sigh, the Captain turned to Mr. Toots, and roused 
 himself to a sustained consciousness of that gentleman's presence. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 329 
 
 " My lad," said the Captain, " you must tell the young woman honestly 
 that this here fatal news is too correct. They don't romance, you see, on 
 such pints. It 's entered on the ship's log, and that's the truest book as a 
 man can write. To-morrow morning," said the Captain, " I '11 step out 
 and make inquiries ; but they '11 lead to no good. They can't do it. If 
 you '11 give me a look-in in the forenoon, you shall know what I have 
 heerd; but tell the young woman from Cap'en Cuttle, that it's over. Over! " 
 And the Captain, hooking off his glazed hat, pulled his handkerchief out 
 of the crown, wiped his grizzled head despairingly, and tossed the hand- 
 kerchief in again, with the indifference of deep dejection. 
 
 " Oh ! I assure you," said Mr. Toots, " really I am dreadfully sorry. 
 Upon my word I am, though I wasn't acquainted with the party. Do you 
 think Miss Dombey will be very much affected, Captain Gills — I mean, 
 Mr. Cuttle?" 
 
 "Why, Lord love you," returned the Captain, with something of com- 
 passion for Mr. Toots's innocence. " When she warn't no higher than 
 that, they were as fond of one another as two young doves." 
 
 " Were they though ! " said Mr. Toots, with a considerably lengthened 
 face. 
 
 "They were made for one another," said the Captain mournfully ; " but 
 what signifies that now ! " 
 
 " Upon my word and honour," cried Mr. Toots, blurting out his words 
 through a singular combination of awkward chuckles and emotion, " I 'm 
 even more sorry than I was before. You know Captain Gills, I — I positively 
 adore Miss Dombey ; — I — I am perfectly sore Avith loving her ;" the 
 burst with which this confession forced itself out of the unhappy Mr. 
 Toots, bespoke the vehemence of his feelings ; " but what would be the 
 good of my regarding her in this manner, if I wasn't truly sorry for her 
 feeling pain, whatever was the cause of it. Mine an't a selfish affection, 
 you know," said Mr. Toots, in the confidence engendered by his having 
 been a witness of the Captain's tenderness. " It 's the sort of thing with 
 me. Captain Gills, that if I could be run over — or — or trampled upon — or 
 — or thrown off a very high place — or any thing of that sort — for Miss 
 Dombey's sake, it would be the most delightful thing that could happen 
 to me." 
 
 All this, Mr. Toots said in a suppressed voice, to prevent its reaching 
 the jealous ears of the Chicken, who objected to the softer emotions; Avhich 
 effort of restraint, coupled with the intensity of his feelings, made hun red 
 to the tips of his ears, and caused him to present such an affecting spec- 
 tacle of disinterested love to the eyes of Captain Cuttle, that the good 
 Captain patted him consolingly on the back, and bade him cheer up. 
 
 " Thankee Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, " it 's kind of you, in the 
 midst of your o^vn troubles, to say so. I 'm very much obliged to you. 
 As I said before, I really want a friend, and should be glad to have your 
 acquaintance. Although I am very well off," said Mr. Toots with energy, 
 "you can't think what a miserable Beast I am. The hollow crowd, 
 you know, when they see me with the Chicken, and characters of dis- 
 tinction like that, suppose me to be happy ; but I 'm wretched. I suffer 
 for Miss Dombey, Captain 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 '11 
 be a satisfaction to me to come back to-morrow, or to come back fifty times." 
 
330 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Mr. Toots, with these words, shook the Captain's hand ; and disguising 
 such traces of his agitation as could be disguised on so short a notice, 
 before the Chicken's penetrating glance, rejoined that eminent gentleman 
 in the shop. The Chicken, who was apt to be jealous of his ascendancy, 
 eyed Captain Cuttle with anything but favour as he took leave of Mr. 
 Toots, but followed his patron without being otherwise demonstrative of 
 his ill-will : leaving the Captain oppressed with sorrow ; and Eob the 
 Grinder elevated with joy, on account of having had the honour of staring 
 for nearly half an hour, at the conqueror of the Nobby Shropshire One. 
 
 Long after Eob was fast asleep in his bed under the counter, the 
 Captain sat looking at the fire ; and long after there was no fire to look 
 at, the Captain sat gazing on the rusty bars, with 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 Avith it ; and the 
 Captain rose up in the morning, sorrowful and unrcfreshed. 
 
 As soon as the city offices were opened, the 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 Grinder, by the Captain's 
 orders, left the shutters closed, and the house was as a house of death. 
 
 It chanced that Mr, Carker was entering the office, as Captain 
 Cuttle arrived at the door. Receiving the Manager's benison gravely 
 and silently, Captain Cuttle made bold to accompany him into Ids own 
 room. 
 
 "Well, Captain Cuttle," said IVIi*. Carker, taking up his usual position 
 before the fire-place, and keeping on his hat, " tliis is a bad business." 
 
 "You have received the news as was in print yesterday. Sir?" said 
 the Captain. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Carker, " we have received it ! It was accurately 
 stated. The under-writers suffer a considerable loss. We are very sorry. 
 No help ! Such is life ! " 
 
 Mr. Carker pared his nails delicately with a penknife, and smiled at the 
 Captain, who 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 family. Captain Cuttle ! " 
 
 The Captain stood rubbing his chin, and looking at the Manager. 
 The Manager glanced at the unopened letters lying on his desk, and took 
 up the newspaper. 
 
 " Is there anything I can do for you. Captain Cuttle? " he asked, look- 
 ing oft' it, with a smiling and expressive glance at the door. 
 
 " I wish you could set my mind at rest. Sir, on sometlung it 's uneasy 
 about," returned the Captain. 
 
 "Aye!" exclaimed the Manager, "what's that? Come, Captain 
 Cuttle, I must trouble you to be quick, if you please. I am much 
 engaged." 
 
 "Looke'e here. Sir," said the Captain, advancing a step. " Afore my 
 friend Wal'r went on this here disastrous voyage " 
 
 " Come, come. Captain Cuttle," interposed the smiling Manager, 
 " don't talk about disastrous voyages in that way. We have nothing to 
 do with disastrous voyages here, my good fellow. You must have begun 
 
DOMBEY AND SOX. 3S1 
 
 very early on your day's allowance, Captain, if you don't renaember tliat 
 there are hazards in all voyages, whether 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 ? 
 Fie, Captain ! Sleep, and soda-water, are the best cures for such uneasi- 
 ness as that." 
 
 " My lad," returned the Captain, slowly — " you are a'most a lad to 
 me, and so I don't ask your pardon for that slip of a word, — if you find 
 any pleasure in this here sport, you an't the gentleman I took you for. 
 And if you an't the gentleman I took you for, may be my mind has call to 
 be uneasy. Now this is what it is, IVIr. Carker. — Afore that poor lad 
 went away, according to orders, he told me that he warn't a going away 
 for his own good, or for promotion, he know'd. It was my belief that he 
 was wrong, and I told him so, and I come here, yom* head governor being- 
 absent, to ask a question or two of you in a civil way, for my own satisfac- 
 tion. Them questions you answered — free. Now it 'ill ease my mind to 
 know, when all is over, as it is, and when what can't be cured must be 
 endoored — for which, as a scholar, you 'U overhaul the book it 's in, and 
 thereof make a note — to know once more, in a word, that I warn't mis- 
 taken ; 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 sail, when he 
 highsted of it for Barbadoes Harbour. Mr. Carker," said the Captain, in 
 the goodness of his nature, " when I was here last, we was very pleasant 
 together. If I ain't been altogether so pleasant myself this morning, on 
 account of this poor lad, and if I have chafed again any observation of 
 yours that I might have fended ofl", my name is Ed'ard Cuttle, and I ask 
 your pardon." 
 
 " Captain Cuttle," returned the Manager, with all possible politeness, 
 " I must ask you to do me a favour. " 
 
 " And what is it. Sir ? " inquired the Captain. 
 
 " To have the goodness to walk off, if you please," rejoined the Manager, 
 stretching forth his arm, "and to carry your j?rgon somewhere else." 
 
 Every knob in the Captain's face turned white with astonishment and 
 indignation ; even the red rim on his forehead faded, like a rainbow 
 among the gathering clouds. 
 
 " I tell you what. Captain Cuttle," said the Manager, shaking his fore- 
 finger at him, and showing him all his teeth, but stiU 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 place, neck and crop, 
 my good Captain, I tolerated you ; but for once, and only once. Now, 
 go, my friend ! " 
 
 The Captain was absolutely rooted to the ground, and speechless. 
 
 " Go," said the good-humoured Manager, gathering up his skirts, and 
 standing astride upon the hearth-rug, " like a sensible fellow, and let us 
 have no turning out, or any such violent measures. If Mr. Dombey were 
 here. Captain, you might be obliged to leave in a more ignominious 
 manner, possibly. I merely say. Go ! " 
 
 The Captain, laying his ponderous hand upon his chest, to assist 
 himself in fetching a deep breath, looked at Mr. Carker from head to foot. 
 
332 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 and looked round the little room, as if he did not clearly understand where' 
 he was, or in what company. 
 
 "You are deep. Captain Cuttle," pursued Carker, with the easy and 
 vivacious frankness of a man of the world who knew the world too well 
 to be ruffled by any discovery of misdoing, when it did not immediately 
 concern himself; "but you are not quite out of soundings, either — 
 neither you nor your absent friend. Captain. What have you done with 
 your absent friend, hey ? " 
 
 Again the Captain laid his hand upon his chest. After drawing 
 another deep breath, he conjured himself to " stand by ! " But in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " You hatch nice little plots, and hold nice little councils, and make 
 nice little appointments, and receive nice little visitors too. Captain, 
 hey ? " said Carker, bending his brows upon him, without showing his 
 teeth any the less ; " but it 's a bold measure to come here afterwards. 
 Not like your discretion ! You conspirators, and hiders, and runners- 
 away, should know better than that. Will you oblige me by going ? " 
 
 " My lad," gasped the Captain, in a choked and trembling voice, and 
 with a curious action going on in the ponderous iist ; " there 's a many 
 words I could wish to say to you, but I don't rightly know where they 're 
 stowed just at present. My young friend, Wal'r, was drownded only last 
 night, according to my reckoning, and it puts me out, you see. But you 
 and me wiU come alongside o' one another again, my lad," said the 
 Captain, holding up his hook, " if we live." 
 
 " It will be anything but shrewd in you, my good feUow, if we do," 
 returned the Manager, with the same frankness ; " for you may rely, I 
 give you fan* warning, upon my detecting and exposing you. I don't 
 pretend to be a more moral man than my neighbours, my good Captain ; 
 but the confidence of this house, or of any member of this house, is 
 not to be abused and undermined while I have eyes and ears. Good 
 day ! " said Mr. Carker, nodding his head. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, looking at him steadily (Mr. Carker looked fvdl as 
 steadily at the Captain), went oiit of the office and left him standing 
 astride before the fire, as calm and pleasant as if there were no more spots 
 upon his soul than on his pure white linen, and his smooth sleek skin. 
 
 The Captain glanced, in passing thi'ough the outer counting-house, at 
 the desk where he knew poor Walter had been used to sit, now occupied 
 by another young boy, with a face almost as fresh and hopeful as his on 
 the day when they tapped the famous last bottle but one of the old 
 Madeira, in the little back parlour. The association of ideas, thus 
 awakened, did the Captain a great deal of good ; it softened him in the 
 very height of his anger, and brought the tears into his eyes. 
 
 Arrived at the Wooden Midshipman's again, and sitting down in a 
 corner of the dark shop, the Captain's indignation, strong as it was, 
 could make no head against his grief. Passion seemed not only to do 
 wrong and violence to the memory of the dead, but to be infected by 
 death, and to droop and decline beside it. All the living knaves and 
 liars in the world, were nothing to the honesty and truth of one dead 
 friend. 
 
 The only thing the honest Captain made out clearly, in this state of 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 333 
 
 mind, besides the loss of Walter, was, that with him almost the whole 
 world of Captain Cuttle had been drowned. If he reproached himself 
 sometimes, and keenly too, for having ever connived at Walter's innocent 
 deceit, he thought at least as often of the Mr. Carker whom no sea could 
 ever render up ; and the Mr. Dombey, whom he now began to perceive 
 was as far beyond human recal; and the " Heart's Delight," with whom 
 he must never foregather again ; and the lovely Peg, that teak-built and 
 trim ballad, that had gone ashore upon a rock, and split into mere planks 
 and beams of rhyme. The Captain sat in the dark shop, thinking of 
 these things, to the entire exclusion of his own injury ; and looking with 
 as sad an eye upon the ground, as if in contemplation of their actual 
 fragments, as they floated past him. 
 
 But the Captain was not unmindful, for all that, of such decent and 
 respectful observances in memory of poor Walter, as he felt within his 
 power. Rousing himself, and rousing Eob the Grinder (who in the 
 unnatural twilight was fast asleep), the Captain sallied forth with his 
 attendant at his heels, and the door-key in his pocket, and repairing to 
 one of those convenient slopselling establishments of which there is 
 abundant choice at the eastern end of London, purchased on the spot 
 two suits of mourning — one for Eob the Grinder, which was immensely 
 too small, and one for himself, which was immensely too large. He also 
 provided Rob with a species of hat, greatly to be admired for its symmetry 
 and usefulness, as well as for a happy blending of the mariner ^vith 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 
 garments, which the vendor declared to be such a miracle in point of fit 
 as nothing but a rare combination of fortuitous circumstances ever brought 
 about, and the fashion of which was unparalleled within the memory of 
 the oldest inhabitant, the Captain and Grinder immediately arrayed them- 
 selves : presenting a spectacle fraught with wonder to all who beheld it. 
 
 In this altered form, the Captain received Mr. Toots. " I'm took aback, 
 my lad, at present," said the Captain, "and will only confirm that there ill 
 news. Tell the yoimg woman to break it gentle to the young lady, and 
 for neither of 'em never to think of me no more — 'special, mind you, that 
 is — though I will think of them, when night comes on a hurricane and 
 «eas is mountains rowling, for which overhaul your Doctor Watts, brother, 
 and when found make a note on." 
 
 The Captain reserved, until some fitter time, the consideration of Mr. 
 Toots's ofter of friendship, and tlnis dismissed him. Captain Cuttle's spirits 
 were so low, in truth, that he half determined, that day, to take no further 
 precautions against surprise from Mrs. Mac Stinger, but to abandon him- 
 self recklessly to chance, and be indifferent to what might happen. As 
 evening came on, he fell into a better frame of mind, however ; and spoke 
 much of Walter to Rob the Grinder, whose attention and fidelity he likewise 
 incidentally commended. Rob did not blush to hear the Captain earnest in 
 his praises, but sat staring at him, and affecting to snivel with sympathy, 
 and making a feint of being virtuous, and treasuring up every word he said 
 (like a young spy as he was) with very promising deceit. 
 
 When Rob had turned in, and was fast asleep, the Captain trimmed the 
 candle, put on his spectacles — he had felt it appropriate to take to spec- 
 
334 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 tacles on entering into the Instrument Trade, thongTi his eyes were like a 
 hawk's — and opened the prayer-book at the Burial Service. And reading 
 softly to himself, in the little back parlour, and stopping now and then to 
 wipe his eyes, the Captain, in a true and simple spirit, committed Walter's 
 body to the deep. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 CONTRASTS. 
 
 TuEN we our eyes upon two homes ; not lying side by side, but wide 
 apart, though 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 beauti- 
 fully arranged, and tastefully kept. The lawn, the soft, smooth slope, 
 the flower-garden, the clumps of trees where graceful forms of ash and 
 willow are not wanting, the conservatory, the rustic verandah with 
 sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined about the pillars, the simple 
 exterior of the house, the well-ordered offices, though all upon the dimi- 
 nutive scale proper to a mere cottage, bespeak an amount of elegant 
 comfort within, that might serve for a palace. This indication is not 
 without warrant ; for, within, it is a house of refinement and luxury. 
 Eich colours, excellently blended, meet 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 ; tinging 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 chessmen, dice, back-gammon, 
 cards, and billiards. 
 
 And yet, amidst this opulence of comfort, there is something in the 
 general air that is not weU, Is it that the carpets and the cushions are 
 too soft and noiseless, so that those who move or repose among them 
 seem to act by stealth ? Is it that the prints and pictures do not com- 
 memorate great thoughts or deeds, or render nature in the poetry of 
 landscape, hall, or hut, but are of one voluptuous cast — mere shows of 
 form and colom* — and no more ? Is it that the books have all their gold 
 outside, and that the titles of the greater part qualify them to be com- 
 panions of the prints and pictures ? Is it that the completeness and the 
 beauty of the place is here and there belied by an afi"ectation of humility, in 
 some unimportant and inexpensive regard, which is as false as the face 
 of the too truly painted portrait hanging yonder, or its original at break- 
 fast in his easy chair below it ? Or is it that, with the daily breath of 
 that original and master of all here, there issues forth some subtle portion 
 of himself, which gives a vague expression of himself to everything 
 about liim ! 
 
•DOMliEY AND SOX. 335 
 
 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 beak, and 
 goes walking, upside down, in its dome-top, shaking her house, and 
 screeching ; but Mr. Carker is indifferent to the bird, and looks with a 
 musing smile at a picture on the opposite wall. 
 
 " A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly," says he. 
 
 Perhaps it is a Juno ; perhaps a Potiphar's Wife ; perhaps some scornful 
 Nymph — according as the Pictm-e Dealers found the market, when they 
 christened it. It is the figure of a woman, supremely handsome, Avho, 
 turning away, but with her face addressed to the spectator, flashes 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 if tri^imph ? No, yet more like 
 that. An insolent salute wafted from his lips ? No ; yet like that too — 
 he resumes his breakfast, and calls to the chafing and imprisoned bird, 
 Avho, coming down into a pendant gilded hoop within the cage, like a great 
 wedding-ring, swings in it, for his delight. 
 
 The second home is on the other side of London, near 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 furnished, but very clean; and there is even an attempt to decorate 
 it, shown 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 it, as it has of the town. It is neither of the 
 town nor country. The former, like the giant in his travelling boots, has 
 made a stride and passed it, and has set his brick-and-mortar heel a long 
 way in advance ; but the intermediate space between the giant's feet, as 
 yet, is only blighted country, and not town ; and here, among a few tall 
 chimneys belching smoke all day and night, and among the brick-fields, 
 and the lanes where tiirf is cut, and where the fences tumble down, and 
 where the dusty nettles grow, and where a scrap or two of hedge may yet 
 be seen, and where the bird-catcher still comes occasionally, though he 
 swears eveiy time to come no more — this second home is to be found. 
 
 She who inhabits it, is she who left the first in her devotion to an out- 
 cast brother. She withdrew from that home its redeeming spirit, and 
 from its master's breast his solitaiy angel : but though his liking for her is 
 gone, after this ungrateful slight as he considers it ; and though he 
 abandons her altogether in return, an old idea of her is not quite for- 
 gotten even by him. Let her flower-garden, in which he never sets his 
 foot, but which is yet maintained, among all his costly alterations, as if 
 she had quitted it but yesterday, bear Avitness ! 
 
 Harriet Carker has changed since then, and 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 sorrow, and the daily straggle of a 
 poor existence. But it is beauty still ; and still a gentle, quiet, and retiring 
 l)eauty that must be sought out, for it cannot vaunt itself ; if it could, it 
 would be what it is, no more. 
 
 Yes. This slight, small, patient figm'e, neatly dressed in homely stufl^s, and 
 iudicat'ng nothing but the dull, household -sartues, that have so little fti 
 
336 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 common with the received idea of heroism and greatness, unless, indeed, 
 any ray of them should shine through the lives of the great ones of the earth, 
 when it becomes a constellation and is tracked in Heaven straightway — 
 this slight, small, patient figure, leaning on the man still yoxmg but worn 
 and grey, is she his sister, who, of all the world, went over to him in his 
 shame and put her hand in his, and with a sweet composure and detenni- 
 nation, led him hopefully upon liis barren way, 
 
 "It is early, John," she said. " Why do you go so early ? " 
 
 " Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I have the time to 
 spare, I should like, I think — it's a fancy — to Avalk once by the house 
 where I took leave of him." 
 
 " I Avish I had ever seen or known him, John." 
 
 " It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fiite," 
 
 " But I could not regret it more, though I had known him. Is not 
 your sorrow mine ? And if I had, perhaps you would feel that I was a 
 better companion to you in speaking about him, than I may seem now." 
 
 " My dearest sister ! Is there anything within the range of rejoicing or 
 regret, in which I am not sure of your companionship? " 
 
 " I hope you think not, John, for surely there is nothing ! " 
 
 " How could you be better to me, or nearer to me then, than you are 
 in this, or anything? " said her brother. " I feel that you did know him, 
 Harriet, and that you shared my feelings towards him." 
 
 She drew the hand which had been resting on his shoulder, round his 
 neck, and answered, with some hesitation; 
 
 "No, not quite." 
 
 " True, true ! " he said ; " you think I might have done him no harm 
 if I had allowed myself to know him better? " 
 
 "Think! I know it." 
 
 "Designedly, Heaven knows I would not," he replied, shaking his 
 head mournfully; "but his reputation was too precious to be perilled by such 
 association. Whether you share that knowledge, or do not, my dear — " 
 
 " I do not," she said, quietly. 
 
 " It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter when I think of 
 him for that which made it so miich heavier then." He checked himself 
 in his tone of melancholy, and smiled upon her as he said " Good by 'e !" 
 
 " Good by'e, dear John 1 In the evening, at the old time and place, I 
 shall meet you as usual on your way home. Good by'e." 
 
 The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him, was his home, his life, 
 his universe, and 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 life, and in tl)e 
 sacrifice she had made of ease, enjoyment, and hope, he saw the bitter 
 fruits of his old crime, for ever ripe and fresh. 
 
 She stood at the door looking after him, with her hands loosely clasped 
 in each other, as he made his way over the froAVzy and uneven patch 
 of ground which lay before their house, which had once (and not long 
 ago) been a pleasant meadow, and was now a very waste, with a dis- 
 orderly crop of beginnings of m.ean houses, rising out of the rubbish, as 
 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 ; 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 337 
 
 but when he plodded on his way, and 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 discharge, and daily work to do — for such common-place spirits 
 that are not heroic, often work hard with their hands — and Harriet was 
 soon busy with her household tasks. These discharged, and the poor 
 house made quite neat and orderly, she counted her little stock of money, 
 with an anxious face, and went out thoughtfully to buy some necessaries 
 for their table, planning and contriving, as she went, how to save. So 
 sordid are the lives of such low natures, who are not only not heroic to 
 their valets and waiting- women, but have neither valets nor waiting- 
 women to be heroic to withal ! 
 
 While she was absent, and there was no one in the house, there 
 approached it by a different way from that the brother had taken, a 
 gentleman, a very little past his prime of life perhaps, but of a healthy 
 florid hue, an upright presence, and 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 latter, 
 graced the former very much, and showed his broad frank brow and 
 honest eyes to great advantage. 
 
 After knocking once at the door, and obtaining no response, this 
 gentleman sat down on a bench in the little porch to wait. A certain 
 skilful action of his fingers as he hummed some bars, and beat time on the 
 seat beside him, seemed to denote the musician ; and the extraordinary 
 satisfaction he derived from humming something very slow and long, 
 which had no recognisable tune, seemed to denote that he was a 
 scientific one. 
 
 The gentleman was still twirling a theme, which seemed to go round 
 and round and round, and in and in and in, and to involve itself like a cork- 
 screw twirled upon a table, without getting any nearer to anything, when 
 Harriet appeared retui'ning. He rose up as she advanced, and stood with 
 his head uncovered. 
 
 " You are come again. Sir!" she said, faltering. 
 
 "I take that liberty," he answered. "May I ask for five minutes of 
 your leisure ? " 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, she opened the door, and gave him admis- 
 sion to the little parlom-. The gentleman sat down there, drew his chair 
 to the table over against her, and said, in a voice that perfectly corres- 
 ponded to his appearance, and with a simplicity that was very engaging : 
 
 " Miss Harriet, you cannot be proud. You signified to me, when I 
 called t' other morning, that you were. Pardon me if I say that I looked 
 into your face while you spoke, and that it contradicted you. I look into 
 it again," he added, laying his hand gently on her arm, for an instant, 
 •' and it contradicts you more and more." 
 
 She was somewhat confused and agitated, and could make no ready 
 answer. 
 
 " It is the mirror of truth," said her visitor, " and gentleness. Excuse 
 my trusting to it, and returning," 
 
 His manner of saying these words, divested them entirely of the charac- 
 ter of compliments. It was so plain, grave, unaffected, and sincere that 
 
 z 
 
338 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 she bent her head, as if at once to thank him, and acknowledge his 
 sincerity. 
 
 " The disparity between our ages," said the gentleman, " and the plain- 
 ness of my purpose, empower me, I am glad to think, to speak my mind. 
 That is my mind ; and so you see me for the second time." 
 
 " There is a kind of pride. Sir," she returned, after a moment's silence, 
 " or what may be supposed to be pride, which is mere duty. I hope I 
 cherish no other." 
 
 " For yourself," he said. 
 
 " For myself." 
 
 " Biit — pardon me — " suggested the gentleman. " For your brother 
 John?" 
 
 " Proud of his love, I am," said Harriet, looking fuU upon her visitor, 
 and changing her manner on the instant — not that it was less composed 
 and quiet, but 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. Sir, you who strangely know the story of his bfe, and repeated it to 
 me when you were here last — " 
 
 " Merely to make my way into yom* confidence," interposed the gentle- 
 man. " For Heaven's sake, don't suppose — " 
 
 " I am sure," she said, " you revived it, in my hearing, with a kind 
 and good purpose. I am quite sure of it." 
 
 " I thank you," returned her visitor, pressing her hand hastily. " I 
 am much obliged to you. You do me justice, I assure you. You were 
 going to say, that I, who 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 was, when I was not — when 
 I could not be — but that is past. The humility of many years, the 
 uncomplaining expiation, the true repentance, the terrible regret, the 
 pain I know he has even in my aff"ection, which he thinks has cost me dear, 
 though Heaven knows I am happy, but for his sorrow ! — oh Sir, after what 
 I have seen, let me conjure you, if you are in any place of power, and arc 
 ever wronged, never, for any wrong, inflict 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, compassion- 
 ately. " I assure you I don't doubt it." 
 
 " He was an altered man when he did wrong," said Harriet. " He is 
 an altered man again, and is his true self now, believe me. Sir." 
 
 " But we go on," said her visitor, rubbing his forehead, in an absent 
 manner, with his hand, and then drumming thoughtfully on the table, 
 " we go on in our clock-work routine, from day to day, and can't make 
 out, or follow, these changes. They — they 're a metaphysical sort of 
 thing. We — wx haven't leisure for it. We — we haven't courage. 
 They 're not taught at schools or colleges, and we don't know how to set 
 
 about it. In short, we are so d d business-bke," said the gentleman, 
 
 walking to the window, and back, and sitting down again, in a state of 
 extreme dissatisfaction and vexation. 
 
 " I am sure," said the gentleman, rubbing his forehead ngain ; and 
 drumming on the table as before, " I have good reason to believe that a 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 339 
 
 jog-trot life, the same from day to day, would reconcile one to anything. 
 One don't see anything, one don't hear anything, one don't know any- 
 thing ; that 's the fact. We go on taking everything for granted, and so 
 we go on, until whatever we do, good, bad, or indifferent, we do from 
 habit. Habit is all I shall have to report, when I am called upon to plead 
 to my conscience, on my death-bed. ' Habit,' says I ; ' I was deaf, dumb, 
 blind, and paralytic, to a million things, from habit.' ' Very business- 
 like indeed, Mr. 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 uneasy, though giving his uneasiness this peculiar expression. 
 
 " Miss Harriet," he said, resuming his chair, " I wish you would let 
 me serve you. Look at me ! I ought to look honest, for 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 this, and known you 
 and seen you, any time these dozen years, and that I never have. I hardly 
 know how I ever got here — creature that I am, not only of my own habit, 
 but of other people's ! But having done so, let me do something. I ask 
 it in all honour and respect. You inspire me with both, in the highest 
 degree. Let me do something." 
 
 " We are contented, Sir." 
 
 " No, no, not quite," retm-ned the gentleman. " I think not quite. 
 There are some httle comforts that might smooth your life, and his. And 
 his ! " he repeated, fancying 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 short, of not thinking 
 at all about it. I am different now. Let me do something for him. You 
 too," said the visitor, with careful delicacy, "have need to watch your 
 health closely, for his sake, and I fear it fails." 
 
 " Whoever you may be. Sir," answered Harriet, raising her eyes to his 
 face, "I am deeply grateful to you. I feel certain that in all you say, 
 you 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 me, and so proved his better resolution — any 
 fragment of the merit of his unassisted, obscure, and forgotten reparation 
 — would be to diminish the comfort it wU be to him and me, when that 
 time comes to each of us, of which you spoke just now. I thank you 
 better with these tears than any words. Believe it, pray." 
 
 The gentleman was moved, and put the hand she held out, to his lips, 
 much as a tender father might kiss the hand of a dutiful child. But 
 more reverently. 
 
 " If the day should ever come," said Haniet, " when he is restored, in 
 part, to the position he lost " 
 
 " Kestored ! " cried the gentleman, quickly. " How can that be hoped 
 for ? In Avhose hands does the power of any restoration he ? It is no mis- 
 take of mine, surely, to suppose that his having gained the priceless 
 blessing of his life, is one cause of the animosity shown to him by his 
 brother." 
 
 'z2 
 
340 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 ' " 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 so, inadvertently. And now, as 
 I dare urge no more — as I am not sure that I have a right to do so — 
 though Heaven knows, even that doubt may be habit," said the gentle- 
 men, rubbing his head, as despondently as before, " let me ; though a 
 stranger, yet no stranger ; ask two favours." 
 
 " What are they ? " she inquired. 
 
 " The first, that if you should see cause to change your resolution, you 
 wiU suffer me to be as your right hand. My name shall then be at your 
 service ; it is useless now, and always insignificant." 
 
 " Our choice of friends," she answered, smiling faintly, "is not so great, 
 that I need any time for consideration. I can promise that." 
 
 " The second, that you will allow me sometimes, say every Monday 
 morning, at nine o'clock — habit again — I must be business-like," said the 
 gentleman, with a whimsical inclination to quarrel with himself on that head, 
 " in walking past, to see you at the door or window. I don't ask to come 
 in, as your brother wiU be gone out at that hour. I don't ask to speak to 
 you. I merely ask to see, for the satisfaction of my own mind, that you 
 are well, and without intrusion to remind you, by the sight of me, that you 
 have a friend — an elderly friend, grey-haired already, and fast growing 
 greyer — whom you may ever command." 
 
 The cordial face looked up in his ; confided in it ; and promised. 
 
 "I understand, as before," said the gentleman, rising, "that you 
 purpose not to mention my visit to John Carker, lest 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 things, and — habit again ! " said the gentle- 
 man, checking himself impatiently, " as if there were no better course than 
 the ordinary course ! " 
 
 With that he turned to go, and walking, bare-headed, to the outside of 
 the little porch, took leave of her with such a happy mixture of uncon- 
 strained respect and unaffected interest, as no breeding could have taught, 
 no truth mistrusted, and 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 sympathy had made sad 
 music in her ears ; that the stranger's figure remained present to her, hours 
 afterwards, when she sat at the window, plying her needle ; and his words 
 seemed newly spoken, again and again. He had touched the spring that 
 opened her whole life ; and if she lost him for a short space, it v/as 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 together, and now letting her work fall, 
 unregarded, on her lap, and straying wheresoever her busier thoughts led, 
 Harriet Carker found the hours glide by her, and the day steal on. The 
 morning, which had been bright and clear, gradually became overcast ; a 
 sharp wind set in ; the rain fell heavily ; and a dark mist drooping over 
 the distant town, hid it from the view. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 341 
 
 She often looked with compassion, at such a time, upon the stragglers 
 who came wandering into London, by the great highway hard-by, and who, 
 foot-sore and weary, and gazing fearfully at the huge town before them, 
 as if foreboding that their misery there would be but as a drop of water in 
 the sea, or as a grain of sea-sand on the shore, went shrinking on, cowering 
 before the angry weather, and looking as if the very elements rejected 
 them. Day after day, such travellers crept past, but always, as she 
 thought, in one direction — always towards the town. Swallowed up in one 
 phase or other of its immensity, towards which they seemed impelled by a 
 desperate fascination, they never returned. Food for the hospitals, the 
 churchyards, the prisons, the river, fever, madness, vice, and death, — 
 they passed on to the monster, roaring in the distance, and were lost. 
 
 The chill wind was howling, and the rain was falling, and the day was 
 darkening moodily, when Harriet, raising her eyes from the work on 
 which she had long since been engaged with um-emitting constancy, saw 
 one of these travellers approaching. 
 
 A woman. A solitary woman of some thii-ty years of age ; tall ; well- 
 formed ; handsome ; miserably dressed ; the soil of many country roads 
 in varied weather — dust, chalk, clay, gravel — clotted on her grey cloak 
 by the streaming wet ; no bonnet on her head, nothing to defend her rich 
 black hair from the rain, but a torn handkerchief; with the fluttering 
 ends of which, and with her hair, the wind blinded her, so that she often 
 stopped to push them back, and look upon the way she was going. 
 
 She was in the act of doing so, when Harriet observed her. As her 
 hands, parting on her sun-bm'nt forehead, swept across her face, and threw 
 aside the hindrances that encroached upon it, there 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 : that, coupled with her misery and loneliness, touched 
 the heart of her fellow woman. She thought of all that was perverted and 
 debased within her, no less than without : of modest graces of the mind, 
 hardened and steeled, like these attractions of the person ; of the many 
 gifts of the Creator flung to the winds like the wild hair ; of all the beau- 
 tiful ruin upon which the storm was beating and the night was coming. 
 
 Thinking of this, she 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 on, looking far before her, trying with her eager 
 eyes to pierce the mist in which the city was enshrouded, and glancing, 
 now and then, from side to side, with the bewildered and uncertain aspect 
 of a stranger. Though her tread was bold and courageous, she was 
 fatigued, and after a moment of irresolution, sat down upon a heap of 
 stones ; seeking no shelter from the rain, but 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 hands, her eyes met those of Harriet, 
 
 In a moment, Harriet was at the door ; and the other, rising from her 
 «eat at her beck, came slowly, and with no conciliatory look, towards her, 
 
 " Why do you rest in the rain ? " said Harriet, gently. 
 
 " Because I have no other resting-place," was the reply. ; 
 
342 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " 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 her, in doubt and surprise, but without any 
 expression of thankfulness ; and sitting down, and taking off one of her 
 worn shoes to beat out the fragments of stone and dust that were inside, 
 showed that her foot was cut and bleeding. 
 
 Harriet uttering an expression of pity, the traveller looked up with a 
 contemptuous and incredulous smile. 
 
 " Why, what 's a torn foot to such as me ? " she said. " And what 's 
 a torn foot in such as me, to such as you ? " 
 
 " Come in and wash it," answered Harriet, mildly, " and let me give 
 you something to bind it up." 
 
 The woman caught her arm, and drawing it before her own eyes, hid 
 them against it, and w'ept. Not like a woman, but like a stern man 
 surprised into that weakness ; with a violent heaving of her breast, 
 and struggle for recovery, that showed how unusual the emotion was 
 with her. 
 
 She submitted to be led into the house, and, evidently more in gratitude 
 than in any care for herself, washed and bound the injured place. Har- 
 riet then put before her the fragments of her own frugal dinner, and when 
 she had eaten of them, though sparingly, besought her, before resuming 
 her road (which she showed her anxiety to do), to dry her clothes before 
 the fire. Again, more in gratitude than with any evidence of concern in 
 her own behalf, she sat down in front of it, and unbinding the handker- 
 chief about her head, and letting her thick wet hair fall down below her 
 waist, sat drying it with the palms of her hands, and looking at the 
 blaze. 
 
 " I dare say you are thinking," she said, lifting her head suddenly, 
 " that I used to be handsome, once. 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 ; then, threw it down again, and flung it back as 
 though it were a heap of serpents. 
 
 " Are you a stranger in this place ? " asked Harriet. 
 
 " A stranger ! " she returned, stopping between each short reply, and 
 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 
 tliis part. It 's much altered since I went away." 
 
 " Have you been far ? " 
 
 " Very far. Months upon months over the sea, and far away even 
 then. I have been where convicts go," she added, looking fuU 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 returned, nodding her 
 head at the fire. " If man would help some of us a little more, God 
 would forgive us aU the sooner perhaps." 
 
 But she was softened by the earnest manner, and the cordial face 
 so full of mildness and so free from judgment, of her, and said, less 
 hardUy : 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 34S 
 
 " We may be about tbe same age, you and me. If I am older, it is not 
 above a year or two. Oh think of that ! " 
 
 She opened her arms, as though the exhibition of her outward form 
 would show the moral wretch she was ; and letting them drop at her sides, 
 hung 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 / be penitent, and aU 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 up, bound her handkerchief about her head, and turned to 
 move away. 
 
 " Where are you going? " said Harriet. 
 
 " Yonder," she answered, pointing with her hand. " To London." 
 
 " Have you any home to go to ? " 
 
 " I think I have a mother. She 's as much a mother, as her dwelling 
 is a home," she answered with a bitter laugh. 
 
 " Take this," cried Harriet, putting money in her hand. " Try to do 
 well. It is very little, but for one day it may keep you from harm." 
 
 "Are you married? " said the other, faintly, as she took it. 
 
 " No. I live here with my brother. We have not much to spare, or 
 1 would give you more." 
 
 " Will you let me kiss you? " 
 
 Seeing no scorn or repugnance in her face, the object of lier charity 
 bent over her as she asked the question, and pressed her lips against 
 her cheek. Once more she caught her arm, and covered her eyes with 
 it ; and then was gone. 
 
 Gone into the deepening night, and howling wind, and pelting rain ; 
 lu-ging her way on, towards the mist-enshrouded city where the blurred 
 lights gleamed ; and with her black hair, and disordered head-gear, flut- 
 tering round her reckless face. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 ANOTHER MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 In an ugly and dark room, an old woman, ugly and dark too, sat 
 listening to the wind and rain, and crouching over a meagre fire. More 
 constant to the last-named occupation than the first, she never changed 
 her attitude, unless, when any stray drops of rain fell hissing on the 
 smouldering embers, to raise her head with an awakened attention to the 
 whistling and pattering outside, and gradually to let it fall again lower 
 and lower and lower as she sunk into a brooding state of thought, in 
 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 
 
344 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 asleep, it revealed no objects that needed to be jealous of a better display. 
 Aheap of rags, a heap of bones, a wretched bed, two or three mutilated 
 chairs or stools, the black walls and blacker ceiling, were all its winking 
 brightness shone upon. As the old woman, with a gigantic and distorted 
 image of herself thrown half upon the wall behind her, half upon the 
 roof above, sat bending over the few loose bricks within which it was pent, 
 on 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 favoui'able 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 fire, it would 
 have seemed an illusion wrought by the light, as it came and went, upon 
 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 fire, a glance might have sufficed to recal 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 truth, 
 perhaps, as the shadow on the wall. But Tlorence was not there to look 
 on ; and good Mrs. Brown remained unrecognised, and sat staring at her 
 fire, unobserved. 
 
 Attracted by a louder sputtering than usual, as the rain came hissing 
 down the chimney in a little stream, the old woman raised her head, 
 impatiently, to listen afresh. And this time she did not drop it again ; 
 for there was a hand upon the door, and a footstep in the room. 
 
 " Who 's that ? " she said, looking over her shoulder. 
 
 " One who brings you news," was the answer, in a woman's voice. 
 
 "News? Where from?" 
 
 "From abroad." 
 
 " From beyond seas ? " cried the old woman, starting up. 
 
 " Aye, from beyond seas." 
 
 The old woman raked the fire together, hurriedly, and going close to 
 her visitor who had entered, and shut the door, and who now stood in the 
 middle of the room, put her hand upon the drenched cloak, and turned 
 the unresisting figure, so as to have it in the full light of the fire. She 
 did not find what she had expected, whatever that might be ; for she let 
 the cloak go again, and uttered a querulous cry of disappointment and 
 misery. 
 
 " What is the matter? " asked her visitor. 
 
 " Oho ! Oho ! " cried the old woman, turning her face upward, with 
 a terrible howl. 
 
 "What is the matter ? " asked the visitor again. 
 
 "It's not my gal! " cried the old woman, tossing up her arms, and 
 clasping her hands above her head. " Where 's my Alice ? Where 's my 
 handsome daughter ? They 've been the death of her ! " 
 
 "They have not been the death of her yet, if your name 's Marwood," 
 said the visitor. 
 
 " Have you seen my gal, then ? " 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 woman, wruiging her hands. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. * 345 
 
 " Have you no light here ? " said the otlier, looking round the room. 
 
 The old woman, mumbling and shaking her head, and muttering to 
 herself about her handsome daughter, brought a candle from a cupboard in 
 the corner, and thrusting it into the fire with a trembling hand, hghted it 
 with some difficulty and set it on the table. Its dirty wick burnt dimly 
 at first, being choked in its own grease ; and when the bleared eyes and 
 faihng sight of the old woman could distinguish anything by its light, her 
 visitor was sitting with her arms folded, her eyes turned downwards, 
 and a handkerchief she had worn upon her head lying on the table by her 
 side. 
 
 "She sent to me by word of mouth then, my gal, Alice?" mumbled 
 the old woman, after 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 eyes, looked at the speaker, round the room, and at the 
 speaker once again. 
 
 " Alice said look again, mother ; " and the speaker fixed her eyes 
 upon her. 
 
 Again the old woman looked round the room, and at her visitor, and 
 round the room once more. Hastily seizing the candle, and rising from 
 her seat, she held it to the visitor's face, uttered a loud cry, set down the 
 light, and fell upon her neck ! 
 
 " It 's my gal ! It 's my Alice ! It 's my handsome daughter, living 
 and come back ! " screamed the old woman, rocking herself to and fro 
 upon the breast that coldly suff'ered her embrace. "It's my gal ! It's my 
 Alice ! It 's my handsome daughter, living and come back! " she screamed 
 again, dropping on the floor before her, clasping her knees, laying her 
 head against them, and still rocking herself to and fro with every frantic 
 demonstration of which her vitality was capable. 
 
 " Yes, mother," retui-ned Alice, stooping forward for a moment and 
 kissing her, but endeavouring, even in the act, to disengage herself from 
 her embrace. " I am here, at last. Let go, mother ; let go. Get up, 
 and sit in youi- chair. What good does this do ? " 
 
 " She 's come back harder than she went ! " cried the mother, looking 
 up in her face, and still holding to her knees. " She don't care for me I 
 after all these years, and all the wretched life I 've led ! " 
 
 " Why, mother ! " said Alice, shaking 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 you, and there has been wretchedness for me as 
 well as you. Get up, get up ! " 
 
 Her mother rose, and cried, and wrung her hands, and stood at a little 
 distance gazing on her. Then, she took the candle again, and going 
 round her, surveyed her from head to foot, making a low moaning all the 
 time. Then she put the candle down, resumed her chair, and beating her 
 hands together to a kind of weary tune, and rolling herself from side to 
 side, continued moaning and waihng to herself. 
 
 AUce got up, took off her wet cloak, and laid it aside. That done, she 
 sat down as before, and with her arms folded, and her eyes gazing at the 
 fire, remained silently listening with a contemptuous face to her old mother's 
 inarticulate complainings. 
 
346 • DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "Did you expect to see me return as youthful as I went away, 
 mother ? " she said at length, turning her eyes upon the old woman. 
 " Did you think a foreign life, like mine, was good for good looks ? One 
 would believe so, to hear you ! " 
 
 " It a'nt that ! " cried the mother. " She knows it ! " 
 
 " What is it then ? " returned the daughter. " It had best be some- 
 thing that don't last, mother, or 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 you, mother, for the second time, there have been years for me 
 r.s 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 me, if my own dear mother didn't," 
 she returned, sitting with her folded arms, and knitted brows, and com- 
 pressed lips, as if she were bent on excluding, by force, every softer feel- 
 ing from her breast. " Listen, mother, to a word or two. If we under- 
 stand each other now, we shall not fall out any more, perhaps. I went 
 away a girl, and have come back a w oman. I went away undutiful enough, 
 and have come back no better, you may swear. But have you been very 
 dutiful to me ? " 
 
 " I ! " cried the old woman. " To my own gal ! A mother dutiful to 
 lier own child ! " 
 
 " It sounds unnatural, don't it ? " returned the daughter, looking coldly 
 on her with her stern, regardless, hardy, beautiful face ; " but I have 
 thought of it sometimes, in the coiurse of my lone years, till 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 mowing, and mumbling, and shaking her head, but 
 whether angrily, or remorsefully, or in denial, or only in her physical 
 infirmity, did not appear. 
 
 " There was a child called Alice Marwood," said the daughter, with a 
 laugh, and looking down at herself in terrible derision of herself, " born 
 among poverty and neglect, and nm-sed in it. Nobody taught her, nobody 
 stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her." 
 
 "Nobody! " echoed the mother, pointing to herself, and striking her 
 breast. 
 
 " The only care she knew," returned the daughter, "was to be beaten, 
 and stinted, and abused sometimes ; and she might have done better 
 without that. She lived in homes like this, and in the streets, with 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 late, and 
 taught all wrong. She was too well cared for, too well trained, too well 
 helped on, too much looked after. You were very fond of her — ^j'ou 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 347 
 
 were better off then. What came to that girl, comes to thousands every 
 year. It was only ruin, and 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 still, but deserted and an outcast. And 
 . she was tried, and she was sentenced. And lord, how 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 there, that they had been made curses to her! — and how he 
 preached about the strong arm of the Law — so very strong to save her, 
 Avhen she was an innocent and helpless little wretch ! — and how solemn 
 and religious it all was ! I have thought of that, many times since, to be 
 sure ! " 
 
 She folded her arms tightly on her breast, and laughed in a tone that 
 made the howl of the old woman musical. 
 
 " So Alice Marwood Avas transported, mother," she pursued, " and was 
 sent to learn her duty, where there was twenty times less duty, and more 
 wickedness, and wrong, and infamy, than here. And Alice Marwood is 
 come back a woman. Such a woman as she ought to be, after all this. 
 In good time, there will be more solemnity, and more fine talk, and more 
 strong arm, most likely, and there will be an end of her ; but the gentlemen 
 needn't be afraid of being thrown out of Avork. There's crowds of little 
 wretches, boy and girl, growing up in any of the streets they live in, that'll 
 keep them to it till they 've made their fortunes." 
 
 The old woman leaned her elbows on the table, and resting her face upon 
 her two hands, made a show of being in great distress — or really was, 
 perhaps. 
 
 " There ! I have done, mother," said the daughter, with a motion of her 
 head, as if in dismissal of the subject. " I have said enough. Don't let 
 you and I talk of being dutiful, whatever we do. Your childhood was like 
 mine, I suppose. So much the worse for both of us. I don't want to 
 blame you, or to defend myself; why should I? That's all over, long ago. 
 But I am a woman — not a girl, now — and you and I needn't make a show 
 of our history, like the gentlemen in the Court. We know all about it, well 
 enough." 
 
 Lost and degraded as she was, there was a beauty in her, both of face 
 and form, which, even in its worst expression, could not but be recognised 
 as such by any one regarding her with the least attention. As she subsided 
 into silence, and her face which had been harshly agitated, quieted down ; 
 while her dark eyes, fixed upon the fire, exchanged the reckless light that 
 had animated them, for one that was softened by something like soiTOW ; 
 there shone through all her wayworn misery and fatigue, a ray of the 
 departed radiance of the fallen angel. 
 
 Her mother, after watching her for some time without speaking, ven- 
 tured to steal her withered hand a little nearer to her across the table ; and 
 finding that she permitted this, to touch her face, and smooth her hair. 
 With the feeling, as it seemed, that the old woman was at least sincere in 
 this show of interest, Alice made no movement to check her ; so, advancing 
 
348 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 by degrees, slie bound up her dauglitcv's hair afresh, took off her wet 
 shoes, if they deserved the name, spread something dry upon her shoulders, 
 and hovered humbly about her, muttering to herself, as she recognised her 
 old features and expression more and more. 
 
 "Tou are very poor, mother, I see," said Alice, looking round, when 
 she had sat thus for some time. 
 
 " Bitter poor, my deary," replied the old woman. 
 
 She admired her daughter, and was afraid of her. Perhaps her admiration, 
 such as it was, had originated long ago, when she first found anything that 
 was beautiful appearing in the midst of the squalid fight of her existence. 
 Perhaps her fear was referable, in some sort, to the retrospect she had so 
 lately heard. Be this as it might, she stood, submissively and deferen- 
 tially, before her child, and inclined her head, as if in a pitiful entreaty to 
 be spared any further reproach. 
 
 "How have you lived?" 
 
 " By begging, my deary." 
 
 •' And pilfering, mother ? " 
 
 " Sometimes, Ally — in a very small way. I am old and timid. I have 
 taken trifles from children now and then, my deary, but not often. I 
 have tramped about the country, pet, and I know what I know. I have 
 watched." 
 
 " Watched?" returned the daughter, looking at her. 
 
 " I have hung about a family, my deary," said the mother, even more 
 humbly and submissively than before. 
 
 "What family?" 
 
 " Hush, darling. Don't be angry Avith me. I did it for the love of 
 you. In memory of my poor gal beyond seas." She put out her hand 
 deprecatingly, and drawing it back again, laid it on her lips. 
 
 " Years ago, my deary," she pursued, glancing timidly at the attentive 
 and stern face opposed to her, " I came across his little child, by chance." 
 
 "Whose child?" 
 
 " Not his, Alice deary ; don't look at me like that ; not his. How 
 coidd it be his ? You know he has none." 
 
 " Whose then ?" returned the daughter. " You said his." 
 
 "Hush, Ally; you frighten me, deary. Mr. Dombey's — only Mr. 
 Dombey's. Since then, darling, I have seen them often. I have seen 
 Jiim" 
 
 In uttering this last word, the old woman shrunk and recoiled, as if 
 with a sudden fear that her daughter would strike her. But though the 
 daughter's face was fixed upon her, and expressed the most vehement 
 passion, she remained still : except that she clenched her arms tighter and 
 tighter within each other, on her bosom, as if to restrain them by that 
 means from doing an injury to herself, or some one else, in the bUnd fury 
 of the wrath that suddenly possessed her. 
 
 "Little he thought who I was!" said the old woman, shaking her 
 clenched hand. 
 
 " And little he cared ! " muttered her daughter, between her 
 teeth. 
 
 " But there we were," said the old Avoman, " face to face. I spoke to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 349 
 
 him, and he spoke to me. I sat and watched him as he went away down 
 a long grove of trees ; and at every step he took I cursed him, soul and 
 body/' 
 
 " He will thrive in spite of that," returned the daughter disdainfully. 
 
 " Aye, he 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 up, was no 
 less formidable than the rage itself: no less bespeaking the violent and 
 dangerous character of the woman who made it. But it succeeded, and 
 she asked, after a silence : 
 
 "Is he married?" 
 
 *' No, deary," said the mother. 
 
 " Going to be ? " 
 
 " Not that I know of, deary. But his master and friend is married. 
 Oh, we may give him joy ! We may give 'em all joy ! " cried the old 
 woman, hugging herself with her lean arms in her exultation. " Nothing 
 but joy to us wUl come of that marriage. Mind me ! " 
 
 The daughter looked at her for an explanation. 
 
 " But you are wet and tired ; himgry and thirsty," said the old woman, 
 hobbhng to the cupboard ; " and there 's little here, and little — " diving 
 down into her pocket, and jingUng a few halfpence on the table — "little 
 here. Have you any money, Alice, deary ? " 
 
 The covetous, sharp, eager face, with which she asked the question and 
 looked on, as her daughter took out of her bosom the little gift she had so 
 lately received, told 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 this, but for charity." 
 
 " But for charity, eh, deary ? " said the old woman, bending greedily 
 over the table to look at the money, which she appeared distrustful of her 
 daughter's still retaining in her hand, and gazing on. " Humph ! six and 
 six is twelve and six eighteen — so — we must make the most of it. I 'U 
 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 head, and folding a torn shawl about herself: stiU eyeing the money 
 in her daughter's hand, with the same sharp desire. 
 
 " What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother?" asked the 
 daughter. " You have not told me that." 
 
 " The joy," she replied, attiring herself, with fumbling fingers, " of no 
 love at all, and much pride and hate, my deary. The joy of confusion and 
 strife among 'em, proud as they are, and of danger — danger, Alice ! " 
 
 "What danger?" 
 
 " 1 have seen what I have seen, /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 ! " 
 
 Then, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with which her 
 
350 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 daughter regarded her, her hand involuntarily closed upon the money, the 
 old woman made more speed to secure it, and hurriedly added, " but 1 11 
 go buy something ; I '11 go buy something." 
 
 As she stood with her hand stretched out before her daughter, her 
 daughter, glancing again at the money, put it to her lips before parting 
 with it. 
 
 " What, Ally ! Do you kiss it ? " chuckled the old woman. " That 's 
 like me — I often do. Oh, it 's so good to us ! " squeezing her own 
 tarnished halfpence up to her bag of a throat, " so good to us in every- 
 thing, but not coming in heaps 1 " 
 
 "I kiss it, mother," said the daughter, " or I did then — I don't know 
 that I ever did before — for the giver's sake." 
 
 " The giver, eh, deary ? " retorted the old woman, whose dimmed eyes 
 glistened as she took it. " Aye ! I '11 kiss it for the giver's sake, too, 
 when the giver can make it go farther. But I 'U go spend it, deary. I '11 
 be back directly." 
 
 " You seem to say you know a great deal, mother," said the daughter, 
 following her to the door with her eyes. " You have grown very wise 
 since we parted." 
 
 " Know ! " croaked the old woman, coming back a step or two. " I 
 know more than you think. I know more than he thinks, deaiy, as I 'U 
 tell you by and bye. I know all about him." 
 
 The daughter smiled incredulously. 
 
 " I know of his brother, Alice," said the old woman, stretching out her. 
 neck with a leer of malice absolutely frightful, " who might have been 
 where you have been — for steahng money — and who lives with his sister, 
 over yonder, by the north road out of London." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " By the north road out of London, deary. Y'^ou shall see the house, 
 if you like. It a'nt much to boast of, genteel as his o^vn is. No, no, 
 no," cried the old woman shaking her head, and laughing ; for her 
 daughter had started up, "not now; it's too far off; it's by the mile- 
 stone, where the stones are heaped ; — to-moiTOW deary, if it 's fine, and 
 you are in the humour. But I '11 go spend — " 
 
 " Stop ! " and the daughter flung herself upon her, with her former 
 passion raging like a fu'e. " The sister is a fair-faced Devil, with brown 
 hair?" 
 
 The old woman, amazed and terrified, nodded 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," 
 
 " AUce ! Deary ! " 
 
 " Give me back the money, or you '11 be hurt." 
 
 She forced it fj-om the old woman's hand as she spoke, and utterly indif- 
 ferent to her complainings and entreaties, threw on the garments she had 
 taken off, and hurried out, with headlong speed. 
 
 The mother followed, limping after her as she could, and expostulating 
 with no more efi'ect upon her than upon the wind and rain and darkness 
 
^. 
 
 Qy^^i^ /l€^'<i-c^i(^ a^^?n^ . 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 353 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE HAPPY PAIK. 
 
 The dark blot on the street is gone. Mr. Dombey's mansion, if it be 
 -a gap among the other houses any longer, is only so because it is not to 
 be vied with in its brightness, and haughtily casts them off. The saying 
 is, that home is home, be it never so homely. If it hold good in the 
 opposite contingency, and 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 evening, and the ruddy glow 
 of fires is warm and bright upon the hangings and soft carpets, and the 
 dinner waits to be served, and the dinner-table is handsomely set forth, 
 ■though only for four persons, and the sideboard is cumbrous with plate. 
 It is the first time that the house has been arranged for occupation since 
 its late changes, and the happy pair are looked for every minute. 
 
 Only second to the wedding morning, in the interest and expectation it 
 engenders among the household, is this evening of the coming home. 
 Mrs. Perch is in the kitchen taking tea ; and has made the tour of the 
 establishment, and priced the silks and damasks by the yard, and ex- 
 hausted every interjection in the dictionary and out of it expressive of 
 admiration and wonder. The upholsterer's foreman, who has left his hat, 
 with a pocket-handkerchief in it, both smelling strongly of varnish, under a 
 chair in the haU, lurks about the house, gazing upward at the cornices, 
 and downward at the carpets, and occasionally, in a silent transport of 
 enjoyment, taking a rule out of his pocket, and skirmishingly measuring 
 expensive objects, with unutterable feelings. Cook is in high spirits, and 
 says give lier a place where there 's plenty of company (as she '11 bet you 
 sixpence there wiU be now), for she is of a lively disposition, and she always 
 was from a child, and she don't mind who knows it ; which sentiment 
 ehcits from the breast of Mrs. Perch a responsive murmur of support and 
 approbation. AU the housemaid hopes is, happiness for 'em — but mar- 
 riage is a lottery, and the more she thinks about it, the more she feels the 
 independence and the safety of a single life. Mr. Towlinson is saturnine 
 and grim, and says that 's his opinion too, and give him War besides, and 
 down with the Prench — for this young man has a general impression that 
 every foreigner is a Prenchman, and must be by the laws of nature. 
 
 At each new sound of wheels, they all stop, whatever they are saying, 
 and 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 dinner, which has been put back twice, and 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 
 
 A A 
 
354 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 the emotions that are throbbing in her breast originate in pleasure or in 
 pain, she hardly knows. But the fluttering heart sends added colour to her 
 cheeks, and brightness to her eyes ; and they say down stairs, drawing 
 their heads together — for they always speak softly when they speak of her 
 — how beautiful Miss Florence looks to-night, and what a sweet young 
 lady she has grown, poor dear ! A pause succeeds ; and then Cook, feeling, 
 as president, that her sentiments are waited for, wonders whether — and 
 there stops. The housemaid wonders too, and so does Mrs. Perch, who 
 has the happy social faculty of always wondering when other people 
 wonder, without being at all particular what she wonders at. Mr. Towlin- 
 son, who now descries an opportunity of bringing down the spirits of the 
 ladies to his own level, says wait and see : he wishes some people were 
 well out of this. Cook leads a sigh then, and a murmur of " Ah, it 's a 
 strange world, — it is indeed ! " and when it has gone round the table, 
 adds persuasively, " but Miss Florence can't well be the worse for any 
 change, Tom." Mr. Towlinson's rejoinder, pregnant with frightful mean- 
 ing, is "Oh, can't she though !" and sensible that a mere man can scarcely 
 be more prophetic, or improve upon that, he holds his peace. 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, prepared to greet her darling daughter and dear son-in- 
 law with open arms, is appropriately attired for that purpose in a very 
 youthful costume, with short sleeves. At present, however, her ripe 
 charms are blooming in the shade of her own apartments, whence she has 
 not emerged since she took possession of them a few hours ago, and where 
 she is fast growing fretful, on account of the postponement of dinner. 
 The maid who ought to be a skeleton, but is in truth a buxom damsel, is, 
 on the other hand, in a most amiable state : considering her quarterly 
 stipend much safer than heretofore, and foreseeing a great improvement in 
 her board and lodging. 
 
 Where are the happy pair, for whom this brave home is waiting ? Do 
 steam, tide, wind, and horses, all abate their speed, to linger on such hap- 
 piness ? Does the swarm of loves and graces hovering about them 
 retard their progress by its numbers ? Are there so many flowers in their- 
 ^. happy path, that they can scarcely move along, without entanglement in 
 
 thornless roses, and sweetest briar ? 
 
 They are here at last ! The noise of wheels is heard, grows 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 abght, and walk in arm and 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 turn, and embrace them. 
 
 Florence had come down to the hall too, but did not advance : reserving 
 her timid welcome until these nearer and dearer transports should subside. 
 But the eyes of Edith sought her out, upon the threshold ; and dismissing 
 her sensitive parent with a slight kiss on the cheek, she hurried on to 
 Florence, and embraced her. 
 
 " How do you do, Florence ? " said Mr. Dombey, putting out his hand. 
 
 As Florence, trembling, raised it to her lips, she met his glance. The 
 look was cold and distant enough, but it stirred her heart to thmk that 
 she observed in it something more of interest than he had ever shown 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 355 
 
 before. It even expressed a kind of faint surprise, and not a disagreeable 
 surprise, at sight of her. She dared not raise her eyes to his any more ; 
 but she felt that he looked at her once again, and 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 liim, 
 through her new and beautiful mama ! 
 
 " You will not be long dressing, Mrs. Dombey, I 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 lus own dressing-room, and 
 Mrs. Dombey went up stairs to hers. Mrs. Skewton and Florence 
 repaired to the drawing-room, where that excellent mother considered it 
 incumbent on her to shed a few irrepressible tears, supposed to be forced 
 from her by her daughter's felicity ; and which she was still drying, very 
 gingerly, with a laced corner of her pocket-handkerchief, when her son-in- 
 law appeared. 
 
 " And how my dearest Dombey did you find that delightfullest of cities, 
 Paris ? " she asked, subduing 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. 
 
 " Fie my dearest Dombey ! " archly j " dull 1 " 
 
 "It made that impression upon me. Madam," said Mr. Dombey with 
 grave poUteness. " I believe Mrs. Dombey found it duU too. She men- 
 tioned once or twice that she thought it so." 
 
 "Why, you naughty girl!" cried Mrs. Skewton, rallying her dear 
 child, who 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 garniture, and barely glancing at them as she 
 passed, sat 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 house, positively." 
 
 " It is handsome," said Mr. Dombey, looking round. " I directed that 
 no expense should be spared ; and all that money could do, has been done, 
 I believe." 
 
 "And what can it not do, dear Dombey?" observed Cleopatra. 
 
 "It is powerful. Madam," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 He looked in his solemn way towards Ms wife, but not a word said she. 
 
 " I hope ]\Irs. Dombey," addressing her after a moment's silence, with 
 especial distinctness; "that these alterations meet with your approval?" 
 
 " They are as handsome as they can be," she returned, with haughty 
 carelessness. "They should be so, of course. And I suppose they are." 
 
 An expression of scorn was habitual to the proud face, and seemed 
 inseparable from it ; but the contempt with which it received any appeal 
 to admiration, respect, or consideration on the ground of his riches, no 
 matter how slight or ordinary in itself, was a ne^ and different expression, 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 unequalled in intensity by any other of which it was capable. Whether 
 Mr. Dombey, wrapped in his own greatness, was at all aware of this, or 
 no, there had not been wanting opportunities ah-eady for his complete 
 enlightenment ; and at that moment it might have been effected by the 
 one glance of the dark eye that lighted on him, after 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 do, though it 
 were increased ten thousand fold, could win him for its OAvn sake, one 
 look of softened recognition from the defiant woman, linked to him, but 
 arrayed with her whole soul against him. He might have read in that 
 one glance that even for its sordid and mercenary influence upon herself, 
 she spurned it, while she claimed its utmost power as her right, her 
 bargain — as the base and worthless recompense for which she had 
 become his wife. He might have read in it that, ever baring her own 
 head for the lightning of her own contempt and pride to strike, the 
 most innocent allusion to the power of his riches degraded her anew, sunk 
 her deeper in her own respect, and made the blight and waste within her, 
 more complete. 
 
 But dinner was announced, and 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 dirt, and deigning 
 to bestow no look upon the elegancies around her, she took her place at 
 his board for the first time, and sat, like a statue, at the feast. 
 
 Mr. Dombey, being a good deal in the statue way himself, was well 
 enough pleased to see his handsome wife immoveable and proud and cold. 
 Her deportment being always elegant and graceful, this as a general beha- 
 viour, was agreeable and congenial to him. Presiding, therefore, with his 
 accustomed dignity, and not at all reflecting on his wife by any warmth or 
 hilarity of his own, he performed his share of the honours of the table 
 with a cool satisfaction ; and the installation dinner, though not regarded 
 down-stairs as a great success or very promising beginning, passed off, 
 above, in a sufficiently polite, genteel, and frosty manner. 
 
 Soon after tea, Mrs. Skewton, who affected to be quite overcome and worn 
 out by her emotions of happiness, arising in the contemplation of her dear 
 child united to the man of her heart, but who, there is reason to suppose, 
 found this family party somewhat dull, as she yawned for one hour conti- 
 nually behind her fan, retired to bed. Edith, also, silently withdrew and 
 came back no more. Thus, it happened that Florence, who had been 
 up-stairs to have some conversation with Diogenes, returning to the draw- 
 ing-room with her little work-basket, found no one there but her father, 
 who was walking to and fro, in dreary magnificence. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Shall I go away, Papa? " said Florence faintly, 
 hesitating at the door. 
 
 " No," returned Mr. Dombey, looking round over his shoulder ; "you 
 can come and go here, Florence, as you please. This is not my private 
 
 room." 
 
 Florence entered, and sat down at a distant Kttle table with her work : 
 finding herself for the first time in her Hfe — for the very first time within 
 her memory from her infancy to that hour — alone with her father, as his 
 companion. She, his natural companion, his only child, who in her 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 357 
 
 lonely life and grief had known tlie suffering of a breaking heart ; who, in 
 her rejected love, had never breathed his name to God at night, but with a 
 tearful blessing, heavier on him than a curse; who had prayed to die 
 young, so she might only die in his arms ; who had, all through, repaid 
 the agony of slight and coldness, and dislike, with patient unexacting love, 
 excusing him, and pleading for him, like his better angel! 
 
 She trembled, and her eyes were dim. His iigure seemed to grow in height 
 and bulk before her as he paced the room : now it was all blurred and 
 indistinct ; now clear again, and plain ; and now she seemed to think that 
 this had happened, just the same, a multitude of years ago. She yearned 
 towards him, and yet shrunk from his approach. Unnatural emotion in a 
 child, innocent of wrong ! Unnatural the hand that had directed the sharp 
 plough, which furrowed up her gentle nature for the sowing of its seeds ! 
 
 Bent upon not distressing or offending him by her distress, Florence 
 controlled herself, and sat quietly at her work. After a few more turns 
 across and across the room, he left off pacing it ; and withdrawing into a 
 shadowy corner at some distance, where there was an easy chair, covered 
 his head with a handkerchief, and composed himself to sleep. 
 
 It was enough for Florence to sit there, watching him ; tm-ning her 
 eyes towards his chair from time to time ; watching him with her thoughts, 
 when her face was intent upon her work ; and sorrowfully glad to think 
 that he could sleep, while she was there, and 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 face, by accident or by 
 design, was so adjusted that his sight was free, and that it never wandered 
 from her face an instant. That when she looked towards him, in the 
 obscure dark corner, her speaking eyes, more earnest and pathetic in their 
 voiceless speech than all the orators of aU the world, and impeaching him 
 more nearly in their mute address, met his, and did not know it. That 
 when she bent her head again over her work, he drew his breath more 
 easily, but with the same attention looked upon her still — upon her white 
 brow and her falling hair, and busy hands ; and once attracted, seemed to 
 have no power to tm-n his eyes away ! 
 
 A.nd 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 feel her disregarded claims, and did they touch him home at last, 
 and waken him to some sense of his cruel injustice ? 
 
 There are yielding moments in the lives of the sternest and harshest 
 men, though such men often keep their secret well. The sight of her 
 in her beauty, almost changed into a woman without his knowledge, 
 may 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 his feet — had overlooked it in his stiff-necked 
 sullen arrogance, and wandered away and lost himself, may have engen- 
 dered them. Some simple eloquence distinctly heard, though only uttered 
 in her eyes, unconscious that he read them, as " By the death-beds I 
 have tended, by the childhood I have suffered, by our meeting in this 
 dreary house at midnight, by the cry wrung from me in the anguish of my 
 heart, oh, father, turn to me and seek a refuge in my love before it is too 
 
358 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 late ! " may have arrested them. Meaner and lower thoughts, as that his dead 
 boy was now superseded by new ties, and he could forgive the having been 
 supplanted in his affection, may have occasioned them. The mere asso- 
 ciation of her as an ornament, with all the ornament and pomp about him, 
 may have been sufficient. But as he looked, he softened to her, more and 
 more. As he looked, she became blended with the child he had loved, and 
 he could hardly separate the two. As he looked, he saw her for an instant 
 by a clearer and a brighter light, not bending over that child's pillow as his 
 rival — monstrous thought — but as the spirit of his home, and in the 
 action tending himself no less, as 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 her, and call her to him. The words "Florence, come here!" Avere 
 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 
 robe, and unbound her hair, which fell freely about her neck. But this 
 was not the change in her that startled him. 
 
 " Florence, dear," she said, " I have been looking for you everywhere." 
 
 As she sat down by the side of Florence, she stooped and kissed her hand. 
 He liardly 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 
 manner, the tone of her voice, the bght of her eyes, the interest, and con- 
 fidence, and winning wish to please, expressed in all — this was not Edith. 
 
 " Softly, dear Mama. Papa is asleep." 
 
 It was Edith now. She looked towards the comer where he was, and 
 he knew that face and manner very well. 
 
 "I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence." 
 
 Again, how altered and how softened, in an instant ! 
 
 "I left here early," pursued Edith, "purposely to sit up-stairs and 
 talk with you. But, going to your room, I found my bird was flown, and 
 I have been waiting there ever since, expecting its return." 
 
 If it had been a bird, indeed, she could not have taken it more tenderly 
 and gently to her breast, than she did Florence. 
 
 " Come, dear ! " 
 
 " Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he wakes," hesi- 
 tated Florence. 
 
 " Do you think he will, Florence ? " said Edith, looking full upon her. 
 
 Florence drooped her head, and rose, and put up her work-basket. 
 Edith drew her hand through her arm, and they went out of the room like 
 sisters. Her very step was different and new to him, Mr. Dombey 
 thought, as his eyes followed her to the door. 
 
 He sat in his shadowy corner so long, that the church clocks struck 
 the hour three times before he moved that night, AU that while his face 
 was still intent upon the spot where Florence had been seated. The room 
 grew darker, as the candles waned and went out ; but a darkness gathered 
 on his face, exceeding any that the night could cast, and rested there^ 
 
 Florence and Edith, seated before the fire in the remote room where 
 little Paul had died, talked together for a long time. Diogenes, who was 
 of the party, had at first objected to the admission of Edith, and, even 
 in deference to his mistress's wish, had only permitted it under growling 
 protest. But, emerging by Kttle and little from the ante-room, whither 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 359 
 
 he had retired in dudgeon, he soon appeared to comprehend, that 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 two, in a very hot place 
 in front of the fire, and sat panting at it, with his tongue out, and a most 
 imbecile expression of countenance, listening to the conversation. 
 
 It turned, at first, on 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 heart, 
 and she said, with the tears starting to her eyes : 
 
 " Oh, Mama ! I have had a great sorrow since that day." 
 
 " You a great sorrow, Florence ! " 
 ■ " Tes. Poor Walter is drowned." 
 
 Florence spread her hands before her face, and wept with all her heart. 
 Many as were the secret tears which Walter's fate had cost her, they 
 flowed yet, when she thought or spoke of him. 
 
 "But tell me, dear," said Edith, soothing her. "Who was Walter? 
 What was he to you?" 
 
 " He was my larother, Mama. After dear Paul died, we said we woidd 
 be brother and sister. I had known him a long time — from a little child. 
 He knew Paul, who liked him very much ; Paul said, almost at the last, 
 • Take care of Walter, dear Papa ! I was fond of him ! ' Walter had 
 been brought in to see him, and was there then — in this room." 
 
 " And did he take care of Walter ? " inquired Edith, sternly. 
 
 " Papa ? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in ship- 
 wreck on his voyage," said Florence, sobbing. 
 
 " Does he know that he is dead ? " asked Edith. 
 
 " I cannot tell, Mama. I have no means of knowing. Dear Mama ! " 
 cried Florence, cHnging to her as for help, and hiding her face upon her 
 bosom, " I know that you have seen — " 
 
 " Stay ! Stop, Florence." Edith turned so pale, and spoke so ear- 
 nestly, that Florence did not need her restreining hand upon her lips. 
 " Tell me all about Walter first ; let me understand this history all 
 through." 
 
 Florence related it, and everything belonging to it, even down to the 
 friendship of Mr. Toots, of whom she could hardly speak in her distress 
 without a tearful smile, although she was deeply grateful to him. When 
 she had concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith, holding her 
 hand, listened with close attention, and when a silence had succeeded, 
 Edith said : 
 
 " What is it that you know I have seen, Florence ? " 
 
 " That I am not," said Florence, with the same mute appeal, and the 
 same quick concealment of her face as before, " that I am not a favom'ite 
 child. Mama. I never have been, I have never known how to be. I 
 have missed the way, and had no one to show it to me. Oh, let me learn 
 from you how to become dearer to Papa. Teach me ! you, who can 
 so well ! " and clinging closer to her, with some broken fervent words of 
 gratitude and endearment, Florence, relieved of her sad secret, wept long, 
 but not as painfully as of yore, within the encircling arms of her new 
 mother. 
 
 Pale, even to her lips, and with a face that strove for composui-e until 
 
360 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 its proud beauty was as fixed as death, Edith looked down upon the- 
 weeping girl, and once kissed her. Then, gradually disengaging herself, 
 and putting Florence away, she said, stately and quiet, as a marble image, 
 and in a voice that deepened as she spoke, but had no other token of 
 emotion in it : 
 
 " Florence, you do not know me ! Heaven forbid that you should learn 
 from me ! " 
 
 "Not learn from you?" repeated Florence, in surprise. 
 
 " That I should teach youhow to love, or be loved, Heaven forbid ! " said 
 Edith. " If you could teach me, that were better ; but it is too late. 
 You are dear to me, Florence. I did not think that anything could ever be 
 so dear to me, as you are in this little time." 
 
 She saw that Florence would have spoken here, so checked her with her 
 hand, and went on. 
 
 " I will be your true friend always. I will cherish you, as much, if not 
 as well as any one in this world could. You may trust in me — I know it 
 and I say it, dear — with the whole confidence even of your pure heart. 
 There are hosts of women whom he might have married, better and truer in 
 aU other respects than I am, Florence ; but there is not one who could come 
 here, his wife, whose heart could beat with greater truth to you than 
 mine does." 
 
 " I know it, dear 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 mine, for I thought little of you 
 until I saw you, let the undeserved reward be mine in your trust and 
 love. And in this — in this, Florence ; on the first night of my taking up 
 my abode here ; I am led on as it is best I should be, to say it for the first 
 and last time," 
 
 Florence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to hear her proceed, 
 but kept her eyes rivetted on the beautiful face so fixed upon her own. 
 
 " Never seek to find in me," said Edith, laying her hand upon her breast,. 
 " what is not here. Never if you can help it, Florence, fall ofi" from me 
 because it is not here. Little by little you will know me better, and the 
 time win come when you wiU know me, as I know myself. Then, be as 
 lenient to me as you can, and 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 
 Florence, showed that the composed face was but as a handsome mask j 
 but she preserved it, and continued : 
 
 "I have seen what you say, and know how true it is. But believe me 
 — ^you wiU soon, if you cannot now — there is no one on this earth less 
 qualified to set it right or help you, Florence, than I. Never ask me 
 why, or speak to me about it or of my husband, more. There should be, 
 so far, a division, and a silence between us two, like the grave itself." 
 
 She sat for some time silent ; Florence scarcely venturing to breathe 
 meanwhile, as dim and imperfect shadows of the truth, and all its daily 
 consequences, chased each other through her terrified, yet 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 
 aspect, which it usually wore when she and Florence were alone together. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 361 
 
 She shaded it, after this change, with her hands ; and when she arose, 
 and with an affectionate embrace bade Florence good night, went quickly, 
 and without looking round. 
 
 But when Florence was in bed, and the room was dark except for the 
 glow of the fire, Edith returned, and saying that she could not sleep, and that 
 her dressing-room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth, and watched 
 the embers as they died away. Florence watched them too from her bed, 
 until they, and the noble figure before them, crowned with its flowing 
 hair, and in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back their light, became con- 
 fused and indistinct, and finally were lost in slumber. 
 
 In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an undefined impression 
 of what had so recently passed. It formed the subject of her dreams, and 
 haunted her ; now in one shape, now in another ; but always oppressively; 
 and with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seeking her father in wilder- 
 nesses, of 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 what, or why — yet never 
 being able to attain the goal and set him free. Then, she saw him dead, 
 upon that very bed, and in that very room, and knew that he had never 
 loved her to the last, and fell upon his cold breast, passionately weeping. 
 Then, a prospect opened, and a river flowed, and a plaintive voice she 
 knew, cried, " It is running on, Floy ! It has never stopped ! You are 
 moving with it ! " And she saw him at a distance stretching out his arms 
 towards her, while a figure such as Walter's used to be, stood near him, 
 awfuUy serene and still. In every vision, Edith came and went, some- 
 times to her joy, sometimes to her sorrow, until they were alone upon 
 the brink of a dark grave, and Edith pointing down, she looked and saw 
 — what ! — another Edith lying at the bottom. 
 
 In the terror of this dream, she cried out, and awoke, she thought. A 
 soft voice seemed to whisper in her ear, " Florence, dear Florence, it is no- 
 thing but a dream ! " and stretching out her arms, she returned the caress 
 of her new mama, who then went out at the door in the light of the grey 
 morning. In a moment, Florence sat up wondering whether this had 
 reaUy taken place or not ; but she was only certain that it was grey 
 morning indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire were on the 
 hearth, and that she was alone. 
 
 So passed the night on which the happy pair came home. 
 
 CHAPTEH XXXVI. 
 
 HOUSEWARMING. 
 
 Many succeeding days pasted in like manner ; except that there were 
 numerous visits received and paid, and that Mrs. Skewton held little 
 levees in her own apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent 
 attendant, and that Florence encountered no second look from her father, 
 although she saw him every day. Nor had she much communication 
 in words with her new mama, who was imperious and proud to all the 
 house but her — Florence could not but observe that — and who, although 
 
362 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 slie always sent for her or went to her when she came home from visiting, 
 and would always go into her room at night, before retiring to rest, how- 
 ever late the hour, and never lost an opportunity of being with her, was 
 often her silent and thoughtful companion for a long time together. 
 
 Florence, who had hoped for so much from this marriage, could 
 not help sometimes comparing the bright house with the faded dreary 
 place out of which it had aiisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it 
 would begin to be a home ; for that it was no home then, for any one, 
 though everytliing went on* luxuriously and regularly, she had always a 
 secret misgiving. Many an hour of sorrowful reflection by day and night, 
 and many a tear of blighted hope, Florence bestowed upon the assurance 
 her new mama had given her so strongly, that 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 well, how hopeless of 
 being subdued or changed her father's coldness to her was, so she had 
 given her this warning, and forbidden the subject, in very compassion. 
 Unselfish here, as in her every act and fancy, Florence preferred to bear 
 the pain of this new wound, rather than encourage any faint foreshadow- 
 ings of the truth as it concerned her father ; tender of him, even in her 
 wandering thoughts. As for his home, she hoped it would become a better 
 one, when its state of novelty and transition should be over ; and for 
 herself, thought little and lamented less. 
 
 If none of the new family were particularly at home in private, it was 
 resolved that Mi-s. Dombey at least should be at home in public, without 
 delay. A series of entertainments in celebration of the late nuptials, and in 
 cultivation of society, were arranged, chiefly 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 evening, and by Mr. and 
 Mrs. Dombey's requesting the honour of the company of a great many 
 incongruous people to dinner on the same day. 
 
 Accordingly Mr. Dombey produced a list of sundry eastern magnates 
 who were to be bidden to this feast, on his behalf; to which Mrs. Skewton, 
 acting for her dearest child, who was haughtily careless on the subject, 
 subjoined a western list, comprising Cousin Feenix, not yet returned to 
 Baden Baden, greatly to the detriment of his personal estate ; and a variety 
 of moths of various degrees and ages, who had, at various times, fluttered 
 round the light of her fair daughter, or herself, without any lasting 
 injury to their wings. Florence was enrolled as a member of the dinner- 
 party, by Edith's command — elicited by a moment's doubt and hesi- 
 tation on the part of Mrs. Skewton ; and Florence, with a wondering heart, 
 and with a quick instinctive sense of everything that gTated on her father, 
 in the least, took her silent share in the proceedings of the day. 
 
 The proceedings commenced by Mr. Dombey, in a cravat of extraor- 
 dinary height and stift'ness, walking restlessly about the drawing-room 
 until the hour appointed for dinner ; punctual to which, an East India 
 Dii-ector, of immense wealth, in a waistcoat apparently constructed in 
 serviceable deal by some plain carpenter, but reaUy engendered in the 
 tailor's art, and composed of the material called nankeen, arrived, and 
 was received by Mi*. Dombey alone. The next stage of the proceedings 
 was ]VIr. Dombey's sending his compliments to Mr. Dombey, with as 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 363 
 
 correct statement of the time ; and the next, the East India Director's 
 falling prostrate, in a conversational point of view, and, as Mr. Dombey 
 was not the man to pick him up, staring at the fire untd rescue appeared, 
 in the shape of Mrs. Skewton ; whom the Director, as a pleasant start 
 in life for the evening, mistook for Mrs. Dombey, and greeted with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 The next arrival was a Bank Director, reputed to be able to buy up 
 anything — human Nature generally, if he should take it in his head to 
 influence the money market in that direction — but who was a wonderfully 
 modest spoken man, almost boastfully so, and mentioned his " little place" 
 at Kingston-upon-Thames, and its just being barely equal to giving Dombey 
 a bed and a chop, if he would come and visit it. Ladies, he said, it 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. Dombey, should ever find them- 
 selves in that direction, and would do him the honour to look at a 
 little bit of a shrubbery they would find there, and a poor little flower-bed 
 or so, and a humble apology for a pinery, and two or three little attempts 
 of that sort without any pretension, they would distinguish him very much. 
 Carrying out his character, this gentleman was very plainly dressed, in a 
 wisp of cambric for a neckcloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for him, 
 and a pair of trowsers that were too spare ; and mention being made of 
 the Opera by Mrs. Skewton, he said he very seldom went there, for he 
 couldn't afi^ord it. It seemed greatly to delight and exhilarate him to 
 say so ; and he beamed on his audience afterwards, with his hands in 
 his pockets, and excessive satisfaction twinkling in his eyes. 
 
 Now Mrs. Dombey appeared, beautiful and proud, and 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 
 together, the 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 his, and Edith's indifference was too supreme to take the least 
 heed of him. 
 
 The arrivals quickly became numerous. More directors, chau-men of 
 pubUc companies, elderly ladies carrying burdens on their heads for fuU 
 dress. Cousin Feenix, Major Bagstock, friends of Mrs. Skewton, with 
 the same bright bloom on their complexion, and very precious necklaces 
 on very withered necks. Among these, a young lady of sixty -five, remai'kably 
 coolly dressed as to her back and shoulders, who spoke with an engaging 
 lisp, and whose eyeUds wouldn't keep up well, without a great deal of 
 trouble on her part, and 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 taciturn, and the greater part of 
 Mrs. Dombey's list were disposed to be talkative, and there was no 
 sj'mpathy between them, Mrs. Dombey's hst, by magnetic agreement, 
 entered into a bond of union against Mr, Dombey's list, who, wandering 
 about the rooms in a desolate manner, or seeking refuge in corners, 
 entangled themselves with company coming in, and became barricaded 
 behind sofas, and had doors opened smartly from without against their 
 heads, and underwent every sort of discomforture. 
 
 When dinner was announced, Mr, Dombey took down an old lady like 
 
364 DOMBEY AND SON 
 
 a crimson velvet pincustion stuffed witli bank notes, who might have 
 been the identical old lady of Threadneedle-street, she was so rich, and 
 looked so unaccommodating ; Cousin Teenix. took down Mrs. Dombey ; 
 Major Bagstock took down Mrs. Skewton; the young thing with the 
 shoulders was bestowed, as an extinguisher, upon the East India Director j 
 and the remaining ladies Avere left on view in the drawing-room by the 
 remaining gentlemen, until a forlorn hope volunteered to conduct them 
 down stairs, and those brave spirits with their captives blocked up the 
 dining-room door, shutting out seven mild men in the stony-hearted hall. 
 When aU the rest were got in and were seated, one of these mild men still 
 appeared, in smiling confusion, totally destitute and unprovided for, and, 
 escorted by the butler, made the complete circuit of the table twice before 
 his chair could be found, which it finally was, on Mrs. Dombey's left hand y 
 after which the mild man never held up his head again. 
 
 Now, the spacious dining-room, with the company seated round the 
 glittering table, busy with their ghttering spoons, and knives and forks, 
 and plates, might have been taken for a grown-up exposition of Tom 
 Tiddler's ground, where children pick up gold and silver. ]\Ir. Dombey, 
 as Tiddler, looked his character to admiration ; and the long plateau of 
 precious metal frosted, separating him from Mrs. Dombey, Avhereon frosted 
 Cupids offered scentless flowers to each of them, was allegorical to see. 
 
 Cousin Feenix was in great force, and 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 Eeenix with sentiments of tenderness, had entrapped 
 the East India Director into leading her to the chair next him; in return 
 for which good office, she immediately abandoned the Director, who being 
 shaded on the other side by a gloomy black velvet hat surmounting a 
 bony and speechless female with a fan, yielded to a depression of spirits 
 and withdrew into himself. Cousin Eeenix and the young lady were very 
 lively and humorous, and the young lady laughed so much at something 
 Cousin Eeenix related to her, that Major Bagstock begged leave to inquu-e 
 on behalf of Mrs. Skewton (they were sitting opposite, a little lower 
 down), whether that might not be considered public property. 
 
 " Why, upon my life," said Cousin Eeenix, " there 's nothing in it ; 
 it reaUy is not worth repeating : in point of fact, it 's merely an anecdote 
 of Jack Adams. I dare say my friend Dombey ; " for the general atten- 
 tion was concentrated on Cousin Feenix ; " may remember Jack Adam's, 
 Jack Adams, not Joe ; that was his brother. Jack — little Jack — man with 
 a cast in his eye, and a slight impediment in his speech — man who sat for 
 somebody's borough. We used to call him in my parliamentary time W. P. 
 Adams, in 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. Dombey, who was as likely to have known Guy Eawkes, replied in 
 the negative. But one of tlie seven mild men unexpectedly leaped into 
 distinction, by saying he had known him, and adding — "always wore 
 Hessian boots ! " 
 
 " Exactly," said Cousin Eeenix, bending forward to see the mild man, and 
 smile encom-agement at him down the table. " That was Jack. Joe wore — " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 365 
 
 *' Tops ! " cried the mild man, rising 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 fellow, Jack ? " said Cousin Feenix, again bending 
 forward, and smiling. 
 
 "Excellent," returned the mild man, becoming 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 that, he leaned back in his chair and smiled at 
 the ceiling, as knowing it by heart, and being already tickled. 
 
 " In point of fact, it 's nothing of a story in itself," said Cousin Feenix, 
 addressing the table with a smile, and 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 is, that Jack was invited down to a marriage — which 
 I think took place in Barkshire ? " 
 
 " Shropshire," said the bold mild man, finding 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 mar- 
 riage in Anyshire," with a pleasant sense of the readiness of this joke, 
 " goes. Just as some of us, having had the honour of being invited to the 
 marriage of my lovely and accomplished relative with my friend Dombey, 
 ■didn't require to be asked twice, and were devilish glad to be present on 
 so interesting an occasion. — Goes — Jack goes. Now, this marriage was, 
 in point of fact, the marriage of an uncommonly fine girl with a man for 
 whom she didn't care a button, but whom she accepted on account of his 
 property, which was immense. When Jack returned to town, after the 
 nuptials, a man he knew, meeting him in the lobby of the House of Com- 
 mons says, ' Well Jack, how are the ill-matched couple ? ' ' Ill-matched,' 
 says Jack. ' Not at all. It 's a perfectly fair and equal transaction. She is 
 regularly bought, and you may take your oath ke is as regularly sold ! " 
 
 In his fuU enjoyment of this culminating point of his story the shudder, 
 which had gone all round the table hke an electric spark, struck Cousin 
 Feenix, and he stopped. Not a smile occasioned by the only general topic 
 of conversation broached that day, appeared on any face. A profound 
 silence ensued; and the wretched mild man, who had been as innocent of 
 any real foreknowledge of the story as the child unborn, had 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 one, and being cast in its mould 
 of state that day, showed little other apprehension of the story, if any, 
 than that which he expressed when he said solemnly, amidst the silence, 
 that it was " Very good." There was a rapid glance from Edith towards 
 Florence, but otherwise she remained, externally, impassive and unconscious. 
 
 Through the various stages of rich meats and wines, continual gold and 
 silver, dainties of earth, air, fire, and water, heaped-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 knocks, announcing the arrival of visitors, whose portion 
 of the feast was limited to the smell thereof. W^hen Mrs. Dombey rose, 
 
366 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 it was a sight to see her lord, with stiif throat and erect head, hold 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 sight, behind the decanters, in a state of 
 dignity ; and the East India Director was a forlorn sight near the unoccu- 
 pied end of the table, in a state of solitude ; and the Major was a military 
 sight, relating 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 sight, making a plan of his little attempt at a pinery, with dessert- 
 knives, for a group of admirers ; and Cousin Feenix was a thoughtful 
 sight, as he smoothed his long wristbands and stealthily adjusted his wig. 
 But all these sights were of short duration, being speedily broken up by 
 cofiee, and the desertion of the room. 
 
 There was a throng in the state-rooms up-stairs, increasing every 
 minute ; but stiU Mr. Dombey's list of visitors appeared to have some 
 native impossibility of amalgamation with Mrs. Dombey's list, and no one 
 could have doubted which was which. The single exception to this rule 
 perhaps was Mr. Carker, who now smiled among the company, and who, 
 as he stood in the circle that was gathered about Mrs. Dombey — watchful 
 of her, of them, his chief, Cleopatra and the Major, Florence, and every- 
 thing around — appeared at ease with both divisions of guests, and not 
 marked as exclusively belonging to either. 
 
 Florence had a dread of him, which made his presence in the room a 
 nightmare to her. She could not avoid the recollection of it, for her eyes 
 were drawn towards him every now and then, by 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 unsought, but in the 
 gentleness of her quiet spirit — she felt how little part her father had in 
 what was going on, and saw, with pain, how ill at ease he seemed to be, 
 and how little regarded he was as he lingered about near the door, for 
 those visitors whom he wished to distinguish with particular attention, 
 and took them up to introduce them to his wife, who received them 
 with proud coldness, but showed no interest or wish to please, and never, 
 after the bare ceremony of reception, in consultation of his wishes, or in 
 welcome of his friends, opened her lips. It was not the less perplexing 
 or painful to Florence, that she who acted thus, treated her so kindly and 
 with such loving consideration, that it almost seemed an ungrateful return 
 on her part even to know of what was passing before her eyes. 
 
 Happy Florence would have been, might she have ventured to bear her 
 father company, by so much as a look ; and happy Florence was, in little 
 suspecting the main cause of his uneasiness. But afraid of seeming to 
 know that he was placed at any disadvantage, lest he should be resentful 
 of that knowledge ; and divided between her impulse towards him, and 
 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 crowd, that it might have been better for them if this 
 noise of tongues and tread of feet had never come there, — if the old dul- 
 ness and. decay had never been replaced by novelty and splendour, — ^if the 
 neglected child had found no friend in Edith, but had lived her solitary 
 life, unpitied and forgotten. 
 
 Mrs. Chick had some such thoughts too, but they were not so quietly 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 367 
 
 developed in her mind. This good matron had been outraged in the first 
 instance by not receiving an invitation to dinner. That blow partially 
 recovered, she had gone to a vast expense to make such a figure before 
 Mrs.Bombey at home, as shoidd dazzle the senses of that lady, and heap 
 mortification, mountains high, on 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 one, my dear," assented Mr. Chick, who was seated by the side of 
 Mrs. Chick against the wall, and could console himself, even there, by 
 softly whistling. 
 
 " Does it at all appear as if I was wanted here ? " exclaimed Mrs. Chick, 
 with flashing eyes. 
 
 " No my dear, I don't think it does," said Mr. Chick. 
 
 " Paul 's mad ! " said Mrs. Chick. 
 
 Mr. Chick whistled. 
 
 " Unless you are a monster, which I sometimes think you are," said Mrs. 
 Chick with candour, " don't sit there humming tunes. How any one with 
 the most distant feelings of a man, can see that mother-in-law of Paid's, 
 dressed as she is, going on like that, with Major Bagstock, for whom, 
 among other precious things, we are indebted to your Lucretia Tox — " 
 
 " My Lucretia Tox, my dear ! " said Mr. Chick, astounded. 
 
 " Yes," retorted Mrs. Chick, with great severity, ^'your Lucretia Tox — 
 I say how anybody can see that mother-in-law of Paul's, and that haughty 
 wife of Paul's, and these indecent old frights with their backs and shoulders, 
 and in short this at home generally, and hum — ," on which word IMrs. 
 Chick laid a scornful emphasis that made Mr. Chick start, " is, I thank 
 Heaven, a mystery to me ! " 
 
 Mr. Chick screwed his mouth into a form irreconcileable with humming 
 or whistling, and looked very contemplative. 
 
 " But I hope I know what is due to myself," said Mrs. Chick, swelling 
 with indignation, " though Paul has forgotten what is due to me. I am 
 not going to sit here, a member of this family, to be taken no notice of. 
 I am not the dirt under Mrs. Dombey's feet, yet — not quite yet," said Mrs, 
 Chick, as if she expected to become so, about 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 words, and took the arm of Mr. Chick, 
 who escorted her from the room, after 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) were, as a body, indignant with Mrs. Dombey's 
 list, for looking at them through eye-glasses, and audibly wondering who 
 all those people were ; while Mrs. Dombey's list complained of weariness, 
 and the young thing with the shoulders, deprived of the attentions of that 
 gay youth Cousin Peenix (who went away from the dinner-table), confi- 
 dentially alleged to thirty or forty friends that she was bored to death. 
 All the old ladies with the burdens on their heads, had greater or less cause 
 of complaint against Mrs. Dombey; and the Directors and Chairmen 
 coincided in thinking that if Dombey must marry, he had better have 
 
368 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 married somebody nearer Ws own age, not quite so handsome, and a little 
 better off. The general opinion among this class of gentlemen was, that 
 it was a weak thing in Dombey, and he'd live to repent it. Hardly anybody 
 there, except the mild men, stayed, or went away, without considering 
 himself or herself neglected and aggrieved by Mr. Dombey or Mrs. Dom- 
 bey ; 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 corrupted, 
 either from their curdling it with too much lemonade, or from the general 
 inoculation that prevailed ; and they made sarcastic jokes to one another, 
 and wirspered disparagement on stairs and in bye-places. The general 
 dissatisfaction and discomfort so diffused itself, that the assembled foot- 
 men in the hall were as well acquainted with it as the company above. 
 Nay, the very linkmen outside got hold of it, and compared the party 
 to a funeral out of mourning, with none of the company remembered in 
 the will. 
 
 At last, the guests were all gone, and the linkmen too ; and the street, 
 crowded so long with carriages, was clear ; and the dying lights showed 
 no one in the rooms, but Mr. Dombey and Mr. Carker, who were talking 
 together apart, and Mi's. Dombey and her mother : the former seated on 
 an ottoman ; the latter reclining in the Cleopatra attitude, awaiting the 
 arrival of her maid. Mr. Dombey having finished his communication to 
 Carker, the 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. Dombey, advancing, " has sufficiently spared 
 herself fatigue, to relieve you from any anxiety of that kind. I regret 
 to say, Mrs. Dombey, that I could have wished you had fatigued yourself 
 a little more on this occasion." 
 
 She looked at him with a supercilious glance, that it seemed not worth 
 her while to protract, and turned away her eyes without speaking. 
 
 " I am sorry. Madam," said Mr. Dombey, " that you should not have 
 thought it your duty — " 
 
 She looked at him again. 
 
 " Your duty. Madam," 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 manner, Mrs. Dombey, confer 
 a distinction upon you, I must tell you, in any visit they pay you." 
 
 " Do you know that there is some one here ? " she returned, now 
 looking at him steadily. 
 
 " No ! Carker ! I beg that you do not. I insist that you do not," 
 cried Mr. Dombey, stopping that noiseless gentleman in his withdrawal. 
 " Mr. Carker, Madam, as you know, possesses my confidence. He is as 
 well acquainted as myself with the subject on which I speak. I beg to 
 tell you, for your information, Mrs. Dombey, that I consider these wealthy 
 and important persons confer a distinction upon me : " and Mr. Dombey 
 drew himself up, as having now rendered them of the highest possible 
 importance. 
 
 " I ask you," she repeated, bending her disdainful, steady gaze upon 
 him, " do you know that there is some one here. Sir ? " 
 
 " I must entreat," said Mr, Carker, stepping forward, " I must beg, I 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 369 
 
 must demand, to be released. SHgtt and unimportant as tliis difference 
 is—" 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, wlio had been intent upon her daughter's face, took him 
 up here. 
 
 " My sweetest Edith," she said, " and my dearest Dombey ; our excel- 
 lent friend Mr. Carker, for so I am sure I ought to mention him — " 
 
 Mr. Carker murmured, " Too much honour." 
 
 " — has used the very words that were in my mind, and that I have 
 been dying, these ages, for an opportunity of introducing. Slight and 
 unimportant ! My sweetest Edith, and my dearest Dombey, do we not 
 know that any difference between you two — No, Elowers ; not now." 
 
 Flowers was the maid, who, finding gentlemen present, retreated with 
 precipitation. 
 
 " That any difference between you two," resumed Mrs. Skewton, 
 " with the Heart you possess in common, and the excessively charming 
 bond of feeling that there is between you, must be slight and unim- 
 portant ? What words could better define the fact ? None. Therefore 
 I am glad to take this slight occasion — this triflmg occasion, that is so 
 replete with Nature, and your individual characters, and 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 least, except as developing these minor 
 elements of Soul ; and that, unlike most mamas-in-law (that odious phrase, 
 dear Dombey !) as they have been represented to me to exist in this 
 I fear too artificial world, I never shall attempt to interpose between 
 you, at such a time, and never can much regret, after all, such little 
 flashes of the torch of What's-his-name — not Cupid, but the other 
 delightful creature." 
 
 There was a sharpness in the good mother's glance at both her children 
 as she spoke, that may have been expressive of a direct and well-considered 
 purpose hidden between these rambUng words. That purpose, providently 
 to detach -herself in the beginning from aU the clankings of their chain 
 that were to come, and to shelter herself with the fiction of her innocent 
 belief in their mutual affection, and their adaptation to each other. 
 
 " I have pointed out to Mrs. Dombey," said Mr. Dombey, in his most 
 stately manner, " that in her conduct thus early in our married life, to 
 which I object, and which, I request, may be coiTCcted. Carker," with 
 a nod of dismissal, " good night to you ! " 
 
 ^Ir. Carker bowed to the imperious form of the Bride, whose sparkling 
 eye was fixed upon her husband ; and stopping at Cleopatra's couch on 
 his way out, raised to his lips the hand she graciously extended to him, 
 in lowly and admiring homage. 
 
 If his handsome wife had reproached him, or even changed countenance, 
 or broken the silence in which she remained, by one word, now that they 
 were alone (for Cleopatra made oft' with all speed), Mr. Dombey would 
 have been equal to some assertion of his case against her. But the 
 intense, unutterable, withering scorn, with which, after looking upon him, 
 she dropped her eyes as 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 liim down, and put him by — he had no resource 
 
 ^ B 
 
370 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 against ; and he left her, with her whole overbearing beauty concentrated 
 on despising him. 
 
 Was he coward enough to watch her, an hour afterwards, on the old 
 well staircase, where he had once seen Florence in the moonlight, toiling 
 up with Paid ? Or was he in the dark by accident, when, looking up, he 
 saw her coming, with a light, from the room where Florence lay, and 
 marked again the face so changed, which he could not subdue ? 
 
 But it could never alter as his own did. It never, in its utmost pride 
 and passion, knew the shadow that had fallen on his, in the dark corner, 
 on the night of theretxurnj and often since; and which deepened on it now, 
 as he looked up. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 MORE WARNINGS THAN ONE. 
 
 Florence, Edith, and Mrs. Skewton, were together next day, and the 
 carriage was waiting at the door to take them out. For Cleopatra had 
 her galley again now, and Withers, no longer the wan, stood upright in a 
 pigeon-breasted jacket and military trowsers, behind her wheel-less chair 
 at dinner time, and butted no more. The hair of Withers was radiant 
 with pomatum, in these days of down, and 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 sofa sipping her 
 morning chocolate at three o'clock in the afternoon, and Flowers the Maid 
 was fastening on her youthfvd cuifs and frills, and performing a kind of 
 private coronation ceremony on her, with a peach-coloured velvet bonnet ; 
 the artificial roses in which nodded to uncommon advantage, as the palsy 
 trifled with them, like a breeze. 
 
 "I think I am a little nervous this morning. Flowers," said Mrs. Skewton. 
 " My hand quite shakes." 
 
 " You were the life of the party last night, Ma'am, you know," 
 returned Flowers, "and you suffer for it to-day, you see." 
 
 Edith, who had beckoned Florence to the window, and was looking out, 
 with her back turned on the toilet of her esteemed mother, suddenly with- 
 drew from it, as if it had lightened. 
 
 "My darling child," cried Cleopatra, languidly, '■'■ yo\c are not nervous? 
 Don't tell me, my dear Edith, that you, so enviably self-possessed, are 
 beginning to be a martyr too, like your unfortunately constituted mother ! 
 Withers, some one at the door." 
 
 " Card Ma'am," said Withers, taking it towards Mrs. Dombey. 
 
 " I am going out," she said, without looking at it. 
 
 "My dear love," drawled M's. Skewton, "how very odd to send that 
 message without seeing the name ! Bring it here. Withers. Dear me, 
 my love ; Mr. Carker too ! That very sensible person !" 
 
 "I am going out," repeated Edith, in so imperious a tone that 
 Withers, going to the door, imperiously informed the servant who was 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 371 
 
 waiting, " Mrs. Dombey is going out. Get along with you," and shut it 
 on him. 
 
 But the servant came back afr,er a short absence, and whispered to 
 Withers again, who once more, and not very willingly, presented himself 
 before Mrs. Dombey. 
 
 " If you please. Ma'am, Mr. Carker sends his respectful compliments, 
 and begs you would spare him one minute, if you could — for business, 
 Ma'am, if you please." 
 
 "Eeally, my love," said Mrs. Skewton in her mildest manner; for her 
 daughter's face was threatening; "if you would allow me to offer a word, 
 I should recommend — " 
 
 " Show him this way," said Edith. As Withers disappeared to execute 
 the command, she added, frowning on her mother, "As he comes at your 
 recommendation, let him come to your room." 
 
 "May I — shall I go away?" asked Florence, humedly. 
 
 Edith nodded yes, but on her way to the door Florence met the visitor 
 coming in. With the same disagreeable mixture of familiarity and for- 
 bearance, with which he had first addressed her, he addressed her now 
 in his softest manner — hoped she was quite well — ^needed not to ask, with 
 such looks to anticipate the answer — had scarcely had the honour to know 
 her, last night, she was so greatly changed — and held the door open for 
 her to pass out ; with a secret sense of power in her shrinking from him, 
 that all the deference and politeness of his manner could not quite 
 conceal. 
 
 He then bowed himself for a moment over Mrs. Skewton's condescend- 
 ing hand, and lastly bowed to Edith. Coldly returning liis salute without 
 looking at him, and neither seating herself nor inviting him to be seated, 
 she waited for him to speak. 
 
 Entrenched in her pride and power, and with all the obduracy of 
 her spirit summoned about her, stiU her old conviction that she and 
 her mother had been known by this man in their worst colours, from 
 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 book, and 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 humility, her disdainful lip repulsing him, her bosom angry 
 at his intrusion, and the dark lashes of her eyes sullenly veiling their 
 light, that no ray of it might shine upon him — and submissively as he 
 stood before her, with an entreating injured manner, but with complete 
 submission to her will — she knew, in her own soul, that the cases were 
 reversed, and that the triumph and superiority were his, and that he knew 
 it fuU well. 
 
 " I have presumed," said Mr. Carker, " to solicit an interview, and I 
 have ventured to describe it as being one of business, because — " 
 
 " Perhaps you are charged by Mr. Dombey with some message of 
 reproof," said Edith. "You possess Mr. Dombey's confidence in such an 
 unusual degree, Sir, that you would scarcely surprise me if that were your 
 business." 
 
 " I have no message to the lady who sheds a lustre upon his name," 
 
 B B 2 
 
372 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 said Mr. Carker. " But I entreat that lady, on my own behalf, to be 
 just to a very humble claimant for justice at her hands — a mere dependant 
 of Mr. Dombey's — which is a position of humility ; and to reflect upon 
 my perfect helplessness last night, and the impossibility of my avoiding 
 the share that was forced upon me in a very painful occasion." 
 
 "My dearest Edith," hinted Cleopatra in a low voice, as she held her 
 eye-glass aside, "reaUy very charming of Mr. What's-his-name. And 
 fuU of heart ! " 
 
 " For I do," said Mr. Carker, appealing to Mrs. Skewton with a look 
 of grateful deference, — " I do venture to call it a painful occasion, though 
 merely because it was so to me, who had the misfortune to be present. 
 So slight a difference, as between the principals — between those who love 
 each other with disinterested devotion, and would make any sacrifice of 
 self, in such a cause — is nothing. As Mrs. Skewton herself expressed, 
 with so much truth and feeling last night, it is nothing." 
 
 Edith could not look at him, but she said after a few moments, 
 
 " And your business, Sir — " 
 
 "Edith, my pet," said Mrs. Skewton, "all this time, IVIr. Carker is 
 standing ! My dear Mr. Carker, take a seat, I beg." 
 
 He offered no reply to the mother, but fixed his eyes on the proud 
 daughter, as though he would only be bidden by her, and was resolved to 
 be bidden by her. Edith, in spite of herself, sat down, and slightly 
 motioned with her hand to him to be seated too. No action could be 
 colder, haughtier, more insolent in its air of supremacy and disrespect, 
 but she had struggled against even that concession ineffectually, and it 
 was wrested from her. That was enough ! Mr. Carker sat down. 
 
 " May I be allowed, Madam," said Carker, turning his white teeth on 
 Mrs. Skewton like a light — " a lady of your excellent sense and quick 
 feeling will give me credit, for good reason, I am sure — to address what I 
 have to say, to Mrs. Dombey, and to leave her to impart it to you who are 
 her best and dearest friend — next to Mr. Dombey ? " 
 
 Mrs. Skewton woidd have retired, but Edith stopped her. Edith would 
 have stopped him too, and indignantly ordered him to speak openly or 
 not at aU, but that he said, in a low voice — " Miss Florence — the young 
 lady who has just left the room — " 
 
 Edith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him now. As he bent 
 forward, to be nearer, with the utmost show of delicacy and respect, and 
 with his teeth persuasively arrayed, in a self-depreciating smile, she felt 
 as if she could have struck him dead. 
 
 " ^liss Florence's position," he began, " has been an unfortunate one. 
 I have a difficulty in alluding to it to you, whose attachment to her father 
 is natm-ally watchful and jealous of every word that applies to him." 
 Always distinct and soft in speech, no language could describe the extent 
 of his distinctness and softness, when he said these words, or came to any 
 others of a similar import. " But, as one who is devoted to Mr. Dombey 
 in his different way, and whose life is passed in admiration of Mr. Dom- 
 bey's character, may I say, without oftence to your tenderness as a wife, 
 that Miss Florence has unhappily been neglected — by her father. May I 
 say by her father ? " 
 
 Edith replied, " I know it.' 
 
 j> 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 373 
 
 " You know it ! " said Mr. Carker, with 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 by, Sir," she retm'ned, " and come the sooner to 
 the end of what you have to say." 
 
 " Indeed, I am sensible. Madam," replied Carker, — " trust me, I am 
 deeply sensible, that Mr. Dombey can require no justification in anything 
 to you. But, kindly judge of my breast by your own, and you will for- 
 give my interest in him, if, in its excess, it goes at all astray." 
 
 What a stab to her proud heart, to sit there, face to face with him, and 
 have him tendering her false oath at the altar again and again for her 
 acceptance, and pressing it upon her, like the dregs of a sickening cup 
 she could not own her loathing of, or turn away from ! How shame, 
 remorse, and passion raged within her, when, upright and majestic in her 
 beauty before him, she 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 people, in every way her inferiors, 
 necessarily wanted some guide and compass in her younger days, and, 
 naturally, for want of them, has been indiscreet, and has in some degree 
 forgotten her station. There was some folly about one Walter, a common 
 lad, who is fortunately dead now : and some very undesirable association, I 
 regret to say, with certain coasting sailors, of anything but good repute, 
 and a runaway old bankrupt." 
 
 " I have heard the circumstances. Sir," said Edith, flashing her dis- 
 dainful 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 nature. Madam — the same nature 
 which is so nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and honoured 
 husband, and which has blessed him as even bis merits deserve — I must 
 respect, defer to, bow before. But, as regards the circumstances, which is 
 indeed the business I presumed to solicit your attention to, I can have no 
 doubt, since, in the execution of my trust as Mr. Dombey's confidential 
 — I presume to say — friend, I have fuUy ascertained them. In my execu- 
 tion of that trust ; in ray deep concern, which you can so weU understand, 
 for everything relating to him, intensified, if you will (for I fear I labour 
 under your displeasure), by the lower motive of desire to prove my dili- 
 gence, and make myself the more acceptable ; I have long pursued these 
 circumstances by myself and trustworthy instruments, and have innu- 
 merable and most minute proofs." 
 
 She raised her eyes no higher than his mouth, but she saw the means 
 of mischief vaunted in every tooth it contained. 
 
 " Pardon me. Madam," he continued, "if, in my perplexity, I presume 
 to take counsel with you, and to consult your pleasm-e. I think I have 
 observed that you are greatly interested in Miss Florence ? " 
 
 What was there in her he had not observed, and did not know? 
 Humbled and yet maddened by the thought, in every new presentment of 
 it, however faint, she pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip . to force 
 composure on it, and distantly inclined her head in reply. 
 
 " This interest. Madam — so touching an evidence of everything asso- 
 
374 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 ciated with Mr. Dombey being clear to you — induces me to pause, before 
 I make him acquainted with these circumstances, which, as yet, he does 
 not know. It so far shakes me, if I may make the confession, in my 
 allegiance, that on the intimation of the least desire to that effect from 
 you, I would suppress them." 
 
 Edith raised her head quickly, and starting back, bent her dark glance 
 upon him. He met it with his blandest and most deferential smde, and 
 went on. 
 
 " You say that as I describe them, they are perverted. I fear not — I 
 fear not : but let us assume that they are. The uneasiness I have for 
 sometime felt on the subject, arises in this : that the mere circumstance of 
 such association, often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence, however 
 innocently and confidingly, would be conclusive with Mr. Dombey, 
 already predisposed against her, and would lead him to take some step 
 (I know he has occasionally contemplated it) of separation and alienation 
 of her from his home. Madam, bear with me, and remember my inter- 
 course with Mr. Dombey, and my knowledge of him, and my reverence 
 for him, almost from childhood, when I say that if he has a fault, it is a 
 lofty stubbornness, rooted in that noble pride and sense of power Mdiich 
 belong- to him, and which we must all defer to ; which is not assailable like 
 the obstinacy of other characters ; and which grows upon itself from day 
 to day, and year to year." 
 
 She bent her glance upon him still; but, look as steadfast as she would, 
 her haughty nostrils dilated, and her breath came somewhat deeper, and 
 her Up would slightly curl, as he described that in his patron to which 
 they must all bow down. He saw it ; and though his expression did not 
 change, she knew he saw it. 
 
 ■ ' Even so slight an incident as last night's," he said, "if I might refer 
 to it once more, would serve to illustrate my meaning, better than a greater 
 one. Dombey and Son know neither time, nor place, nor season, but 
 bear them all down. But I rejoice in its occurrence, for it has opened the 
 way for me to approach Mrs. Dombey with this subject to-day, even if it 
 has entailed upon me the penalty of her temporary displeasure. Madam, 
 in the midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on this subject, I 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 here, and to do as I have now done. 
 I have, at heart, no fear that I shall be wanting in my duty to Mr. Dombey, 
 if 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 therefore, almost equally, by con- 
 fidence, on such a theme, in you or him. For the reasons I have men- 
 tioned, I would select you. May I aspire to the distinction of believing 
 that my confidence is accepted, and that I am relieved from my 
 responsibility ? " 
 
 He long remembered the look she gave him — who could see it, 
 and forget it ? — and the struggle that ensued within her. At last, 
 she said : 
 
 " I accept it. Sir. You will please to consider this matter at an end, 
 and that it goes no farther." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 375 
 
 He bowed low, and rose. She rose too, and he took leave with all 
 humility. But Withers, meeting him on the stairs, stood amazed at the 
 beauty of his teeth, and at his brilliant smile ; and as he rode away upon his 
 Avhite-legged horse, the people took him for a dentist, such was the dazzling 
 show he made. The people took her, when she rode out in her carriage pre- 
 sently, for a great lady, as happy as she was rich and fine. But they had 
 not seen her, just before, in her own room with no one by ; and they had 
 not heard her utterance of the three words, " Oh Florence, Florence ! " 
 
 Mrs. Skewton, reposing on her sofa, and sipping her chocolate, had 
 heard nothing but the low word business, for which she had a mortal 
 aversion, insomuch that she had long banished it from her vocabulary, and 
 had gone nigh, in a charming manner and with an immense amount of 
 heart, to say nothing of soul, to ruin divers milliners and others in con- 
 sequence. Therefore Mrs. Skewton asked no questions, and showed no 
 curiosity. Indeed, the peach- velvet bonnet gave her sufficient occupation 
 out of doors ; for being perched on the back of her head, and the day 
 being rather windy, it was frantic to escape from Mrs. SkcAvton's company, 
 and wovdd be coaxed into no sort of compromise. When the carriage was 
 closed, and the wind shut out, the palsy played among the artificial roses 
 again like an alms-house-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. Dombey, in her 
 dressing-room, had been dressed and waiting for her half an hour, and 
 Mr. Dombey, in the drawing-room, had 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. Dombey, saying : 
 
 " If you please. Ma'am, I beg your pardon, but I can't do nothing with 
 Missis ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ?" asked Edith. 
 
 " Well, Ma'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 dress, with the diamonds, short-sleeves, rouge, curls, teeth, and 
 other juvenility all complete ; but Paralysis was not to be deceived, had 
 known her for the object of its errand, and had struck her at her glass, 
 where she lay like a horrible doll that had tumbled down. 
 
 They took her to pieces in very shame, and put the little of her that was 
 real on a bed. Doctors were sent for, and soon came. Powerful reme- 
 dies were resorted to ; opinions given that she would rally from this shock, 
 but would not survive another ; and there she lay speechless, and staring 
 at the ceiling, for days : sometimes making inarticulate sounds in answer 
 to such questions as did she know who were present, and the like : some- 
 times giving no reply either by sign or gesture, or in her unwinking eyes. 
 
 At length she began to recover consciousness, and in some degree the 
 power of motion, though not yet of speech. One day the use of her right 
 hand returned ; and showing it to her maid who was in attendance on her, 
 and appearing very uneasy in her mind, she made signs for a pencil and 
 some paper. This the maid immediately provided, thinking she was going 
 to make a will, or write some last request ; and Mrs. Dombey being from 
 home, the maid awaited the result with solemn feelings. 
 
 After much painful scrawling and erasing, and putting in of wrong 
 
376 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 cliaracters, which seemed to tumble out of the pencil of their own accord, 
 the old Avoman produced this document : 
 
 " Kose-coloured curtains." 
 
 The maid being perfectly transfixed, and with tolerable reason, Cleopatra 
 amended the manuscript by adding two words more, when 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 best, had no doubt of the correctness 
 of this opinion, which she was soon able to establish for herself, the rose- 
 coloured curtains were added to her bed, and she mended with increased 
 rapidity from that hour. She was soon able to sit up, in cui"ls and a laced 
 cap and night-gown, and 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 Death, and playing ofi" 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 reflection, and was 
 quite as ghastly. 
 
 Whether the weakening of her intellect made her more cunning and 
 false than before, or whether it confused her between what she had assumed 
 to be and what she really had been, or whether it had awakened any glim- 
 mering of remorse, which could neither struggle into light nor get back 
 into total darkness, or whether, in the jumble of her faculties, a combina- 
 tion of these effects had been shaken up, which is perhaps the more Likely 
 supposition, the 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. Eui-ther, in place of remembering that 
 compact made between them for an avoidance of the subject, she con- 
 stantly alluded to her daughter's marriage as a proof of her being an 
 incomparable mother ; and all this, with the weakness and peevishness of 
 such a state, always serving for a sarcastic commentary on her levity and 
 youthfulness. 
 
 " Where is IVIrs. Dombey ? " she would say to her maid. 
 
 " Gone out, Ma'am." 
 
 " Gone out ! Does she go out to shun her mama, Elowers ? " 
 
 " La bless you, no Ma'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 her, compared to me ? " 
 
 The apposite display of the diamonds, or the peach-velvet bonnet (she 
 sat in the bonnet to receive visitors, weeks before she could stir out of 
 doors), or the di'cssing of her up in some gaud or other, usually stopped 
 the tears that began to flow hereabouts ; and she would remain in a com- 
 placent state until Edith came to see her ; when, at a glance of the proud 
 lace, she would relapse again. 
 
 " Well I am sure, Edith ! " she would cry, shaking her head. 
 
 " What is the matter, mother ? " 
 
 " Matter ! I really don't know what is the matter. The world is 
 coming to such an artificial and ungrateful state, that I begin to think 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 377 
 
 there 's no Heart — or anytMng 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 have, mother ? " 
 
 " Oh, a great deal, Edith," impatiently. 
 
 " Is there anything you want that you have not ? It is your own faidt 
 if there be." 
 
 " My own fault ! " beginning to whimper. " The parent I have been 
 to you, Edith : making you a companion from your cradle ! And when 
 you neglect me, and 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 mother and should corrupt Jier in a day ! — you 
 reproach me with its being my own fault." 
 
 " Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Why will you ahvays 
 dwell on this ? " 
 
 " Isn't it natural that I should dwell on this, when I am all affection 
 and sensitiveness, and am wounded in the cruellest way, whenever you look 
 at me ? " 
 
 " I do not mean to wound you, mother. Have you no remembrance 
 of what has been said between us ? Let the Past rest." 
 
 " Yes, rest ! And let gratitude to me, rest ; and let affection for me, 
 rest ; and let me rest in my out-of-the-way-room, with no society and no 
 attention, while you find new relations to make much of, who have no 
 earthly claim upon you ! Good gracious, Edith, do you know what an 
 elegant establishment you are at the head of ? " 
 
 " Yes. Hush ! " 
 
 " And that gentlemanly creature, Dombey ? do you know that you are 
 mamed to him, Edith, and that you have a settlement, and a position, 
 and a carriage, and I don't know what ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I know it mother ; well." 
 
 " As you would have had with that delightful good soid — what did 
 they call him? — Granger — if he hadn't died. And who have you to thank 
 for all this, Edith?" 
 
 " You, mother ; you." 
 
 " Then put your arms round my neck, and kiss me ; and show me, 
 Edith, 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 teazing and wearing 
 myself at your ingratitude, or when I 'm out again in society no soul will 
 know me, not even that hateful animal, the Major." 
 
 But, sometimes, when Edith went nearer to her, and bending down 
 her stately head, put her cold cheek to hers, the mother would draw back 
 as if she were afraid of her, and would fall into a fit of trembling, and cry 
 out that there was a wandering in her wits. And sometimes she would 
 entreat her, with humility, to sit down on the chair beside her bed, and 
 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 blushed, in course of time, on Cleopatra's 
 bodily recovery, and on her dress — more juvenile than ever, to repair the 
 ravages of illness — and on the rouge, and on the teeth, and on the curls, 
 and on the diamonds, and the short sleeves, and the whole wardrobe of 
 
378 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 the doll that had tumbled down before the mirror. They blushed too, 
 now and then, upon an indistinctness in her speech, which she turned oft" 
 with a girlish giggle, and on an occasional failing in her memory, that had 
 no rule in it, but came and went fantastically ; as 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 influence, they never blushed upon her loveliness irradi- 
 ated by a smile, or softened by the light of filial love, in its stern beauty. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 MISS TOX IMPROVES AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 The forlorn Miss Tox, abandoned by her friend Louisa Chick, and 
 bereft of Mr. Dombey's countenance — for no delicate pair of wedding 
 cards, united by a silver thread, graced the chimney-glass in Princess's 
 Place, or the harpsichord, or any of those little posts of display which 
 Lucretia reserved for holiday occupation — became depressed in her spirits, 
 and suffered much from melancholy. Por a time the Bird Waltz was 
 unheard in Princess's Place, the plants were neglected, and dust collected on 
 the miniature of Miss Tox's ancestor with the powdered head and pigtail. 
 
 Miss Tox, however, was not of an age or of a disposition long to 
 abandon herself to vmavailing 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 nvirsing, before she was gardening at her green baskets again, 
 regularly every morning; the powdered-headed ancestor had not been 
 under a cloud for more than six weeks, when Miss Tox breathed on his 
 benignant visage, and polished him up with a piece of wash-leather. 
 
 Still, Miss Tox was lonely, and at a loss. Her attachments, hoAvever 
 ludicrously shewn, were real and strong ; aud she was, as 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 life, in her soft-spoken way, without any opinions, 
 she had, at least, got so far without any harsh passions. The mere sight 
 of Louisa Chick in the street one day, at a considerable distance, so over- 
 powered her milky nature, that she was fain to seek immediate refuge in a 
 pastry-cook's, and there, in a musty little back room usually devoted to 
 the consumption of soups, and pervaded by an ox-tail atmosphere, relieve 
 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 such, that 
 once removed from him, she felt as if her distance always had been 
 immeasurable, and 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 one, he should look high. Miss Tox with tears laid down this propo- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 379 
 
 sition, and fully admitted it, twenty times a day. Slie never recalled the 
 lofty manner in which Mr. Dombey had made her subservient to his 
 convenience and caprices, and had graciously permitted her to be one of 
 the nurses of his little son. She only thought, in her own words, " that 
 she had passed a great many happy hours in that house, which she must 
 ever remember with gratification, and that she coiUd never cease to regard 
 Mx. Dombey as one of the most impressive and dignified of men." 
 
 Cut off, however, from the implacable Louisa, and 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. Doinbey's esta- 
 blishment. And as she really had got into the habit of considering 
 Dombey and Son as the pivot on which the world in general turned, she 
 resolved, rather than be ignorant of intelligence which so strongly inter- 
 ested her, to cultivate her old acquaintance, Mrs. Richards, who she knew, 
 since her last memorable appearance before Mr. Dombey, was in the habit 
 of sometimes holding communication with his servants. Perhaps Miss 
 Tox, in seeking out the Toodle family, had the tender motive hidden in her 
 breast of having somebody to whom she could talk about Mr. Dombey, no 
 matter how humble that somebody might be. 
 
 At all events, towards the Toodle habitation Miss Tox directed her 
 steps one evening, what time Mr. Toodle, cindery and swart, was 
 refreshing himself with tea, in the bosom of his family. Mr. Toodle had 
 only tliree stages of existence. He was either taking refreshment in the 
 bosom just mentioned, or he was tearing through the country at from 
 twenty-five to fifty miles an hour, or he was sleeping after his fatigues. 
 He was always in a whirlwind or a calm, and a peaceable contented easy- 
 going man Mr. Toodle was in either state, who seemed to have made 
 over all his own inheritance of fuming and fretting to the engines with 
 which he was connected, which panted, and gasped, and chafed, and wore 
 themselves out, in a most unsparing manner, while Mr. Toodle led a mild 
 and equable life. 
 
 "Polly, my gal," said Mr. Toodle, with a joung Toodle on each knee, 
 and two more making tea for him, and plenty more scattered about — 
 Mr. Toodle was never out of children, but always kept a good supply on 
 hand — "You an't seen our Biler lately, have you?" 
 
 " No," replied Polly, " but he 's almost certain to look in to-night. 
 It 's his right evening, and he 's very regular." 
 
 " I suppose," said Mr. Toodle, relishing his meal infinitely, " as our 
 Biler is a doin' now about as well as a boy can do, eh, Polly ? " 
 
 " Oh ! he 's a doing beautiful ! " responded Polly. 
 
 " He an't got to be at all secret-like — has he Polly ? " inquired Mr. 
 Toodle. 
 
 " No ! " said Mrs. Toodle, plumply. 
 
 " I 'm glad he an't got to be at all secret-like, Polly," observed Mr. 
 Toodle in his slow and measured way, and shovelling in his bread and 
 butter with a clasp-knife, as if he were stoking himself, " because that 
 don't look well ; do it, Polly ? " 
 
 " Why, of course it don't, father. How can you ask ! " 
 
 " You see, my boys and gals," said Mr. Toodle, looking round upon his 
 famUy, " wotever you 're up to in a honest way, it 's my opinion as you 
 can't do better than be open. If you find yourselves in cuttings or in 
 
380 DOMBEY AND SOX. 
 
 tunnels, don't you play no secret games. Keep your whistles going, and 
 let 's know where you are." 
 
 The rising Toodles set up a shrill murmur, expressive of their resolution 
 to profit by the paternal advice. 
 
 " But what makes you say this along of Rob, father? " asked his wife, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Polly, old 'ooman," said Mr. Toodle, " I don't know as I said it 
 partickler along o' Eob, I 'm sure. I starts light with Eob only ; I 
 comes to a branch ; I takes on what I finds there ; and a whole train of 
 ideas gets coupled on to him, afore I knows where I am, or where they 
 comes from. What a Junction a man's thoughts is," said Mr. Toodle, 
 " to-be-sm-e ! " 
 
 This profound reflection Mr. Toodle washed down with a pint mug of 
 tea, and proceeded to solidify with a great weight of bread and butter ; 
 charging his young daughters, meanwhile, to keep plenty of hot water in 
 the pot, as he was uncommon dry, and should take the indefinite quantity 
 of " a sight of mugs," before his thirst was appeased. 
 
 In satisfying himself, however, Mr. Toodle was not regardless of the 
 younger branches about him, who, although they had made their own 
 evening repast, were on the look-out for irregular morsels, as possessing 
 a relish. These he distributed now and then to the expectant circle, by 
 holding out great wedges of bread and butter, to be bitten at by the 
 family in lawful succession, and by serving out smaU doses of tea in like 
 manner with a spoon ; which snacks had such a relish in the mouths of 
 these young Toodles, that, after partaking of the same, they performed 
 private dances of ecstasy among themselves, and stood on one leg a-piece, 
 and hopped, and indulged in other saltatory tokens of gladness. These - 
 vents for their excitement found, they gradually closed about Mr. Toodle 
 again, and eyed him hard as he got through more bread and butter and 
 tea ; affecting, however, to have no further expectations of their own in 
 reference to those viands, but to be conversing on foreign subjects, and 
 whispering confidentially. 
 
 Mr. Toodle, in the midst of this family group, and setting an aAvful 
 example to his children in the way of appetite, was conveying the two 
 young Toodles on his knees to Birmingham by special engine, and was 
 contemplating the rest over a barrier of bread and butter, when Eob the 
 Grinder, in his sou'wester hat and mourning slops, presented himself, and 
 was received with a general rush of brothers and sisters. 
 
 " Well, mother ! " said Eob, dutifully kissing her ; " how are you 
 mother ? " 
 
 " There's my boy !" cried Polly, giving him a hug, and a pat on the 
 back. " Secret ! Bless you father, not he ! " 
 
 This was intended for Mr. Toodle's private edification, but Eob the 
 Giinder, whose withers were not un wrung, caught the words as they were 
 spoken. ' 
 
 "What! father's been a saying something more again me, has he?" 
 cried the injured innocent. " Oh, what a hard thing it is that when a cove 
 has once gone a little wrong, a cove's own father shovdd be always a 
 throwing it in his face behind his back ! It's enough," cried Eob, resorting 
 to his coat-cuff in anguish of spirit, " to make a cove go and do some- 
 thing, out of spite !" 
 
r^'. 
 
 ^.7 
 
 ,//' /. /-/. 
 
 
 '-^U 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 381 
 
 "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 anything, mother ? Nobody thinks half so bad of me as 
 my own father does. What a unnatm-al thing ! I wish somebody 'd take 
 and chop my head off. Father wouldn't mind doing it, I believe, and I'd 
 much rather he did that than t' other." 
 
 At these desperate words aU the young Toodles shrieked ; a pathetic 
 effect, which the Grinder improved by ironically adjuring them not to cry 
 for him, for they ought to hate him, they ought, if they was good boys and 
 gu'ls ; and this so touched the youngest Toodle but one, who was easily 
 moved, that it touched him not only in his spirit but in his wind too ; 
 making him so purple that Mi'. Toodle in consternation carried him out to 
 the water-butt, and would have put him under the tap, but for his being 
 recovered by the sight of that instrument. 
 
 Matters having reached this point, Mr. Toodle explained, and the vir- 
 tuous feelings of his son being thereby calmed, they shook hands, and 
 harmony reigned again. 
 
 " Will you do as I do, Biler, my boy ?" inquired his father, returning to 
 his tea with new strength. 
 
 " No, thank'ee, father. Master and I had tea together." 
 
 " And how is master, Kob ? " said Polly. 
 
 " Well, I don't know, mother ; not much to boast on. There ain't 
 no bis'ness done, you see. He don't know anything about it — the 
 Cap'en don't. There was a man come into the shop this very day, 
 and says ' I 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 it.' 'Do you see wot you want?' says the 
 Cap'en. ' No, I don't,' says the man. ' Do you know it wen you do see 
 it ? ' says the Cap'en. ' No I don't,' says the man. ' Why, then I tell 
 you wot, my lad,' says the Cap'en, ' you'd better go back and ask wot it 's 
 like, outside, for no more don't I ! ' " 
 
 " That an't the way to make money though, is it ? " said Polly. 
 
 " Money, mother ! He '11 never make money. He has such ways as I 
 never see. He an't a bad master thovigh, I '11 say that for him. But that 
 an't much to me, for I don't think I shall stop with him long." 
 
 " Not stop in your place, Eob ! " cried his mother ; while Mr. Toodle 
 opened his eyes. 
 
 " Not in that place p'raps," returned the Grinder, with a wink. " I 
 shouldn't wonder — friends at court you know — but never yo?< mind, 
 mother, just now ; I 'm all right, that 's all." 
 
 The indisputable proof afforded in these hints, and in the Grinder's 
 mysterious manner, of his not being subject to that failing which Mr. 
 Toodle had, by implication, attributed to him, might have led to a renewal 
 of his wrongs, and of the sensation in the family, but for the opportxine 
 arrival of another visitor, who, to Polly's great surprise, appeared at the 
 door, smiling patronage and friendship on all there. 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Richards ? " said Miss Tox. "I have come to 
 see you. May I come in ? " 
 
 The cheery face of IMi's. Eichards shone with a hospitable reply, and 
 Miss Tox, accepting the proffered chair, and gracefully recognising Mr. 
 
382 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Toodle on her way to it, untied her bonnet strings, and said that in the 
 first place she must beg the dear children, one and all, to come and 
 kiss her. 
 
 The i 1-starred youngest Toodle but one, who would appear, from the 
 frequency of his domestic troubles, to have been born under an unlucky 
 planet, was 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 head, hind side before, and 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 darkness, and in hopeless 
 seclusion from his friends and family, caused him to struggle with great 
 violence, and to utter suffocated cries. Being released, his face was dis- 
 covered to be very hot, and red, and damp ; and Miss Tox took him on 
 her lap, much exhausted. 
 
 " You have almost forgotten me, Sir, I dare say," said Miss Tox to 
 Mr. Toodle. 
 
 ► " No, Ma'am, no," said Toodle. " But we 've all on us got a little older 
 since then." 
 
 "And ho\v^do you find yourself. Sir ?" inquired Miss Tox, blandly. 
 
 " Hearty, Ma'am, thank'ee," replied Toodle. " How do yoih find your- 
 self. Ma'am. Do the rheumaticks keep oft" pretty well, Ma'am ? We must 
 aU expect to grow into 'em, as we gets on." 
 
 •' Thank you," said Miss Tox. " I have not felt any inconvenience from 
 that disorder yet." 
 
 •' You 're wery fortunate. Ma'am," retiirned Mr, Toodle. " Many 
 people at your time of life, Ma'am, is martyrs to it. There was my 
 
 mother " But catching his wife's eye here, Mr. Toodle judiciously 
 
 buried the rest in another mug of tea. 
 
 " You never mean to say, Mrs. Eichards," cried Miss Tox, looking at 
 Bob, "that that is your — " 
 
 "Eldest, Ma'am,'" said Polly. "Yes, indeed it is. That's the little 
 fellow. Ma'am, that was the innocent cause of so much." 
 
 " This here. Ma'am," said Toodle, " is him with the short legs — and 
 they was," said Mr. Toodle, with 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 frank, ingenuous face. Bob, overhearing 
 her, called up a look, to justify the eulogium, but it was hardly the 
 right look. 
 
 " And now, Mrs. Eichards," said Miss Tox, — " and you too, Sir," 
 addressing Toodle — " I '11 tell you, plainly and truly, what I have come here 
 for. You may be aware, Mrs. Eichards — and, possibly, you may be 
 aware too. Sir — that a little distance has interposed itself between me and 
 some of my friends, and that where I used to visit a good deal, I do not 
 visit now." 
 
 Polly, who, with a woman's tact, understood this at once, expressed 
 as much in a little look. Mr. Toodle, who had not the faintest idea of 
 what Miss Tox was talking about, expressed that also, in a stare. 
 
 " Of course," said Miss Tox, "how our little coolness has arisen is of 
 no moment, and does not require to be discussed. It is sufiicient for me 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 383 
 
 to say, tliat I have the greatest possible respect for, aud interest in, 
 Mr. Dombey ; " Miss Tox's voice faltered ; " and everything that relates 
 to him." 
 
 Mr. Toodle, enlightened, shook his head, and said he had heerd it said, 
 and, for his own part, he did think, as Mr. Dombey was a difficult 
 subject. 
 
 " Pray don't say so, Sir, if you please," returned Miss Tox. " Let me 
 entreat you not to say so, Sir, either now, or at any future time. Such 
 observations cannot but be very painful to me, and to a gentleman, whose 
 mind is constituted as, I am quite sure, yours is, can afford no permanent 
 satisfaction." 
 
 Mr. Toodle, who had not entertained the least doubt of offering a remark 
 that would be received with acquiescence, was greatly confounded. 
 
 " All that I wish to say, Mrs. Eichards," resumed Miss Tox, — " and 
 I address myself to you too. Sir, — is this. That any intelligence of the 
 proceedings of the family, of the welfare of the family, of the health of 
 the family, that reaches you, will be always most acceptable to me. That 
 I shall be always very glad to chat with Mrs. Eichards about the family, 
 and about old times. And as Mrs. Eichards and I never had the least 
 difference (though I could wish now that we had been better acquainted, 
 but I have no one but myself to blame for that), I hope she will not 
 object to our being very good friends now, and to my coming back- 
 wards and forwards here, when I like, without being a stranger. Now, 
 I really hope Mrs. Eichards," said Miss Tox, earnestly, " that you will 
 take this, as I mean it, like a good-humoured creature, as you always 
 were." 
 
 Polly was gratified, and showed it, Mr. Toodle didn't know whether 
 he was gratified or not, and preserved a stolid calmness. 
 
 " You see, Mrs. Eichards," said Miss Tox — " and I hope you see too. 
 Sir — there are many httle ways in which I can be slightly useful to you, 
 if you will make no stranger of me ; and in which I shall be delighted to 
 be so. Por instance, I can teach your children something. I shall bring 
 a few httle books, if you '11 allow me, and some work, and of an evening 
 now and then, they'll learn — dear me, they '11 learn a great deal, I trust, 
 and be a credit to their teacher." 
 
 ]VIr, Toodle, who had a great respect for learning, jerked his head 
 approvingly at his wife, and moistened his hands with dawning satisfaction. 
 
 " Then, not being a stranger, I shall be in nobody's way," said Miss 
 Tox, " and everything will go on, just as if I were not here. Mrs. 
 Eichards will do her mending, or her ironing, or her nursing, what- 
 ever it is, without minding me ; and you 'U smoke your pipe, too, if you 're 
 so disposed, Sir, won't you? " 
 
 " Thank'ee Mum," said Mr. Toodle. " Yes ; I '11 take my bit of 
 backer." 
 
 " Very good of you to say so. Sir," rejoined Miss Tox, " and I really 
 do assure you now, unfeignedly, that 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 me, if you '11 enter into this little 
 bargain comfortably, and easily, and good-naturedly, without another word 
 about it." 
 
 Tlie bargain was ratified on the spot ; and Miss Tox found herself so 
 
384) DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 much at home abeady, that without delay she instituted a preliminary 
 examination of the children, all round — which Mr. Toodle much admired — 
 and booked their ages, names, and acquirements, on a piece of paper. This 
 ceremony, and a little attendant gossip, prolonged the time until after 
 their usual hour of going to bed, and detained Miss Tox at the Toodle 
 fireside until it was too late for her to walk home alone. The gallant 
 Grinder, however, being still there, politely offered to attend her to her 
 own door ; and as it was something to Miss Tox to be seen home by a 
 youth whom IVIr. 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 Polly, and kissing all the 
 children. Miss Tox left the house, therefore, with unlimited popularity, and 
 carrying away with her so light a heart that it might have given Mrs. 
 Chick offence if that good lady could have weighed it. 
 
 Eob the Grinder, in his modesty, would have walked behind, but Miss 
 Tox desired him to keep beside her, for conversational purposes ; and, as 
 she afterwards expressed it to his mother, " drew him out," upon the 
 road. 
 
 He drew out so bright, and clear, and shining, that Miss Tox was 
 charmed with him. The more Miss Tox drew him out, the finer he came 
 — like wu'e. There never was a better or more promising youth — a more 
 affectionate, steady, prudent, sober, honest, meek, candid young man — 
 than Eob drew out, that night, 
 
 "I am quite glad," said Miss Tox, arrived at her own door, "to know 
 you. I hope you'U consider me your friend, and that you'll come and see 
 me as often as you like. Do you keep a money-box? " 
 
 " Yes Ma'am," returned Rob ; " I'm saving up, against I've got enough 
 to put in the bank, Ma'am." 
 
 " Very laudable indeed," said Miss Tox. " I'm glad to hear it. Put 
 this half-crown into it, if you please," 
 
 " Oh thank you. Ma'am," replied Eob, " but really I couldn't think of 
 depriving you," 
 
 "1 commend your independent spirit," said Miss Tox, "but it 's no 
 deprivation, I assure you, I shall be offended if you don't take it, as a 
 mark of my good will. Good night, Eobin." 
 
 " Good night. Ma'am," said Eob, " and thank you ! " 
 
 Who ran sniggering oft' to get change, and tossed it away with a pieman. 
 But they never taught honour at the Grinders' School, where the system 
 that prevailed was particularly strong in the engendering of hypocrisy. 
 Insomuch, that many of the friends and masters of past Grinders said, if 
 this were what came of education for the common people, let us have none. 
 Some more rational said, let us have a better one. But the governing 
 powers of the Grinders' Company were always ready for them, by picking 
 out a few boys who had turned out well in spite of the system, and roundly 
 asserting that they could have only turned out well because of it. Which 
 settled the business of those objectors out of hand, and established the 
 glory of the Grinders' Institution, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON, 885 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 rURTHEU ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN EDWARD CUTTLE, MARINER. 
 
 Time, sure of foot and strong of will, had so pressed onward, that the 
 year enjoined by the old Instrument-maker, as the term during which his 
 friend should refrain from opening the sealed packet accompanying the 
 letter he had left for him, was now nearly expired, and Captain Cuttle 
 began to look at it, of an evening, with feelings of mystery and uneasiness. 
 
 The Captain, in his honour, would as soon have thought of opening the 
 parcel one hour before the expiration of the term, as he would have 
 thought of opening himself, to study his own anatomy. He merely 
 brought it out, at a certain stage of his fu'st evening pipe, laid it on the 
 table, and sat gazing at the outside of it, through the smoke, in silent 
 gravity, for two or three hours at a spell. Sometimes, when he had con- 
 templated it thus for a pretty long while, the Captain would hitch his 
 chair, by degrees, farther and farther off, as if to get beyond the range of 
 its fascination ; but if this were his design, he never succeeded : for even 
 when he was brought up by the parlour wall, the packet still attracted 
 him ; or if his eyes, in thoughtful wandering, roved to the ceiling or the 
 fire, its image immediately followed, and posted itself conspicuously among 
 the coals, or took up an advantageous position on the whitewash. 
 
 In respect of Heart's Delight, the Captain's parental regard and admira- 
 tion knew no change. But since his last interview with Mr. Carker, 
 Captain Cuttle had come to entertain doubts whether his former inter- 
 vention in behalf of that young lady and his dear boy Wal'r, had proved 
 altogether so favourable as he could have wished, and as he at the time 
 believed. The Captain was troubled with a serious misgiving that he had 
 done more harm than good, in short ; and in his remorse and modesty he 
 made the best atonement he could think of, by putting himself out of the 
 way of doing any harm to any one, and as it were, throwing himself over- 
 board for a dangerous person. 
 
 Self-bm-ied, therefore, among the instruments, the Captain never went 
 near Mr. Dombey's house, or reported himself in any way to Florence or 
 Miss Nipper. He even severed himself from Mr, Perch, on the occasion 
 of his next visit, by dryly informing that gentleman, that he thanked 
 him for his company, but had cut himself adrift from all such acquaintance, 
 as he didn't know what magazine he mightn't blow up, without meaning of 
 it. In this self-imposed retirement, the Captain passed whole days and 
 weeks without interchanging a word with any one but Eob the Grinder, 
 whom he esteemed as a pattern of disinterested attachment and fidelity. 
 In this retirement, the Captain, gazing at the packet of an evening, 
 would sit smoking, and thinking of Florence and poor Walter, imtil 
 they both seemed to hig homely fancy to be dead, and to have passed 
 
 c c 
 
886 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 away into eternal youth, the beautiful and innocent children of his first 
 remembrance. 
 
 The Captain did not, however, in his musings, neglect his own improve- 
 ment, or the mental culture of Kob the Grinder. That young man was 
 generally required to read out of some book to the Captain, for one hour 
 every evening ; and as the Captain imphcitly believed that all books were 
 true, he accumulated, by this means, many remarkable facts. On Sunday 
 nights, the Captain always read for himself, before going to bed, a cer- 
 tain Divine Sermon once delivered on a Mount ; and although he was 
 accustomed to quote the text, without book, after his own manner, he 
 appeared to read it with as reverent an understanding of its heavenly 
 spirit, as if he had got it all by heart in Greek, and had been able 
 to write any number of fierce theological disquisitions on its every 
 phrase. 
 
 Kob the Grinder, whose reverence for the inspired writings, under the 
 admirable system of the Grinders' School, had been developed by a per- 
 petual bruising of his intellectual shins against all the proper names of all 
 the tribes of Judah, and by the monotonous repetition of hard verses, 
 especially by way of punishment, and by the parading of him at six years 
 old in leather breeches, three times a Sunday, very high up, in a very hot 
 church, with a great organ buzzing against his drowsy head, like an 
 exceedingly busy bee — ^Eob the Grinder made a mighty show of being 
 edified when the Captain ceased to read, and generally yawned and 
 nodded while the reading was in progress. The latter fact being never 
 so much as suspected by the good Captain. 
 
 Captain Cuttle also, as a man of business, took to keeping books. In 
 these he entered observations on the weather, and on the currents of the 
 waggons, and other vehicles ; which he observed, in 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 
 week, who " spoke him " — so the Captain entered it — on the subject of 
 spectacles, and who, without positively purchasing, said they would look 
 in again, the 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 fresh, west and by north ; having changed 
 in the night. 
 
 One of the Captain's chief difficulties was Mr. Toots, who called 
 frequently, and who without saying much seemed to have an idea that 
 the little back parlour was an eligible room to chuckle in, as he would sit 
 and avail himself of its accommodations in that regard by the half-hour 
 together, without at all advancing in intimacy with the Captain. The 
 Captain, rendered cautious by his late experience, was unable quite to 
 satisfy his mind whether Mr. Toots was the mild subject he appeared 
 to be, or 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 him, and forbore 
 to decide against him for the present ; merely eyeing him, with a sagacity 
 not to be described, whenever he approached the subject that was nearest 
 to his heart. 
 
 " Captain GiUs," blurted out Mr. Toots, one day all at once, as his 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 387 
 
 manner was, " do you think you could think favourably of that propo- 
 sition of mine, and give me the pleasure of your acquaintance ? " 
 
 " Why, I 'U tell you what it is, my lad," replied the Captain, who had 
 at length concluded on a course of action ; " I 've been turning that 
 there, over." 
 
 " Captain Gills, it 's very kind of you," retorted Mr. Toots. " I 'm 
 much obliged to you. Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills, it 
 would be a charity to give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. It 
 really would." 
 
 "You see, Brother," argued the Captain slowly, "I don't know 
 you." 
 
 " But you never can know me. Captain GUIs," replied Mx. 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 
 remark, and looked at Mr. Toots as if he thought there was a great deal 
 more in him than he had expected. 
 
 " WeU said, my lad," observed the Captain, nodding his head thought- 
 fully ; " and true. Now looke'e here : You 've made some observations 
 to me, which gives me to understand as you admire a certain sweet creetur. 
 
 " Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, gesticulating violently with the hand 
 in which he held his hat, " Admiration is not the word. Upon my 
 honoiu", you have no conception what my feelings are. If I could be dyed 
 black, and made Miss Dombey's slave, I should consider it a compliment. 
 If, at the sacrifice of aU my property, I 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 eyes, and pressed his hat against his 
 bosom with deep emotion. 
 
 " My lad," returned the Captain, moved to compassion, " if you 're 
 in amest — " 
 
 " Captain Gills," cried Mr. Toots, " I 'm in such a state of mind, and 
 am so dreadfully in earnest, that if I could swear to it upon a hot 
 piece of iron, or a live coal, or melted lead, or burning sealing-wax, or 
 anything of that sort, I should be glad to hui't myself, as a rehef to my 
 feelings." And Mr. Toots looked hurriedly about the room, as if for 
 some sufficiently painful means of accomplishing his dread purpose. 
 
 The Captain pushed his glazed hat back upon his head, stroked his face 
 down with his heavy hand — making his nose more mottled in the process 
 — and planting himself before Mr. Toots, and hooking him by the lappel 
 of his coat, addressed him in these words, while Mr. Toots looked up inta 
 his face, with much attention and some wonder. 
 
 "If you 're in arnest, you see, my lad," said the Captain, "you're a 
 object of clemency, and clemency is the brightest jewel in the crown of a 
 Briton's head, for which you '11 overhaxil the constitution, as laid down in 
 Kule Britannia, and, when found, that is the charter as them garden angels 
 was a singing of, so many times over. Stand by ! This here proposal 
 o' you'rn takes me a little aback. And why ? Because I holds my own 
 only, you understand, in these here waters, and haven't got no consort, 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 and may be don't wish for none. Steady ! You hailed me first, along 
 of a certain young lady, as you was chartered by. Now if you and me is 
 to keep one another's company at all, that 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 free, afore now, and thereby I 
 brings up short. D'ye make me out pretty clear, brother?" 
 
 " Well, you '11 excuse me. Captain Gills," replied Mr. Toots, " if I 
 don't quite foUow you sometimes. But upon my word I — it 's a hard 
 thing. Captain Gills, not 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 day, exactly as if 
 somebody was sitting upon me." 
 
 "Them," said the Captain, "is the terms I offer. If they're hard 
 upon you, brother, as mayhap they are, give 'em a wide berth, sheer off, 
 and part company cheerily! " 
 
 " Captain GUIs," returned Mr. Toots, " I hardly know how it is, but 
 after what you told me when I came here, for the first time, I — I feel 
 that I'd rather think about Miss Dombey in your society than talk about 
 her in almost anybody else's. Therefore, Captain GiUs, if you '11 give me 
 the pleasure of your acquaintance, I shall be very happy to accept it on 
 your own conditions. I wish to be honourable. Captain GiUs," said Mr. 
 Toots, holding 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 Captain, whose 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 certain, any length of time together. 
 Is it a treaty as to words ? " 
 
 " As to words. Captain Gills," returned Mr. Toots, " I think I can bind 
 myself." 
 
 Mr. Toots gave Captain Cuttle his hand upon it, then 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 acquisition, and chuckled rapturously during the 
 remainder of his visit. The Captain, for his part, was not ill pleased to 
 occupy that position of patronage, and was exceedingly well satisfied by. 
 his own prudence and foresight. 
 
 But rich as Captain Cuttle was in the latter quality, he received a 
 surprise that same evening from a no less ingenuous and simple youth, 
 than Rob the Grinder. That artless lad, drinking tea at the same table, 
 and bending meekly over his cup and saucer, having taken sidelong 
 observations of his master for some time, who was reading the newspaper 
 with great difficulty, but much dignity, through his glasses, broke silence 
 by saying— 
 
 " Oh ! I beg your pardon. Captain, but you mayn't be m want of any 
 pigeons, may you, Sir?" 
 
 " No, my lad," replied the Captain. 
 
 " Because I was wishing to dispose of mine, Captain," said Bob. 
 
 " Aye, aye ?" cried the Captain, lifting up his bushy eyebrows a little. 
 
 " "Yes ] I'm going, Captain, if you please," said Bob, 
 
nOMBET AND SON. 389 
 
 " Going? Where are you going?" asked the Captain, looking round at 
 him over the glasses. 
 
 "What? didn't you know that I was going to leave you. Captain?" 
 asked Rob, with a sneaking smile. 
 
 The Captain put down the paper, took off his spectacles, and brought 
 his eyes to bear on the deserter. 
 
 " Oh yes. Captain, I am going to give you warning. I thought you'd 
 have known that beforehand, perhaps," said Eob, rubbing his hands, and 
 getting up. " If you could be so good as provide yourself soon. Captain, 
 it would be a great convenience to me. You couldn't provide your- 
 self by to-morrow morning, I am afraid, Captain ; could you, do you 
 think?" 
 
 "And you're a going to desert jowc colours are you, my lad?" said 
 the Captain, after a long examination of his face. 
 
 " Oh, it's very hard upon a cove. Captain," cried the tender Eob, 
 injured and indignant in a moment, " that he can't give lawful warning, 
 without being frowned at in that way, and called a deserter. You haven't 
 any right to caU a poor cove names. Captain. It an't because I'm a 
 servant and you're a master, that you're to go and libel me. What 
 wrong have I done? Come, Captain, let me know what my crime is, 
 will you?" 
 
 The stricken Grinder wept, and put his coat-cuff in his eye. 
 
 *' Come, Captain," 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 have, why don't you give me in charge, and 
 try it? But to take away the character of a lad that's been a good 
 servant to you, because he can't afford to stand in his own light for your 
 good, what a injury it is, and what a bad return for faithful service ! This 
 is the way young coves is spiled and drove wrong. I wonder at you, 
 Captain, I do." 
 
 AH of which the Grinder howled forth in a lachrymose whine, and 
 backing carefuUy towards the door. 
 
 "And so you've got another berth, have you, my lad?" said the 
 Captain, eyeing him intently. 
 
 "Yes, Captain, since you put it in that shape, I have got another 
 berth," cried Rob, backing more and more ; " a better berth than 
 I've got here, and one where I don't so much as want your good word. 
 Captain, which is fort'nate for me, after all the dirt you've throw 'd at me, 
 because I'm poor, and can't afford to stand in my own light for your 
 good. Yes, I have got another berth ; and if it wasn't for leaving you 
 unprovided. Captain, I'd go to it now, sooner than I'd take them names 
 from you, because I'm poor, and can't afford to stand in my own light for 
 your good. Why do you reproach me for being poor, and not standing 
 in my own light for your good, Captain? How can you so demean 
 yourself?" 
 
 " Look ye here, my boy," replied the peaceful Captain, "Don't you pay 
 out no more of them words." 
 
 " Well, then, don't you pay in no more of your words. Captain," retorted 
 the roused innocent, getting louder in his whine, and backing into the 
 shop. " I'd sooner you took my blood than my character." 
 
890 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Because," pm-sued the Captain calmly, " you have heerd, may be, of 
 such a thing as a rope's end." 
 
 " Oh, have I though, Captain ? " 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 '11 know more about 
 it pretty soon, if you don't keep a bright look-out. I can read your signals, 
 my lad. You may go." 
 
 " Oh! I may go at once, may I, Captain? " cried Eob, exulting in his 
 success. " But mind ! I never asked to go at once, Captain. You are 
 not to take away my character again, because you send me off of your own 
 accord. And you 're not to stop any of my wages. Captain ! " 
 
 His employer settled the last point by producing the tin canister and 
 telling the Grinder's money out in full upon the table. Eob, snivelling 
 and sobbing, and grievously wounded in his feelings, took up the pieces 
 one by one, with a sob and a snivel for each, and tied them up separately in 
 knots in his pocket-handkerchief; then he ascended to the roof of the house 
 and filled his hat and pockets with pigeons ; then, came down to his bed 
 under the counter and made up his bundle, snivelling and sobbing louder, 
 as if he were cut to the heart by old associations ; then he whined, " Good 
 night. Captain. I leave you without malice ! " and then, going out upon 
 the door-step, pulled the little Midshipman's nose as a parting indignity, 
 and went away down the street grinning triumph. 
 
 The Captain, left to himself, resumed his perusal of the news as if 
 nothing unusual or unexpected had taken place, and went reading on with 
 the greatest assiduity. But never a word did Captain Cuttle understand, 
 though he read a vast number, for Eob 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 now, old Sol Gills, Walter, and Heart's Delight 
 were lost to him indeed, and now Mr. Carker deceived and jeered him 
 cruelly. They were all represented in the false Eob, to whom he had held 
 forth many a time on the recollections that were warm within him ; he had 
 believed in the false Eob, and 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 httle Midshipman with him at his right hand ; he 
 had meant to do his duty by him, and had felt almost as kindly towards 
 the boy as if they had been shipwrecked and cast upon a desert place 
 together. And now, that the false Eob had brought distrust, treachery, and 
 meanness into the very parlour, which was a kind of sacred place. Captain 
 Cuttle felt as if the parlour might have gone down next, and not surprised 
 him much by its sinking, or given him any veiy great concern. 
 
 Therefore Captain Cuttle read the newspaper with profound attention 
 and no comprehension, and therefore Captain Cuttle said nothing whatever 
 about Eob to himself, or admitted to himself that he was thinking about 
 him, or would recognise in the most distant manner that Eob had anything 
 to do with his feeling as lonely as Eobinson Crusoe. 
 
 In the same composed, business-like way, the Captain stepped over to 
 Leadenhall Market in the dusk, and effected an arrangement with a private 
 watchman on duty there, to come and put up and take down the shutters of 
 the Wooden Midshipman every night and morning. He then called in at 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 891 
 
 the eating-liouse to diminish by one half the daily rations theretofore sup- 
 plied to the Midshipman, and at the public-house to stop the traitor's 
 beer. "My young man," said the Captain, in explanation to the young 
 lady at the bar, " my young man having bettered himself. Miss." Lastly, 
 the Captain resolved to take possession of the bed under the counter, and to 
 turn-in there o' nights instead of up stairs, as' sole guardian of the property. 
 
 From tliis bed Captain Cuttle daily rose thenceforth, and clapped on his 
 glazed hat at six o'clock in the morning, with the solitary air of Crusoe 
 finishing his toilet with his goat-skin cap; and although his fears of a visita- 
 tion from the savage tribe, Mac Stinger, were somewhat cooled, as similar 
 apprehensions on the part of that lone mariner used to be by the lapse of a 
 long interval without any symptoms of the cannibals, he stiU observed a regu- 
 lar routine of defensive operations, and never encountered a bonnet without 
 previous survey from his castle of retreat. In the mean time (during which 
 he received no call from Mr. Toots, who 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 stock, and from much sitting behind the counter reading, or 
 looking out of window, that the red rim made on his forehead by the 
 hard glazed hat, sometimes ached again with excess of reflection. 
 
 The year being now expired. Captain Cuttle deemed it expedient to 
 open the packet ; but as he had always designed doing this in the pre- 
 sence of Kob the Grinder, who had brought it to him, and as he had 
 an idea that it would be regular and ship-shape to open it in the presence 
 of somebody, he was sadly put to it for want of a witness. In this diffi- 
 culty, he hailed one day with unusual delight the announcement in the 
 Shipping Intelligence of the arrival of the Cautious Clara, Captain John 
 Bunsby, from a coasting voyage ; and to that philosopher immediately 
 dispatched a letter by post, enjoining inviolable secrecy as to his place of 
 residence, and requesting to be favoured with an early visit, in the evening 
 season. 
 
 Bunsby, who was one of those sages who act upon conviction, took 
 some days to get the conviction thoroughly into his mind, that he had 
 received a letter to this effect. But when he had grappled with the fact, 
 and mastered it, he promptly sent his boy with the message, " He 's a 
 coming to-night." Who being instructed to deliver those words and 
 disappear, fulfilled his mission like a tarry spirit, charged with a mysterious 
 warning. 
 
 The Captain, well pleased to receive it, made preparation of pipes and 
 rum and water, and awaited his visiter in the back parlour. At the hour 
 of eight, a deep lowing, as of a nautical Bull, outside the shop-door, suc- 
 ceeded by the knocking of a stick on the panel, annomiced to the listening 
 ear of Captain Cuttle, that Bunsby was along-side ; whom he instantly 
 admitted, shaggy and loose, and with his stolid mahogany visage, as 
 usual, appearing to have no consciousness of anything before it, but to be 
 attentively observing something that was taking place in quite another 
 part of the world. 
 
 " Bunsby," said the Captain, grasping him by the hand, "What cheer 
 my lad, what cheer ? " 
 
 " Shipmet," rephed the voice within Bunsby, unaccompanied by any 
 sign on the part of the Commander himself, " Hearty, hearty." 
 
893 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Bunsby ! " said the Captain, rendering ii-repressible homage to liig 
 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 bright, for which you '11 overhaul the Stanfell's Budget, and 
 when foimd make a note. Here you are, a man as gave an opinion in this 
 here very place, that has come true, every letter on it," which the Captain 
 sincerely believed. 
 
 " Aye, aye ? " growled Bunsby. 
 
 " Every letter," said the Captain. 
 
 " For why ? " growled Bunsby, looking at his friend for the first time. 
 "Which way ? If so, why 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 pdot-coat, and accompanied his friend into the back parlour, 
 where his hand presently alighted on the rum-bottle, from which he brewed 
 a stiff glass of grog ; and presently afterwards on a pipe, which he fiUed, 
 lighted, and began to smoke. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, imitating his visiter in the matter of these particulars, 
 though the rapt and imperturbable manner of the gi'eat Commander was 
 far above his powers, sat in the opposite corner of the fireside observing 
 him respectfully, and as if he Avaited 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 tobacco, except once, when taking his pipe from 
 his hps to make room for his glass, he incidentally remarked with exceed- 
 ing gruffness, that his name was Jack Bunsby — a declaration that presented 
 but small opening for conversation — the Captain bespeaking his attention 
 in a short complimentary exordium, narrated the whole history of Uncle 
 Sol's departure, with the change it had produced in his own life and 
 fortunes ; and concluded by placing the packet on the table. 
 
 After a long pause, Mr. Bunsby nodded his head. 
 
 " Open?" said the Captain. 
 
 Bunsby nodded again. 
 
 The Captain accordingly broke the seal, and disclosed to view two 
 folded papers, of which he severally read the indorsements, thus : " Last 
 Will and Testament of Solomon Gills." " Letter for Ned Cuttle." 
 
 Bunsby, with his eye on the coast of Greenland, seemed 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 stopped, and looked hard at Bunsby, who looked 
 fixedly at the coast of Greenland. 
 
 — " ' in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear boy, I knew that if you 
 were acquainted with my design, you would thwart it, or accompany me ; 
 and therefore I kept it secret. If you ever read this letter, Ned, I am 
 likely to be dead. You wiU easily forgive an old friend's folly then, and 
 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 words, or gladden your eyes with the sight 
 of his frank face any more.' No, no ; no more," said Captain Cuttle, 
 sorrowfully meditating ; " no more. There he lays, all his days — " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 393 
 
 Mr. Bunsby, who had a musical ear, suddenly bellowed, " In the Bays 
 of Biscay, O ! " which so affected the good Captain, as an appropriate 
 tribute to departed worth, that he shook him by the hand in acknowledg- 
 ment, and was fain to wipe his eyes. 
 
 " WeU, well !" said the Captain with a sigh, as the Lament of Bunsby 
 ceased to ring and vibrate in the skylight. " Affliction sore, long time he 
 bore, and let us overhaul the woUume, and there find it." 
 
 "Physicians," observed Bunsby, " was in vain." 
 
 " Aye, aye, to be sure," said the Captain, " what 's the good o' them in 
 two or three hundred fathoms o' water !" Then, returning to the letter, he 
 read on : — " ' But if he should be by, when it is opened;' " the Captain 
 involuntarily looked round, and 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 Avritten, it matters 
 very little, for there is no one interested but you and he, and my plain 
 wish is, that if he is living he should have what little there may be, and 
 if (as I fear) otherwise, that you should have it, Ned. You will respect 
 my wish, I know. God bless you for it, and for all your friendliness 
 besides, to Solomon Gills.' Bunsby!" said the Captain, appealing to 
 him solemnly, " what do you make of this ? There you sit, a man as has 
 had his head broke from infancy up'ards, and has got a new opinion into 
 it at every seam as has been opened. Now, what do you make o' this?" 
 
 "If so be," returned Bunsby, with unusual promptitude, "as he 's 
 dead, my opinion is he won't come back no more. If so be as he 's alive, 
 my 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 Cuttle, who 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 Captain, quite confounded by admiration, 
 " you cany a weight of mind easy, as would swamp one of ray tonnage 
 soon. But in regard o' this here wUl, I 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 owner, Sol GUIs, is living 
 and '11 come back, strange as it is that he an't forwarded no dispatches. 
 Now, what is your opinion, Bunsby, as to stowing of these here papers 
 away again, and marking outside as they was opened, such a day, in 
 presence of John Bunsby and Ed'ard Cuttle?" 
 
 Bunsby, descrying no objection, on the coast of Greenland or elsewhere, 
 to this proposal, it was carried into execution ; and that great man, bringing 
 his eye into the present for a moment, affixed his sign-manual to the 
 cover, totally abstaining, with characteristic modesty, from the use of 
 capital letters. Captain Cuttle, having attached his own left-handed sig- 
 nature, and locked up the packet in the iron safe, entreated his guest to 
 mix another glass and smoke another pipe; and doing the like himself, fell 
 a musing over the ffi'e on the possible fortunes of the poor old Instrument- 
 maker. 
 
 And now a surprise occurred, so overwhelming and terrific that Captain 
 Cuttle, unsupported by the presence of Bunsby, must have sunk beneath 
 it, and been a lost man from that fatal hour. 
 
394 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 How the Captain, even in the satisfactiou of admitting such a guest, 
 could have only shut the door, and not locked it, of which negligence he 
 was undoubtedly guilty, is one of those questions that must for ever 
 remain mere points of speculation, or vague charges against destiny. But 
 by that unlocked door, at this quiet moment, did the fell Mac Stinger dash 
 into the parlour, bringing Alexander Mac Stinger in her parental arms, and 
 confusion and vengeance (not to mention Juliana Mac Stinger, and the sweet 
 child's brother, Charles Mac Stinger, popularly known about the scenes of 
 his youthful sports, as Chowley) in her train. She came so swiftly and 
 so silently, like a rushing air from the neighbourhood of the East India 
 Docks, that Captain Cuttle found himself in the very act of sitting looking 
 at her, before the calm face with which he had been meditating, changed 
 to one of horror and dismay. 
 
 But the moment Captain Cuttle understood the full extent of his mis- 
 fortune, self-preservation dictated an attempt at flight. Dai-ting at the 
 little door which opened from the parlom- on the steep little range of cellar- 
 steps, the Captain made a rush, head-foremost, at the latter, Like a man 
 indifferent to bruises and contusions, who only sought to hide himself in 
 the bowels of the earth. In this gallant efi'ort he would probably have 
 succeeded, but for the affectionate dispositions of Juliana and Chowley, 
 who pinning him by the legs — one of those dear children holding on to 
 each — claimed him as their friend, with lamentable cries. In the mean- 
 time, Mrs. Mac Stinger, who never entered upon any action of importance 
 without previously inverting Alexander Mac Stinger, to bring him within 
 the range of a brisk battery of slaps, and then sitting him down to cool 
 as the reader first beheld him, performed that solemn rite, as if on this 
 occasion it were a sacrifice to the Furies ; and having deposited the victim 
 on the floor, made at the Captain with a strength of purpose that appeared 
 to threaten scratches to the interposing Bunsby. 
 
 The cries of the two elder Mac Stingers, and the waiUng of young 
 Alexander, who may be said to have passed a piebald childhood, foras- 
 much as he was black in the face during one half of that fairy period of 
 existence, combined to make this visitation the more awful. But when 
 silence reigned again, and the Captain, in a violent perspiration, stood 
 meekly looking at Mrs. Mac Stinger, its terrors were at their height. 
 
 " Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cuttle ! " said Mrs. Mac Sthiger, making 
 her chin rigid, and shaking it in unison with what, but for the weakness 
 of her sex, might be described as her flst. " Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en 
 Cuttle, do you dare to look me in the face, and not be struck down in the 
 herth ! " 
 
 The Captain, who looked anything but daring, feebly muttered 
 " Stand by ! " 
 
 " Oh I was a weak and trusting Fool when I took you under my roof, 
 Cap'en Cuttle, I was ! " cried Mrs. Mac Stinger. " To think of the bene- 
 fits I 've showered on that man, and the way in which I brought my 
 children up to love and /honour him as if he was a father to 'em, when 
 there an't a 'ousekeeper, no nor a lodger in our street, don't know that I 
 lost money by that man, and by his guzzlings and his muzzlings" — Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger used the last word for the joint sake of alliteration and 
 aggravation, rather than for the expression of any idea — " and when they 
 
n._ 
 
 C_^^'' c^ 
 
 ■m-a^^ 
 
 y^ A^pfz^t^sr^^ei;/' /yy M^ <s^^i^ 
 
DOMBBY AND SON. 8^ 
 
 cried out one and all, shame upon him for putting upon an industrious 
 woman, up early and late for the good of her young family, and keeping 
 her poor place so clean that a individual might have ate his dinner, yes, 
 and his tea too, if he was so disposed, off any one of the floors or stairs, in 
 spite of all his guzzlings and his muzzlings, such was the care and pains 
 bestowed upon him ! " 
 
 Mrs. Mac Stinger 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-ay !" cried Mrs. Mac Stinger, with a lengthening- 
 out of the last syllable that made the unfortunate Captain regard himself 
 as the meanest of men ; " and keeps away a twelvemonth ! Prom a woman ! 
 Sitch is his conscience ! He hasn't the courage to meet her hi-i-i-igh ;" 
 long syllable agam ; " but steals away, like a fehon. Why, if that baby of 
 mine," said Mrs. Mac Stinger, with sudden rapidity, "was to ofi'er to go 
 and steal away, I 'd do my duty as a mother by him, tiU he was covered 
 with wales !" 
 
 The young Alexander, interpreting this into a positive promise, to be 
 shortly redeemed, tumbled over with fear and grief, and lay upon the floor 
 exhibiting the soles of his shoes and making such a deafening outcry, that 
 Mrs. Mac Stinger found it necessary to take him up in her arms, where she 
 quieted him, ever and anon, as he broke out again, by a shake that seemed 
 enough to loosen his teeth. 
 
 " A pretty sort of a man is Cap'en Cuttle," said Mrs. Mac Stinger, 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 mad woman, asking questions 
 after ! Oh, a pretty sort of a man ! Ha ha ha ha ! He 's worth all that 
 trouble and distress of mind, and much more. That 's nothing, bless you ! 
 Ha ha ha ha ! Cap'en Cuttle," said Mrs. Mac Stinger, with severe re-action 
 in her voice and manner, " I wish to know if you 're a-coming home." 
 
 The frightened Captain looked into his hat, as if he saw nothing for it 
 but to put it on, and give himself up. 
 
 " Cap'en Cuttle," repeated Mrs. Mac Stinger, in the same determined 
 manner, " I wish to know if you 're a-coming home. Sir." 
 
 The Captain seemed quite ready to go, but faintly suggested something 
 to the eftect of " not making so much noise about it." 
 
 " Aye, aye, aye," said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. " Awast, my lasa, 
 awast !" 
 
 "And who may you be, if you please!" retorted Mrs. Mac Stinger, 
 with chaste loftiness. " Did you ever lodge at Number Nine, Brig Place, 
 Sir ? My memory may be bad, but not with me, I think. There was a 
 Mrs. JoUson lived at Number Nme before me, and perhaps you're mistaking 
 me for her. That is my only ways of accounting for your familiarity, Sir." 
 
 " Come, come, my lass, awast, awast ! " said Bunsby. 
 
 Captain Cuttle could hardly believe it, even of this great man, though 
 he saw it done with his waking eyes ; but Bunsby, advancing boldly, put 
 his shaggy blue arm round Mrs. Mac Stinger, and so softened her by his 
 magic way of doing it, and by these few words — he said no more — that she 
 melted into tears, after looking upon him for a few moments, and observed 
 that a child might conquer her now, she was so low in her courage. 
 
396 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Speechless and utterly amazed, the Captain saw Mm gradually persuade 
 tMs inexorable woman into the shop, return for rum and water and a 
 candle, take them to her, and pacify her without appearing to utter one 
 word. Presently he looked in with his pilot-coat on, and said, " Cuttle, 
 I 'm a-going to act as convoy home ;" and Captain Cuttle, more to his 
 confusion than if he had been put in irons himself, for safe transport to 
 Brig Place, saw the family pacifically filing oflt", with Mrs. Mac Stinger at 
 their head. He had scarcely time to take down his canister, and 
 stealthily convey some money into the hands of Juliana Mac Stinger, his 
 former favourite, and Chowley, who had the claim upon him that he was 
 naturally of a maritime build, before the Midshipman was abandoned by 
 them all ; and Bunsby, whispering that he 'd carry on smart, and hail Ned 
 Cuttle again before he Avent aboard, shut the door upon himself, as the 
 last member of the party. 
 
 Some uneasy ideas that he must be walking in his sleep, or that he had 
 been troubled with phantoms, and not a family of flesh and blood, beset 
 the Captain at first, when he went back to the little parlour, and found 
 himself alone. Illimitable faith in, and immeasurable admiration of, the 
 Commander of the Cautious Clara, succeeded, and threw the Captain into 
 a wondering trance. 
 
 Still, as time wore on, and Bunsby failed to reappear, the Captain 
 began to entertain uncomfortable doubts of another kind. Whether 
 Bunsby had been artfully decoyed to Brig Place, and was there detained 
 in safe custody as hostage for his friend ; in which case it would become 
 the Captain, as a man of honour, to release him, by the sacrifice of his 
 own hberty. Whether he had been attacked and defeated by Mrs. Mac 
 Stinger, and was ashamed to show himself after his discomfiture. Whether 
 Mrs. Mac Stinger, thinking better of it, in the uncertainty of her temper, 
 had turned back to board the Midshipman again, and Bunsby, pretending 
 to conduct her by a short cut, was endeavouring to lose the family amid 
 the wilds and savage places of the city. Above all, what it would behove 
 him. Captain Cuttle, to do, in case of his hearing no more, either of the 
 Mac Stingers, or of Bunsby, which, in these wonderful and unforeseen 
 conjunctions of events, might possibly happen. 
 
 He debated all this until he was tired; and still no Bunsby. He made 
 up his bed under the counter, all ready for turning in ; and stiU no 
 Bunsby. At length, when the Captain had given him up, for that night 
 at least, and had begun to undress, the sound of approaching wheels was 
 heard, and, stopping at the door, was succeeded by Bunsby' s hail. 
 
 The Captain trembled to think that Mrs. Mac Stinger was not to be 
 got rid of, and had been brought back in a coach. 
 
 But no. Bunsby was accompanied by notliing but a large box, which 
 he hauled into the shop with his own hands, and as soon as he had hauled 
 in, sat upon. Captain Cuttle knew it for the chest he had left at Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger's house, and looking, candle in hand, at Bunsby more atten- 
 tively, believed that he was three sheets in the wind, or, in plain words, 
 drunk. It was difficult, however, to be sure of this ; the Commander 
 having no trace of expression in his face when sober. 
 
 " Cuttle," said the Commander, getting off the chest, and opening the 
 lid, " are these here your traps ? " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 397 
 
 Captain Cuttle looked in, and identified his property. 
 
 " Done pretty taut and trim, hey shipmet ? " said Bunsby. 
 
 The grateful and bewildered Captain grasped him by the hand, and was 
 launching into a reply expressive of his astonished feelings, when Bunsby 
 disengaged himself by a jerk of his wrist, and seemed to make an effort to 
 wink with his revolving eye, the only eifect of which attempt, in his con- 
 dition, was nearly to overbalance him. He then abruptly opened the door, 
 and shot away to rejoin the Cautious Clara with aU speed — supposed to 
 be his invariable custom, whenever he considered he had made a point. 
 
 As it was not his humour to be often sought. Captain Cuttle decided 
 not to go or send to him next day, or until he should make his gracious 
 pleasure known in such wise, or, failing that, until some little time should 
 have elapsed. The Captain, therefore, renewed his solitary life next 
 morning, and thought profoundly, many mornings, noons, and nights, of 
 old Sol Gills, and Bunsby's sentiments concerning him, and 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 now, in his strange 
 liberty — and setting his chair in its place, and arranging the little parlour 
 as it used to be, in case he should come home unexpectedly. He likewise, 
 in his thoughtfulness, took down a certain little miniature of Walter as a 
 schoolboy, from its accustomed nail, lest it should shock the old man ou 
 his return. The Captain had his presentiments too, sometimes, that he 
 would come on such a day ; and one particular Sunday, even ordered a 
 double allowance of dinner, he was so sanguine. But come, old Solomon 
 did not ; and still the neighbours noticed how the seafaring man in the 
 glazed hat, stood at the shop door of an evening, looking up and down 
 the street. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 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 himself, should be 
 softened in the imperious asperity of his temper ; or that the cold hard 
 armour of pride in which he lived encased, should be made more flexible by 
 constant collision with haughty scorn and defiance. It is the curse of 
 such a natm-e — it is a main part of the heavy retribution on itself it bears 
 within itself — that while deference and concession swell its evil qualities, 
 and are the food it grows upon, resistance, and a questioning of its exact- 
 ing claims, foster it too, no less. The evil that is in it finds equally its 
 means of gi-owth and propagation in opposites. It draws support and 
 life from sweets and bitters ; bowed down before, or unacknowledged, it 
 still enslaves the breast in which it has its throne ; and, worshipped or 
 rejected, is as hard a master as the Devil in dark fables. 
 
 Towards his first wife, Mr. Dombey, in his cold and lofty arrogance, had 
 borne himself like the removed Being he almost conceived himself to be. 
 
398 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 He had been " Mr. Dombey " with her when she first saw him, and he 
 was " Mr. Dombey " when she died. He had asserted his greatness 
 during their whole married life, and she had meekly recognised it. He had 
 kept his distant seat of state on the top of his throne, and she her humble 
 station on its lowest step ; and much good it had done him, so 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 it, and exalted his greatness. He had pictured himself 
 haughtier than ever, with Edith's haughtiness subservient to his. He had 
 never entertained the possibility of its arraying itself against him. And 
 now, when he found it rising in his path at every step and turn of his 
 daily life, fixing its cold, defiant, and contemptuous face upon him, this 
 pride of his, instead of withering, or hanging down its head beneath the 
 shock, put forth new shoots, became more concentrated and intense, more 
 gloomy, sullen, irksome and unyielding, than it had ever been before. 
 
 Who wears such armour, too, bears with him ever another heavy retri- 
 bution. It is of proof against conciliation, love, and confidence ; against all 
 gentle sympathy from without, all trust, all tenderness, all soft emotion ; 
 but to deep stabs in the self-love, it is as vulnerable as the bare breast to 
 steel ; and such tormenting festers rankle there, as follow on no other 
 wounds, no, though dealt with the mailed hand of Pride itself, on weaker 
 pride, disarmed and thrown down. 
 
 Such wounds were his. He felt them sharply, in the solitude of his old 
 rooms; whither he now began often to retire again, and 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 victory, as he sat in the dark corner ! 
 Who was it, whose least word did what his utmost means could not ! 
 Who was it who, unaided by his love, regard, or notice, thrived and grew 
 beautiful when those so aided died ! Who could it be, but the same child 
 at whom he had often glanced uneasily in her motherless infancy, with a 
 kind of dread, lest he might come to hate her; and of whom his foreboding 
 was fulfnied, for he did hate her in his heart. 
 
 Yes, and he would have it hatred, and he made it hatred, though some 
 sparkles of the light in which she had appeared before him on the memor- 
 able night of his return home with his Bride, occasionally hung about her 
 still. He knew now that she was beautiful ; he did not dispute that she 
 was graceful and winning, and that in the bright dawn of her womanhood 
 she had come upon him, a surprise. But he turned even this against her. 
 In his sullen and unwholesome brooding, the unhappy man, with a dull 
 perception of his alienation from all hearts, and a vague yearning for what 
 he had all his life repelled, made a distorted picture of his rights and 
 wrongs, and justified himself with it against her. The worthier she pro- 
 mised to be of him, the greater claim he was disposed to ante-date upon 
 her duty and submission. When had she ever shown him duty and sub- 
 mission? Did she grace his life— or Edith's ? Had her attractions been 
 manifested first to him — or Edith ? Why, he and she had never been, 
 from her birth, like father and child ! They had always been estranged. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 399 
 
 She had crossed him every way and everywhere. She was leagued against 
 him now. Her very beauty softened natures that were obdurate to him, 
 and insulted him with an unnatural triumph. 
 
 It may have been that in all this there were mutterings of an awakened 
 feeling in his breast, however selfishly aroused by his position of disad- 
 vantage, in 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 hear nothing but his pride. And in his pride, a heap of inconsis- 
 tency, and misery, and self-inflicted torment, he hated her. 
 
 To the moody, stubborn, sullen demon, that possessed him, his 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 unhappy, than 
 the wilful and determined warfare of such elements. His pride was set 
 upon maintaining his magnificent supremacy, and forcing recognition of it 
 from her. She would have been racked to death, and turned but her 
 haughty glance of calm inflexible disdain upon him, to 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 be, but she 
 must be proud for, not against him. As he sat alone, hardening, he 
 would often hear her go out and come home, treading the round of 
 London life with no more heed of his liking or disliking, pleasure or dis- 
 pleasure, than if he had been her groom. Her cold supreme indifference 
 — his own unquestioned attribute usurped — stung liim 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 thoughts, when one night he 
 sought her in her own apartment, after he had heard her return home late. 
 She was alone, in her brilliant dress, and had but that moment come from 
 her mother's room. Her face was melancholy and pensive, when he came 
 upon her ; but it marked him at the door ; for, glancing at the miiTor 
 before it, he saw immediately, as in a picture-frame, the knitted brow, and 
 darkened beauty that he knew so well. 
 
 "Mrs. Dombey," he said, entering, "I must beg leave to have a few 
 words with you." 
 
 " To-morrow," she replied. 
 
 " There is no time like the present. Madam," 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 weU." 
 
 She looked upon him as she said so, and folding her white arms, 
 sparkling with gold and gems, upon her swelling breast, turned away 
 her eyes. 
 
 If she had been less handsome, and less stately in her cold composure, 
 she might not have had the power of impressing him with the sense of 
 disadvantage that penetrated through his utmost pride. But she had the 
 
400 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 power, and he felt it keenly. He glanced round the room : saw how the 
 splendid means of personal adornment, and the luxuries of dress, were 
 scattered here and there, and disregarded ; not in mere caprice and care- 
 lessness (or so he thought), but in a stedfast, haughty disregard of costly 
 things : and felt it more and more. Chaplets of flowers, plumes of 
 feathers, jewels, laces, silks and satins ; look where he would, he saw 
 riches, despised, poured out, and made of no account. The very diamonds 
 — a marriage gift — that rose and fell impatiently upon her bosom, seemed 
 to pant to break the chain that clasped them round her neck, and roll 
 down on the floor where she might tread upon them. 
 
 He felt his disadvantage, and he showed it. Solemn and strange 
 among this wealth of colour and voluptuous glitter, strange and con- 
 strained towards its haughty mistress, whose repellant beauty it repeated, 
 and presented aU around him, as in so many fragments of a mirror, he 
 was conscious of embarrassment and awkwardness. Nothing that minis- 
 tered to her disdainful self-possession could fail to gall him. Galled and 
 irritated with himself, he sat down, and went on, in no improved humour : 
 " Mrs. Dombey, it is very necessary that there should be some under- 
 standing arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please me. Madam." 
 She merely glanced at him again, and again averted her eyes ; but she 
 might have spoken for un hour, and expressed less. 
 
 " I repeat, Mrs. Dombey, does 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 remonstrance, Sir, and 
 you adopt a fitting manner, and a fitting word for your second. Tou 
 insist \ To me / " 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Dombey, with his most ofi^ensive air of state, " I 
 have made you my wife. You bear my name. You are associated with 
 my position and my reputation. I wiU 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 connections 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. AU this he 
 could know, and did : but he coidd not know that one word was whis- 
 pering 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 extra- 
 vagant. 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." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 401 
 
 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 aU bounds. Why, who could 
 long resist his lofty wM and pleasure ! He had resolved to conquer her, 
 and look here ! 
 
 "You will further please, Madam," said ]\Ii'. 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 
 wiU 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 angi-y sunset had been flung upon them. Not unobservant 
 of the change, and putting liis 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 IVIr. 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 
 
 D D 
 
4U2 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 willing to exhibit his power to tliat 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 im- 
 proved on his idea, " I may not find it necessary ever to intrust 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 hold- 
 ing 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 
 stifi^er 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, wdth an unaltered face, and said in a 
 low voice : 
 
 " Wait ! Eor 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 nor 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 pui-sued 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 
 stiU. 
 
 " You answer each of them. You answer nie 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 aU untried, and you its idol, could you ask more ; 
 cotdd you have more ? " 
 
 " Possibly not. Madam," he retvu'ned coolly. 
 
 " You know how diff'erent I am. Y^ou 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 w^ords. " You knov/ 
 my general history. You have spoken of my mother. Do you think 
 you can degrade, or bend or break, me to submission and obedience?" 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 403 
 
 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 
 immoveable 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 every one 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 confii'mation 
 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 Uttle 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." 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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, Mi's. 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 light- 
 ing of the haughty brow ! To see scorn, anger, indignation, and abhor- 
 rence 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. 
 "Oar 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, " unde- 
 terred, 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 reflexion. Madam," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 She ansvrered 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 tacitui-n, 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 gra- 
 ciously informed Cleopatra at breakfast, on the morning of departure, 
 which arrived a day or two afterwards, that lie 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 crav/led backward in her recovery froni the 
 first. She was more lean and shrunken, more uncertain in her imbecility, 
 and made stranger confusions in her mind and memory. Among other 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 405 
 
 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 labo- 
 riously, " 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 Avretch, who 's he ? " hsped 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 ! Ilere 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 aU round the table as she said it, and appeared very 
 uneasy. 
 
 "I won't have vistors — really don't want vistors," 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 
 
406 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 all made before she came back, and whicli 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 breakfast 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 jiage, 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 '11 
 die in despair." 
 
 Cleopatra shuddered, and leaned back. " Edith, my dear," she said. 
 "TeUhim— " 
 
 "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, Avhistling. 
 
 " I '11 tell you what. Sir," said the Major, with his hands behind him, 
 and his legs very wide asunder, " a fail- friend of ours has removed to 
 Queer Street." 
 
 " What do you mean. Major ?" inquired Mr. Dombey. 
 
 "I mean to say, Dombey," -retm'ned the Major, "that you'll soon be 
 an orphan-in-law." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 407 
 
 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 expres- 
 sion 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 de-vilish 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 Mx. Dombey, with much philosophy, " that Mi-s. 
 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 tclll die. They ^cill do it. Damme, they %vill. 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 httle 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 Avas 
 certainly true-blue, whatever other endowments he may have possessed 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 authoritv 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 immoveable 
 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 
 
408 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 with nothing but a bare sweep of land between them and the sky. The 
 mother, with a querulous satisfaction in the monotony of her com- 
 plaint, 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, Avere 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 beeen 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 chUl 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 impor- 
 tunately, 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 aU 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 gentle- 
 man, lie 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 abcRit 
 it. I won't be dissuaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a 
 good mother." 
 
 5J 
 
n^ K:.^ 
 
^ 
 
%^ 
 
JJi-ann by Hal^lot Kki^ht B'TO'^ns 
 
 £TLGrMMti'H.K.Bri^Ke dkrlty^jiui 
 
 E BITffi.. 
 
Dr.LWTL }^Satl£it Knight Browm- . 
 
 EngrfLved QvKKJi^owr^ &KYoun^- 
 
 ALICE 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 409 
 
 "Yes, my Lady, yes," chattered tlie old woman, holding out her avaricious 
 hand. " Thankee, my Lady. Lord bless you, my Lady. Sixpence more, 
 my pretty Lady, as a good mother yom-self." 
 
 " 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 — fuU of what 's liis name — 
 and all that. You 're all affection and et cetera, an't you ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, my Lady!" 
 
 " Yes, I am 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.'Il show more 
 gratitude, and natural what 's its name, and all the rest of it — but I never 
 did 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 XLI. 
 
 NEW VOICES ON 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, Elorence 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 pen- 
 sive there, she hears in the wild low murmur of the sea, his little story 
 told again, his very words repeated ; and finds that aU 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 
 
410 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 Avith many indecisive stoppages on the way, 
 approaches Florence. Stammering and blushing, Mr. Toots affects amaze- 
 ment 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 sur- 
 prised in all his life. 
 
 " And you 've brought Diogenes too, IVEss 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 tdt. 
 
 " 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 put her arm in that of Mr. Toots without a word, and they 
 walk away together, Avith Diogenes going on before. Mr. Toots's legs 
 shake under him ; and though he is splendidly dressed, he feels misfits, 
 and sees wrinkles, on 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 then- accustomed places, as if the world were stationary too, and 
 nothing in it ever perished in obedience to the universal law, that, whUe 
 it keeps it on the roU, 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, stiU 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 ! 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 411 
 
 " 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 yoimg 
 friends. Miss Dombey, no doubt. All feUow-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. 
 
 "Aye, truly," says the Doctor. "Bitherstone is new to Mi-. Toots." 
 
 New to Florence, too, almost ; for, in the schoolroom, Bitherstone — no 
 longer Master Bitherstone of Mrs. Pipchin's — shows in coUars and a neck- 
 cloth, 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 earned 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 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 gentle- 
 men, by a visit from the emancipated Toots ; who is regarded with a kind 
 of awe, as one who has passed the Eubicon, 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 has got an emerald 
 belonging to him that was taken out of the footstool of a Eajah. 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 an't so very old after all. But this disparaging insinua- 
 tion 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 
 
412 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 up stairs to the old bed-room with 
 Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia ; Mr. Toots, who feels that neither he nor any- 
 body 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, look 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 saAV 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 cheer- 
 fully about it all, as they walk 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 yoa 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 413 
 
 won't tliink 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 Biimber 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 it 's 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 mysteri- 
 ously, 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." IVIi-. 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 flnd him, either by post or parcel. Mr. Feeder 
 likewise 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 Corneha Biimber. 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 some- 
 times 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 v/ith 
 him at Doctor Blimber's door. But Mr. Feeder only goes up the steps, 
 and when Mr. Toots is gone, comes dawn 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 Biimber 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 wiU first paint it, and put it 
 into thorough repair. 
 
 Mr. Toots is likewise roaming up and down, outside the casket that 
 
414 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 IVIrs. 
 Skewton's room; and while Florence, sleeping in another chamber, di'eams 
 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 teiTor 
 of her unimpissioned 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. Tou 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 light burns in the window, and the figure lies 
 upon the bed, and Edith sits beside it, and the restless waves are calHng 
 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 stiU the sick old woman looks into the corner, where the stone 
 arm — part of a figure oft" some tomb, she says — is raised to strike her. 
 At last it falls ; and then a dumb old woman lies upon 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 415 
 
 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. 
 
 riorence 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, tliinking 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 
 paU 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, withou.t 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 the past was at end between us. I say 
 so now, again. Kiss me, mother." 
 
 Edith touches the white lips, and for a moment all is stUl. A moment 
 afterwards, her mother, with her girlish laugh, and the skeleton of the 
 Cleopatra manner, rises in her bed. 
 
 Draw the rose-coloured cm-tains. 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," says Cousin Feenix, " upon my soul, I am very much 
 shocked to see you on such a melancholy occasion. My poor aunt ! She 
 was a deviUsh Uvely woman." 
 
 Mr. Dombey rephes, " Very much so." 
 
 "And made up," says Cousin Feenix, " reaUy young, you know, con- 
 sidering. 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 Jopcr — 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 
 
416 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 chm'ch in the village," says Cousin 
 Feenix, thoughtfully; "pure specimen of the early Anglo-Norman style, 
 and admhably well sketched too by Lady Jane Finclibury — 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 Ave 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 shaU make a point," says Cousin Feenix, " of pledging myself for 
 any day you think best. I shall have great pleasure (melancholy plea- 
 sure, 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. There- 
 fore 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 innumer- 
 able 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 AVhite's. 
 What, are you here. Tommy ? Foley on a blood mare. The Smalder 
 girls " — and so forth. At the ceremony Cou.sin Feenix is depressed, 
 observing, that these are the occasions to make a man think, in point of 
 fact, that he is getting shakey ; 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 moonhght, to the invisible coimtry far away. But all 
 goes on, as it was wont, upon the margin of the unknown sea ; and Edith 
 standing there alone, and Ustening to its waves, has dank weed cast up at 
 her feet, to strew her path in life withal. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 417 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 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, whicb, 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, Eob the Grinder, thus trans- 
 formed 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 tri- 
 umphant 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, Eob 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 speUs. 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, Eob 
 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. 
 
 Eob 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 Eob 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, Eob, after dis- 
 posing 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 
 
 e e 
 
418 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 Kob, "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 Eob, 
 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 '11 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 Eob, 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 Eob ; " I 'm sure of 
 that. Sir. If you '11 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 Grrinder, " 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 crest- 
 fallen 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 Eob, who, in doing so, had acted on 
 his patron's own instructions, but dared not justify himself by the least 
 insinuation to that eftect. 
 
 " WeU ! " said Mr. Carker. " You know me, boy ? " 
 
 " Please, Sir, yes. Sir," returned Eob, fumbling with his hat, and still 
 fixed by Mr. Carker's eye, and fruitlessly endeavouring to unfix himself. 
 
 Mr. Carker nodded. " Take care, then ! " 
 
 Eob 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." 
 
 Eob 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 ? " Eob hazarded, after some embarrassed reflection. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 419 
 
 His patron nodded. " And watching and so forth." 
 
 "I wouldn't do such a thing here, Sii*," answered Eob ; "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 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 down stairs, 
 after observing him for some moments in silence, and gave him to under- 
 stand that he was retained in his employment. 
 
 This was the manner of Kob 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, 
 Kob opened the garden gate to 'Mi: 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, conde- 
 scending 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, " any one 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 disparage- 
 ment. " It wants that qualification. Well ! we have said enough about 
 it ; and though you can afi^brd to praise it, I thank you none the less. 
 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 humiUty, received this notice with a deferential smile, and said he under- 
 stood 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 reaUy does look better 
 than it is," he said, with his false mouth distended to its fullest stretch. 
 " Just as monarchs imagine attractions in the Hves 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, 
 
 E E 2 
 
420 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 drawing himself up before tlie 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 catlike 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 stifl:" neckcloth, without raising his eyes from 
 the table-cloth. As to Rob, who was in attendance, aU 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 gentle- 
 man 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 smaUs. 
 
 " AUow me," said Carker suddenly, " to ask how Mrs. Dombey is ? " 
 
 He leaned forward obsequiously, as he made the inquuy, 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 con- 
 versation that I wish to have with you." 
 
 " Eobin, you can leave us," said his master, at whose mdd tones Eobin 
 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 immeshed 
 Grinder was gone. 
 
 " No," said Mr. Dombey, with magnificent indiff"erence. 
 
 " 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 dare say) 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 belongirg 
 to you, that " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 421 
 
 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 IVIr. Dombey, " I am sensible that you do not limit 
 
 yOUl- -" 
 
 " 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 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 hesi- 
 tation ; " 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 compHment 
 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." 
 
 " Mi's. 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 aft'ection, 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 necessarily 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 pre- 
 sentation 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 
 
4^Z DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 wMch 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 any one that 
 you have no need to ask ? " 
 
 " Then I hope, Carker," said Mr. Dombey, " that your regret in the 
 acquisition of Mi-s. Dombey 's displeasure, may be almost counterbalanced 
 by your satisfaction in retaining vi?/ 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 Mrs. 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 cany 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 pohtely 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 pro- 
 ceed 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 fawning 
 show of teeth. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 423 
 
 " 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 statehness. " 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 
 regtdating her conduct by the injunctions laid upon her in that con- 
 versation. 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 Ms 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 speaking in a somewhat altered and more hurried voice, and with a 
 paler lip, " there is no occasion for apology. You mistake. The associ- 
 ation 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. 
 
424 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 Avill 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 gi*eat 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, 
 IVIrs. 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." 
 
 " Aye," 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 under- 
 stand what is in your mind, I am so mu.ch more likely to be useful, and to 
 have the happiness of being effectually employed. I think I do under- 
 stand. 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 these communications 
 to Mrs. Dombey through me, is sure to be particularlv 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 accomplish- 
 
"i^^^-^— 
 
 
 a.f^.-e'^t^. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 425 
 
 ments — and, not to say of punisliing 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 win 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 intrust to you, would be likely to degrade you — " 
 
 " Oh ! / degraded !" exclaimed Carker. " In your service !" 
 
 " — or to place you," pursued Mr. Dombey, "in a false position." 
 
 "J 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 shaU hope that she will perceive in the slight part I take, only 
 a gi'ain — my removed and different sphere gives room for little more — of 
 the respect for you, and sacrifice of aU. considerations to you, of which it 
 wUl be her pleasure and privilege to gamer 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 liis confidential agent an echo of the words, " Nothing can make us 
 stranger to each other than we are henceforth !" But he shook oft' 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 re-appeared, keeping his eyes upon his master without a moment's 
 respite, and passing the time in a reverie of worshipful terror. 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 wliich it happened that Mr. Dombey's horse, while going 
 at a round trot, stumbled on some loose stones, threw him, rolled over 
 
426 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Mm, 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. Dom- 
 bey'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 oifence to Mrs. Dombey now, 
 
 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 aU 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, crouching 
 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 aifair 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 hberty of pressing for an interview, and that 
 he would not be so bold as to do so, for the second time (this he under- 
 lined), 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 up -stairs, 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 
 
DOMBET AND SON. 427 
 
 Florence — tliougt 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 hun. 
 
 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 re-assured 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. 
 
 AU 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 Avhere Mr. Dombey was lying, and to 
 request that a carriage might be placed at his disposal to bring hiin home. 
 
 " Mama," faltered Florence, in tears, " if I might venture to go 1 " 
 
 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 down stairs, 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 con- 
 ciliation ; 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 Ms way back 
 to the place where Mr. Dombey had been left. It was only when sitting 
 by that gentleman's couch that he was qmte himself again, and conscious 
 of his teeth. 
 
428 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 About the time of twiliglit, Mr. Dombey, grievously afflicted witb aches 
 and pains, ^yas 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. darker remained in attendance until he was safe in bed, and then, as 
 he declined to receive any female visitor but the excellent Ogress Avho 
 presided over his household, waited on Mrs. Dombey once more, with his 
 report on her lord's condition. 
 
 He again found Edith alone with Elorence, and he again addressed the 
 whole of his soothing speech to Edith, as if she were a prey to the live- 
 liest 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. 
 
 Ear 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-Kke, before her, one resented figure 
 marshalled them against her. And that figure was her husband. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 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 stem 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 429 
 
 it was mucli 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 tui-ns, 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 A'cry 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 every one but her, with what disdain she treated him, how 
 distantly she kept apart .from him, and what she had said on the night 
 when she 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 unna- 
 tural child who added this wrong to the old fault, so much wept for, of 
 never having won his fatherly aflection 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 moui'nful 
 house, and her beautiful Mamma 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 wotdd 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 that she 
 was right. 
 
 In this state of affau-s 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 a coming to 
 such passes that it turns aU the blood in a person's body into pins and 
 needles, with their pints all ways. Don't mistake me Miss Floy, I don't 
 mean notlung again your ma-in-l.iw who has always treated me as a 
 
430 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 lady should ttough slie is rather high I must say not that I have any 
 right to object to that particular, but 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 weU of Mrs, Pipchin, Susan," returned Florence, " and 
 has a right to choose his housekeeper, you know. Pray don't ! " 
 
 " WeU Miss Ploy," returned the Nipper, " when you say don't, I 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 night, which was the night of Mr. Dombey's being 
 brought home, because, having been sent down stairs by Florence 
 to inquii-e after him, she had been obliged to deliver her message to 
 her mortal enemy Mrs. Pipchin; who, without carrying it in to Mr. 
 Dombey, had taken upon herself to return what Miss Nipper called 
 a huffish answer, on her own responsibility. This, Susan Nipper 
 construed into presumption on the part of that exemplary sufferer by the 
 Peruvian mines, and a deed of disparagement upon her young lady, that 
 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 distrust, 
 ever since the marriage ; for, hke most persons of her quality of mind, who 
 form a strong and sincere attachment to one in the different station which 
 Florence occupied, Susan was very jealous, and her jealousy naturally 
 attached to Edith, who divided her old empire, and came between them. 
 Proud and glad as Susan Nipper truly was, that her young mistress should 
 be advanced towards her proper place in the scene of her old neglect, and 
 that she should have her father's handsome wife for her companion and 
 protectress, she could not relinquish any part of her own dominion to the 
 handsome wife, without a grudge and a vague feeUng of ill will, for 
 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 somewhat, since the 
 marriage. Miss Nipper looked on, therefore, at domestic affairs in general, 
 with a resolute conviction that no good would come of Mrs. Dombey : 
 always being very careful to publish on aU possible occasions, that she had 
 nothing to say against her. 
 
 " Susan," said Florence, who was sitting thoughtfully at her table, 
 "it is very late. I shall want nothing more to-night." 
 
 "Ah, Miss 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 spectacles, 
 but 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 Florence, gently, " never ! " And looking up, she put 
 her arm round the neck of her humble friend, drew her face down to 
 hers, and, bidding her good night, kissed it ; which so mollified Miss 
 Nipper that she feU a sobbing. 
 
 " Now my dear Miss Floy," said Susan, " let me go down stall's again 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 431 
 
 and see how your pa is, I know you 're wretclied about him, do let me go 
 do\vn stairs again and knock at his door my own self." 
 "> " No," said Florence, " go to bed. We shall hear more in the morn- 
 ing. I wiU inquire myself in the morning. Mamma has been down, I dare 
 say ; " Florence blushed, for she had no such hope ; " or is there now, 
 perhaps. Good night ! " 
 
 Susan was too much softened to express her private opinion on the 
 probability of Mrs. Dombey's being in attendance on her husband ; and 
 silently withdrew. Florence left alone, soon hid her head upon her 
 hands as she had often done in other days, and did not restrain the tears 
 from coursing down her face. The misery of this domestic discord and 
 unhappiness ; the withered hope she cherished now, if hope it could 
 be called, of 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 this, to what had been a 
 vision of bright hope and promise to her ; aU. crowded on her mind and 
 made her tears flow fast. Her mother and her brother dead, her father 
 immoved towards her, Edith opposed to him and casting him away, but 
 loving her, and loved by her, it seemed as if her affection could never 
 prosper, rest where it would. That weak thought was soon hushed, but 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 up, as there had risen up aU day, 
 the image of her father, wounded and in pain, alone in his own room, 
 untended by those who should be nearest to him, and 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 die, and never see her or pronounce her name, thrilled her whole 
 frame. In her agitation she thought, and trembled while she thought, of 
 once more stealing down stairs, and venturing to his door. 
 
 She listened at her own. The house was quiet, and all the lights were 
 out. It was a long, long time, she thought, since she used to make her 
 nightly pilgrimages to his door I It was a long, long time, she tried to 
 think, since she had entered his room at midnight, and he had led her 
 back to the stair-foot 1 
 
 With the same child's heart within her, as of old : even with the child's 
 sweet timid eyes and clustering hair : Florence, as strange to her father in 
 her early maiden bloom, as in her nursery time, crept down the staircase 
 listening as she went, and 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 
 within, that she could hear the burning of the fire, and count the ticking 
 of the clock that stood upon the chimney-piece. 
 
 She looked in. In that room, the housekeeper wrapped in a blanket 
 was fast asleep in an easy chair before the fire. The doors between it and 
 the next, were partly closed, and a screen was drawn before them ; but there 
 was a light there, and it shone upon the cornice of his bed. All was so very 
 stiU that she could hear from his breathing that he was asleep. This 
 gave her courage to pass round the screen, and look into his chamber. 
 
 It was as great a start to come upon his sleeping face as if she had not 
 
433 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 expected to see it. Morence stood arrested on the spot, and if he had 
 awakened then, must have remained there. 
 
 There was a cut upon his forehead, and they had been Avetting his hair, 
 which lay bedabbled and entangled on the pillow. One of his arms, 
 resting outside the bed, was bandaged up, and he was very white. But it 
 was not this, that after the first quick glance, and first assurance of his 
 sleeping quietly, held Florence rooted to the ground. It was something 
 very different from this, and more than this, that made him look so 
 solemn in her eyes. 
 
 She had never seen his face in all her life, but there had been upon it — 
 or she fancied so — some disturbing consciousness of her. She had never 
 seen his face in all her life, but hope had sunk within her, and her timid 
 glance had drooped before its stern, unloving, and repelling harshness. 
 As she looked upon it now, she saw it, for the first time, free 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 there, 
 blessing her. 
 
 Awake, unkind father ! Awake, now, sullen 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 it, awfully, its 
 motionless repose recalled the faces that were gone. So they looked, so 
 would he ; so she, his weeping child, who should say when ! so all the 
 world of love and hatred and indifference around them ! When that 
 time should come, it would not be the heavier to him, for this that she was 
 going to do ; and it might fall something lighter upon her. 
 
 She stole close to the bed, and drawing in her breath, bent down, and 
 softly kissed him on the face, and laid her own for one brief moment by 
 its side, and put the arm, with which she dared not touch him, round 
 about him on the piUow. 
 
 Awake, doomed man, while 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 mind, she prayed to God to bless her father, and to soften 
 him towards her, if it might be so ; and if not, to forgive him if he 
 was wrong, and pardon her the prayer which almost seemed impiety. 
 And doing so, and looking back at him with blinded eyes, and stealing 
 timidly away, passed out of his room, and crossed the other, and was 
 gone. 
 
 He may sleep on now. He may sleep on while he may. But let him 
 look for that slight figure when he wakes, and find it near him when the 
 hour is come ! 
 
 Sad and grieving was the heart of Florence, as she crept up stairs. 
 The quiet house had grown more dismal since she came down. The sleep 
 she had been looking on, in the dead of night, had the solemnity to 
 her of death and life in one. The secrecy and silence of her own pro- 
 ceeding made the night secret, silent, and oppressive. She felt unwilling, 
 almost unable, to go on to her own chamber; and turning into the drawing- 
 rooms, where the clouded moon was shining through the blinds, looked out 
 into the empty streets. 
 
 The wind was blowing drearily. The lamps looked pale, and shook as 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 433 
 
 if they were cold. There was a distant glimmer of something that was 
 not quite darkness, rather than of light, in the sky ; and foreboding night 
 was shivering and restless, as the dying are who make a troubled end. 
 Florence remembered how, as a watcher, by a sick bed, she had noted this 
 bleak time, and felt its influence, as if in some hidden natural antipathy 
 to it ; and now it was very, very gloomy. 
 
 Her mamma had not come to her room that night, which was one 
 cause of her having sat late out of her bed. In her general uneasiness, 
 no less than in her ardent longing to have somebody to speak to, and to 
 break this spell of gloom and sUence, Florence directed her steps towards 
 the chamber where she slept. 
 
 The door was not fastened within, and yielded smoothly to her hesitat- 
 ing hand. She was surprised to find a bright light burning ; still more 
 surprised, on looking in, to see that her mamma, but partially undressed, 
 was sitting near the ashes of the fire, which had crumbled and dropped 
 away. Her eyes were intently bent upon the air ; and in their light, 
 and in her face, and in her form, and 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. 
 
 " Mamma ! " she cried, " what is the matter ! " 
 
 Edith started ; looking at her with such a strange dread in her face, 
 that Florence was more frightened than before. 
 
 " Mamma ! " said Florence, hurriedly advancing. " Dear Mamma ! what 
 is the matter ! " 
 
 " I have not been well," said Edith, shaking, and still looking at her in 
 the same strange way. " I have had bad dreams, my love." 
 
 " And not yet been to bed. Mamma ? " 
 
 "No," she returned. "Half-waking dreams." 
 
 Her features gradually softened ; and sufi"ering Florence to come close to 
 her, mthin her embrace, she said in a tender manner, " But what does 
 my bird do here ! What does my bird do here ! " 
 
 " I have been uneasy, Mamma, in not seeing you to-night, and in not 
 knowing how Papa was ; and I " 
 
 Florence stopped there, and said no more. 
 
 " Is it late ? " asked Edith, fondly putting back the curls that mingled 
 with her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face. 
 
 " Very late. Near day." 
 
 " Near day ! " she repeated, in surprise. 
 
 " Dear Mamma, ^vhat have you done to your hand? " said Florence. 
 
 Edith drew it suddenly away, and, for a moment, looked at her with 
 the same strange dread (there was a sort of wild avoidance in it) as 
 before ; but she presently said, " Nothing, nothing. A blow." And 
 then she said, " My Florence ! " And then her bosom heaved, and she 
 was weeping passionately. 
 
 " Mamma ! " said Florence. " Oh Mamma, what can I do, what should 
 I do, to make us happier ! Is there anything ! " 
 
 " Nothing," she repUed. 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? Can it never be ? If I speak now of what is 
 in my thoughts, in spite of what wd have agreed," said Florence, " you 
 will not blame me, will you ? " 
 
 F P 
 
434 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " It is useless," ske replied, " useless. I have told you, dear, that I 
 have had bad dreams. Nothing can change them, or prevent their coming 
 back." 
 
 " I do not understand," said Florence, gazing on her agitated face, which 
 seemed to darken as she looked. 
 
 "I have dreamed," saidEdith in a lowvoice, "of apride that is all powerless 
 for good, all powerful for evil ; of a pride that has been galled and goaded, 
 through many shameful years, and has never recoiled except upon itself; 
 a pride that has debased its owner with the consciousness of deep humi- 
 liation, and never helped its owner boldly to resent it or avoid it, or to say 
 ' This shall not be ! ' a pride that, rightly guided, might have led perhaps 
 to better things, but which, misdirected and perverted, like all else belong- 
 ing to the same possessor, has been self-contempt, mere hardihood and ruin." 
 
 She neither looked nor spoke to Florence now, but went on as if she 
 were alone. 
 
 " I have dreamed," she said, " of such indifference and callousness, 
 arising from this self-contempt ; this wretched, inefficient, miserable pride; 
 that it has gone on with listless steps even to the altar, yielding to the old, 
 familiar, beckoning finger, — oh mother, oh mother ! — ^whUe it spurned it ; 
 and willing to be hateful to itself for once and for all, rather than to 
 be stung daily in some new form. Mean, poor thing !" 
 
 And now with gathering and darkening emotion, she looked as she 
 had looked when Florence entered. 
 
 " And I have dreamed," she said, " that in a first late eifort to achieve 
 a purpose, it has been trodden on, and trodden down by a base foot, but 
 turns and looks upon him. I have dreamed that it is wounded, hunted, 
 set upon by dogs, but that it stands at bay, and will not yield ; no, that 
 it cannot, if it would; but that it is m'ged on to hate him, rise against him, 
 and defy him ! " 
 
 Her clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in hers, 
 and as she looked down on the alarmed and wondering face, her own 
 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 calmer, and was full of pity for the tears of Florence, 
 and for her waking at such untimely hours. And the day now dawning, 
 Edith folded her in her arms and laid her down upon her bed, and, not 
 lying down herself, sat by her, and bade her try to sleep, 
 
 " For you are weary, dearest, and unhappy, and should rest." 
 
 " I am indeed unhappy, dear Mamma, to-night," said Florence. " But 
 you are weary and uuhappy, too." 
 
 " Not when you lie asleep so near me, sweet." 
 
 They kissed each other, and Florence, worn out, gradually fell into a 
 gentle slumber ; but as her eyes closed on the face beside her, it was so 
 sad to tliink upon the face down stairs, that her hand drew closer to 
 Edith for some comfort ; yet, even in the act, it faltered, lest it shoidd be 
 deserting him. So, in her sleep, she tried to reconcile the two together, and 
 to show them that she loved them both, but could not do it, and her 
 waking grief was part of her dreams. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 435 
 
 Edith, sitting by, looked down at the dark eyelashes lying wet on the 
 flushed cheeks, and looked with gentleness and pity, for she knew the 
 truth. But no sleep hung upon her own eyes. As the day came on 
 she still sat watching and waking, with the placid hand in hers, and some- 
 times whispered, as she looked at the hushed face, "Be near me, Florence. 
 I have no hope but in you ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A SEPAEATION. 
 
 With the day, though not so early as the sun, uprose Miss Susan 
 Nipper, There was a heaviness in this young maiden's exceedingly sharp 
 black eyes, that abated somewhat of their sparkling, and suggested — 
 which was not their usual character — the possibility of their being some- 
 times shut. There was likewise a swollen look about them, as if they liad 
 been crying over-night. But the Nipper, so far from being cast down, 
 was singularly brisk and bold, and all her energies appeared to be braced 
 up for some great feat. This was noticeable even in her dress, which was 
 much more tight and trim than usual ; and in occasional twitches of her 
 head as she went about the house, which were mightUy expressive of 
 determination. 
 
 In a word, she had formed a determination, and 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 
 remarked, in a threatening manner, to herself, that morning, with 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 herself, Susan Nipper haunted the hall and 
 staircase during the whole forenoon, without finding a favourable oppor- 
 tunity for the assault. Not at aU baffled by this discomfiture, which in- 
 deed had a stimulating effect, and put her on her mettle, she diminished 
 nothing of her vigilance ; and at last discovered, towards evening, that her 
 sworn foe Mrs. Pipchin, under pretence of having sat up all night, was 
 dozing in her own room, and that Mr. Dombey was lying on his sofa, 
 unattended. 
 
 With a twitch — not of her head merely, this time, but of her whole 
 self — the Nipper went on tiptoe to Mr. Dombey's door, and knocked. 
 " Come in ! " said Mr. Dombey. Susan encouraged herself with a final 
 twitch, and went in. 
 
 Mr. Dombey, who was eyeing the fire, gave an amazed look at his 
 visitor, and raised himself a little on his arm. The Nipper dropped a curtsey. 
 
 " What do you want ? " said IVIr. Dombey. 
 
 " If you please, Sir, I wish to speak to you," said Susan. 
 
 Mr. Dombey moved his lips as if he were repeating the words, but he 
 seemed so lost in astonishment at the presumption of the young woman 
 as to be incapable of giving them utterance. 
 
 r F 3 
 
436 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " I have been in your service, Sir," said Susan Nipper, with her usual 
 rapidity, " now twelve year a waiting on Miss Ploy my own young lady 
 w^ho couldn't speak plain when I first come here and I was old in this 
 house when Mrs. Uichards was new, I may not be Meethosalem, but I 
 am not a child in arms." 
 
 Mr. Dombey, raised upon his arm and looking at her, offered no com- 
 ment on this preparatory statement of facts. 
 
 '•' There never was a dearer or a blesseder young lady than is my young 
 lady. Sir," 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 1 
 have seen her in her loneliness and some have never seen her, and I say to 
 some and aU — I do ! " and here the black-eyed shook her head, and 
 slightly stamped her foot ; " that she 's the blessedest and dearest angel is 
 Miss Ploy that ever drew the breath of life, the more that I was torn to 
 pieces Sir the more I 'd say it though I may not be a Pox's Martyr." 
 
 Mr. Dombey turned yet paler than his fall had made him, with indig- 
 nation and astonishment ; and kept his eyes upon the speaker as if he 
 accused them, and his ears too, of playing him false. 
 
 " No one could be anything but true and faithful to Miss Ploy, Sir," 
 pursued Susan, " and I take no merit for my service of twelve year, for 
 I love her — yes, I say to some and all T do ! " — and here the black- 
 eyed shook her head again, and slightly stamped her foot again, and 
 checked a sob ; " but true and faithful service gives me right to speak I 
 hope and speak I must and will now, right or wrong." 
 
 " What do you mean, woman ! " said Mi*. Dombey, glaring at her. 
 " How do you dare?" 
 
 " What I mean. Sir, is to speak respectful and without offence, but 
 out, and how I dare I know not but I do ! " said Susan. " Oh ! you 
 don't know my young lady Sir you don't indeed, you 'd never know so 
 little of her, if you did." 
 
 Mr. Dombey, in a fury, put his hand out for the bell-rope ; but there 
 was no bell-rope on that side of the fire, and he coidd not rise and cross 
 to the other without assistance. The quick eye of the Nipper detected 
 his helplessness immediately, and now, as she afterwards observed, she 
 felt she had got him. 
 
 " Miss Ploy," said Susan Nipper, " is the most devoted and most 
 patient and most dutiful and beautiful of daughters, there an't no 
 gentleman, no Sir, though as great and rich as all the greatest and richest 
 of England put together, but might be proud of her and would and 
 ought. If he knew her value right, he'd rather lose his greatness 
 and his fortune piece by piece and beg his way in rags from door to door, 
 I say to some and all, he would ! " cried Susan Nipper, bursting 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 pardon, not even if I am to leave the situation. Sir," 
 replied the'stedfast 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 
 I'rom iliss Ploy for such a cause — will I go now till I have said the rest, 
 
DOIIBEY AND SON. 437 
 
 I 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 alive, I 'd do it ! 
 And I 've made my mind up to go on." 
 
 Whicli was rendered no less clear by the expression of Susan Nipper's 
 countenance, tlian by her words. 
 
 " There an't a person in your service, Sir," 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 night, but last night decided of me." 
 
 Mr. Dombey, in a paroxysm of rage, made another grasp at the bell-rope 
 that was not there, and, in its absence, pulled 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 her, I 've seen her sitting nights together half the night 
 through to help her delicate brother with his learning, I 've seen her help- 
 ing him and watching him at other times — some well know when — I 've 
 seen her, with no encouragement and no help, grow up to be a lady, 
 thank God ! that is the grace and pride of every company she goes in, and 
 I 've always seen her cruelly neglected and keenly feehng of it — I say to 
 some and all, I have ! — and never said one word, but ordering one's self 
 lowly and reverently towards one's betters, is not to be a worshipper of 
 graven images, and I will and must speak !" 
 
 " Is there anybody there !" cried Mr. Dombey, calling 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 why, for 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 me, and I 
 saw her steal down stairs and come to this door as if it was a guilty 
 thing to look at her own Pa, and then steal back again and go into them lonely- 
 drawing-rooms, a-crying so, that I could hardly bear to hear it. I cannot 
 bear to hear it," said Susan Nipper, wiping her black eyes, and fixing them 
 undauntedly on Mr. Dombey's infuriated face. " It's not the first time I 
 have heard it, not by many and many a time you don't know your own 
 daughter Sir, you don't know what you 're doing, Sir, I say to some and 
 all," cried Susan Nipper, in a final burst, " that it 's a sinful shame ! " 
 
 "Why, hoity toity ! " cried the voice of Mrs. Pipchin, as the black bom- 
 bazeen garments of that fair Peruvian Miner swept into the room. 
 " What 's this, indeed ! " 
 
 Susan favoured Mrs. Pipchin with a look she had invented expressly 
 for her when they first became acquainted, and resigned the reply to 
 Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " What 's this ! " repeated Mr. Dombey, almost foaming. " What 's 
 this, Madam ? Tou who are at the head of this household, and bound to 
 keep it in order, have reason to inquire. Do you know this woman ? " 
 
 " I know very little good of her. Sir," croaked Mrs. Pipchin. " How 
 dare you come here, you hussy ? Go along with you ! " 
 
438 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 But the inflexible Nipper, merely honouring Mrs. Pipchin with another 
 look, remained. 
 
 " Do you caU it managing this establishment, Madam," 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 
 impertinencies of women servants ! " 
 
 " Well Sir," returned Mrs. Pipchin, with 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 say Sir, that 
 this young woman is quite beyond control. She has been spoiled by 
 Miss Dombey, and is amenable to nobody. You know you 're not," said 
 Mrs. Pipchin, sharply, and shaking her head at Susan Nipper. " Por 
 shame, you hussy ! Go along with you ! " 
 
 " If you find people in my service who are not to be controlled, Mrs. 
 Pipchin," said Mr. Dombey, turning back towards the fire, " you know 
 what to do with them, I presume. You know what you are here for ? 
 Take her away ! " 
 
 " Sir, I 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 Susan, loftily. 
 
 *' Yes," retiu-ned Mrs. Pipchin, " and don't smile at me, you minx, or 
 I 'U know the reason why ! Go along with you this minute ! " 
 
 " I intend to go this minute, you 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 me, Mrs. P." 
 
 " A good riddance of bad rubbish ! " said that wrathful old lady. " Get 
 along with you, or I '11 have you carried out ! " 
 
 " My comfort is," said Susan, looking 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 Mi-s. 
 Pipchin uttered a very sharp " Go along with you ! " and Miss Nipper 
 repeated the look) " can unsay what I have said, though 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 words, Miss Nipper preceded her foe out of the room ; and 
 walking up stairs to her own apartment in great state, to the choaking 
 exasperation of the ireful Pipchin, sat down among her boxes and began 
 to cry. 
 
 Prom this soft mood she was soon aroused, with a very wholesome and 
 refreshing eifect, by the voice of Mrs. Pipchin outside the door. 
 
 " Does that bold-faced slut," said the fell Pipchin, " intend to take her 
 warning, or does she not ? " 
 
 Miss Nipper replied from within that the person described did not in- 
 habit that part of the house, but that her name was Pipchin, and she was 
 to be found in the housekeeper's room. 
 
 " You saucy baggage ! " retorted Mrs. Pipchin, rattling at the handle of 
 
cy 
 
 u>^.^g^i.r-i^- A-a^i^ ■'/i6:9?t^ a- 
 
 ,^ 
 
 ^ -^^€^9?^ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 439 
 
 the door. " Go along with you this minute. Pack up your things 
 directly ! How dare you talk in tliis way to a gentlewoman who has seen 
 better days ? " 
 
 To which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castle, that 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 eye, I 'm pack- 
 ing 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 race, and especially 
 upon their demerits after being spoiled by Miss Dombey, withdrew to pre- 
 pare the Nipper's wages. Susan then bestirred herself to get her trunks 
 in order, that she might take an immediate and dignified departure; sobbing 
 heartily all the time, as she thought of Florence. 
 
 The object of her regret was not long in coming to her, for the news soon 
 spread over the house that Susan Nipper had had a disturbance with Mrs. 
 Pipchin, and that they had both appealed to Mr. Dombey, and that there 
 had been an unprecedented piece of work in Mr. Dombey's room, and that 
 Susan was going. The latter part of this confused rumour, Florence found 
 to be so correct, that Susan had locked the last trunk and was sitting upon 
 it with her bonnet on, when she came into her room. 
 
 " Susan ! " cried Florence, " Going to leave me ! You ! " 
 
 "Oh for goodness gracious sake, Miss Floy," said Susan, sobbing, "don't 
 speak a word to me or I shall demean myself before them Pi-i-ipchinses, 
 and I wouldn't have 'em see me cry Miss Floy for worlds !" 
 
 " Susan !" said Florence. "My dear girl, my old friend ! What shall 
 I do without you ! Can you bear to go away so ?" 
 
 "No-n-o-o my darling dear Miss Floy, I can't indeed," sobbed 
 Susan. "But it can't be helped, I 've done my duty Miss, I have indeed. 
 It 's no fault of mine. I am quite resi-igned. I couldn't stay my month 
 or I could never leave you then my darling and I must at last as well as at 
 first, don't speak to me Miss Floy, for though I 'm pretty firm I 'm not a 
 marble doorpost, my own dear." 
 
 " What is it ! Why is it ?" said Florence. " Won't you teU me ? " 
 For Susan was shaking her head. 
 
 " No-n-no, my darling," returned Susan. " Don't ask me, for I 
 mustn't, and whatever you do don't put in a word for me to stop, for it 
 couldn't be and you 'd only wrong yourself, and so God bless you my 
 own precious and forgive me any harm I have done, or any temper I have 
 showed in all these many years !" 
 
 With which entreaty, very heartily delivered, Susan 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 '11 serve you well and true," said Susan, " but there 
 can't be one who 'U serve you so afl^ectionate as me or love you half as 
 dearly, that 's my comfort. Go-ood-bye, sweet Miss Floy ! "' 
 
 " Where will you go, Susan ? " asked her weeping mistress. 
 
 " I 've got a brother down in the country Miss — a farmer in Essex," 
 
440 DOMJJEY AND SON. 
 
 said the lieart-broken Nipper, " tliat keeps ever so many co-o-ows and 
 pigs and I shall go down there by the coach and sto-op with him, and 
 don't mind me, for I 've got money in the Savings' Banks my dear, and 
 needn't take another service just yet, which I couldn't, couldn't, couldn't 
 do, my heart's own mistress ! " Susan finished with a burst of sorrow, 
 which was opportunely broken by the voice of Mrs, Pipchin talking down 
 stairs ; on hearing which, she dried her red and swollen eyes, and made a 
 melancholy feint of calling jauntily to Mr. Towlinson to fetch a cab and 
 carry down her boxes, 
 
 Florence, pale and hurried and distressed, but withheld from useless 
 interference even here, by her dread of causing any new division between her 
 father and his wife (whose stern, indignant 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 
 friend, followed, weeping, down stairs to Edith's dressing-room, whither 
 Susan betook herself to make her parting curtsey. 
 
 " Now, here 's the cab, and here 's the boxes, get along with you, do ! " 
 said Mrs. Pipchin, presenting herself at the same moment. " I beg your 
 pardon. Ma'am, but Mr. Dombey's orders are imperative." 
 
 Edith, sitting under the hands of her maid — she was going out to 
 dinner — preserved her haughty face, and took not the least notice. 
 
 " There 's your money," said Mrs. Pipchin, who, in pursuance of her 
 system, and in recollection of the Mines, was accustomed to rout the servants 
 about, as 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 Mrs. Pipchin 
 by right ; so she ch-opped her curtsey to Mrs. Dombey (who inclined her 
 head without one word, and whose eye avoided every one but Florence), 
 and gave one last parting hug to her young Mistress, and received her 
 parting embrace in return. Poor Susan's face at this crisis, in the inten- 
 sity 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 pardon Miss, I 'm sure," said Towlinson, outside the door 
 with the boxes, addressing Florence, " but Mr. Toots is in the dining- 
 room, and sends his compliments, and begs to know how Diogenes and 
 Master is." 
 
 Quick as thought, Florence glided out and hastened down stairs, 
 where Mr. Toots, in the most splendid vestments, was breathing very hard 
 with doubt and agitation on the subject of her coming. 
 
 " Oh, How de do. Miss 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 chuckles, and become an image of despair, 
 
 " Dear Mr. Toots," said Florence, " you are so friendly to me, and so 
 honest, that I am sure I may ask a favour of you." 
 
 " Miss Dombey," returned Mr. Toots, " if you '11 only name one, 
 you '11— you '11 give me an appetite. To which," said Mr. Toots, with 
 some sentiment, " I have long been a stranger." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 441 
 
 " Susan, who is an old friend of mine, tlie oldest friend I have," said 
 Florence, " is about to leave here suddenly, and quite alone, poor girl. 
 She is going home, a 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 confidence, after the manner in which 
 I was Beast enough to conduct myself at Brighton — " 
 
 "Yes," said Florence, hurriedly — "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 you, or what a good friend I am sure you are ! " And Florence 
 in her earnestness thanked him again and again ; and Mr. Toots, in his 
 earnestness, hurried away — but backwards, that he might lose no glimpse 
 of her. 
 
 Florence had not the courage to go out, when she saw poor Susan in the 
 hall, with Mrs. Pipchin driving her forth, and Diogenes jumping about 
 her, and terrifying Mrs. Pipchin to the last degree by making snaps at her 
 bombazeen skirts, and 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 round, and 
 turn once to look at her old home ; and she saw Diogenes bound out after 
 the cab, and want to follow it, and testify an impossibility of conviction 
 that he had no longer any property in the fare ; and the door was shut, 
 and the hurry over, and her tears flowed fast for the loss of an old friend, 
 whom no one could replace. No one. No one. 
 
 Mr. Toots, like the leal and trusty soul he was, stopped the cabriolet 
 in a twinkling, and told Susan Nipper of his commission, at which she 
 cried more than before. 
 
 " Upon my soul and body ! " said Mr. Toots, taking 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 liow, and it really was touching to 
 see her. 
 
 " I say," said Mr. Toots, " now, don't ! at least I mean now do, you 
 know ! " 
 
 " Do what, Mr. Toots ? " cried Susan. 
 
 " Why, come home to my place, and 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. Toots, as an additional recommen- 
 dation, " was educated in the Blue-coat School, and blown up in a powder 
 mill." 
 
 Susan accepting this kind offer, Mr. Toots conducted her to his dwell- 
 ing, where they were received by the Matron in question who fully justi- 
 fied his character of her, and by the Chicken who at first supposed, on 
 seeing a lady in the vehicle, that Mr. Dombey had been doubled up, 
 agreeably to his old recommendation, and Miss Dombey abducted. This 
 gentleman awakened in Miss Nipper some considerable astonishment ; for, 
 
442 DOMBEY AND SOi\. 
 
 having been defeated by the Larkey Boy, his visage was in a state of such 
 great dilapidation, as 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 proceedings, 
 when he was severely fibbed by the Larkey one, and 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 beginning, and that the Chicken 
 had been tapped, and bunged, and had received pepper, and had been made 
 groggy, and had come up piping, and had endured a complication of 
 similar strange inconveniences, until he had been gone into and finished. 
 
 After a good repast, and much hospitality, Susan set out for the coach- 
 office in another cabriolet, with Mr. Toots inside, as before, and the 
 Chicken on the box, who, whatever distinction he conferred on the little 
 party by the moral weight and heroism of his character, was scarcely 
 ornamental to it, physically speaking, on account of his plasters ; which 
 were numerous. But the Chicken had registered a vow, in secret, that he 
 would never leave Mr. Toots (who was secretly pining to get rid of him), 
 for any less consideration than the goodwill and fixtures of a public- 
 house ; and being ambitious to go into that line, and drink himself to 
 death as soon as possible, he felt it his clue to make his company unac- 
 ceptable. 
 
 The night-coach by which Susan was to go, was on the point of depar- 
 ture. Mr. Toots having put her inside, lingered by the window, irresolutely, 
 until the driver was about to mount; when, standing on the step, and put- 
 ting in a face that by the light of the lamp was anxious and confused, he 
 said abruptly : 
 
 " I say, Susan ! Miss Dombey, you know — " 
 
 " Yes, Sir." 
 
 " Do you think she could — you know — eh ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Toots," said Susan, "but I don't hear you." 
 
 " Do you tliink she could be brought, you know — not exactly at once, 
 but in time — in a long time — to — to love me, you know ! There ! " said 
 poor Mr. Toots. 
 
 " Oh, dear no ! " returned Susan, shaking her head. " I should say, 
 never. Ne — ver ! " 
 
 " Thank'ee! " said Mr. Toots. " It 's of no consequence. Good night. 
 It 's of no consequence, thank'ee ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE TKUSTY AGENT. 
 
 Edith went out alone that day, and returned home early. It was 
 but a few minutes after ten o'clock, when her carriage roUed along the 
 street in which she lived. 
 
 There was the same enforced composure on her face, that there had 
 been when she was dressing ; and the wreath upon her head encircled the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 443 
 
 same cold and steady brow. But it would have been better to have seen 
 its leaves and flowers reft into fragments by her passionate hand, or 
 rendered shapeless by the fitful searches of a throbbing and bewildered 
 brain for any resting place, than adorning such tranquillity. So obdurate, 
 so unapproachable, so unrelenting, one would have thought that nothing 
 could soften such a woman's nature, and that everything in life had 
 hardened it. 
 
 Arrived at her own door, she was alighting, when some one coming 
 quietly from the hall, and standing bareheaded, off"ered her his arm. The 
 servant being thrust aside, she had no choice but to touch it j and she then 
 knew whose arm it was. 
 
 " How is your patient. Sir ? " she said, with a curled lip. 
 
 " He is better," returned Carker. " He is doing very well. I have left 
 him for the night." 
 
 She bent her head, and was passing up the staircase, when he followed 
 and said, speaking 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, 
 Sir, and I am fatigued. Is your business urgent ? " 
 
 " It is very urgent," returned Carker. "As I am so fortunate as to 
 have met you, let me press my petition." 
 
 She looked down for a moment at his" glistening mouth; and he looked 
 up at her, standing above him in her stately dress, and thought, again, 
 how beautifid she was. 
 
 " Where is Miss Dombey ? " she asked the servant, aloud. 
 
 " In the morning room, Ma'am." 
 
 " Shew the way there ! " Turning her eyes again on the attentive gentle- 
 man at the bottom of the stairs, and informing him, with a shght motion 
 of her head, that he was at liberty to follow, she passed on. 
 
 " I beg your pardon ! Madam ! Mrs. Dombey ! " cried the soft and 
 nimble Carker, at her side in a moment. " May I be permitted to intreat 
 that Miss Dombey is not present ? " 
 
 She confronted him, with a quick look, but with the same self-possession 
 and steadiness. 
 
 " I would spare Miss Dombey," said Carker in a low voice, " the 
 knowledge of what I have to say. At least, Madam, I 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 interview, it would be 
 monstrous in me if I did otherwise." 
 
 She slowly withdrew her eyes from his face, and turning to the servant, 
 said " 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. 
 Carker, with liis hat in his hand and his eyes bent upon the carpet, stood 
 before her, at some little distance. 
 
 *' Before I hear you. Sir," said Edith, when the door was closed, " I 
 wish you to hear me." 
 
 " To be addi-essed by Mrs. Dombey," he returned, " even in accents of 
 unmerited reproach, is an honour I so greatly esteem, that, although I 
 
441 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 were not her servant in all things, I should defer to such a wish, most 
 readily." 
 
 " If you are charged by the man whom you have just now left, Sir ; " Mr. 
 Carker raised his eyes, as if he were going to counterfeit surprise, but she 
 met them, and stopped him, if such were his intention; "with any message 
 to me, do not attempt to deliver it, for 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 here, wholly against my wdl, 
 for such a purpose. AUow me to say that I am here for two purposes. 
 That is one." 
 
 " That one. Sir," she returned, " is ended. " Or, if you return to it " 
 
 "Can Mrs. Dombey believe," said Carker, coming nearer, "that I 
 woiild return to it in the face of her prohibition ? Is it possible that Mrs. 
 Dombey, having no regard to my unfortunate position, is so determined to 
 consider me inseparable from my instructor as to do me great and wdful 
 injustice ? " 
 
 " Sir," returned Edith, bending her dark gaze full upon him, and speak- 
 ing with a rising passion that inflated her proud nostril and her swelling- 
 neck, and stirred the delicate white down upon a robe she wore, thrown 
 loosely over shoulders that could bear its snowy neighbourhood. " Why 
 do you present yourself to me, as you have done, and speak to me of love 
 and duty to my -husband, and pretend to think that I am happily married, 
 and that I honour him? How dare you venture so to affront me, when 
 you know — / do not know better. Sir : I have seen it in your every glance, 
 and heard it in your every word — that in place of affection between us 
 there is aversion and contempt, and 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 me, I should have slain you ! " 
 
 She had asked him why he did this. Had she not been blinded by her 
 pride and wrath, and self-humiliation, — which she was, fiercely 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 not, and cared not whether it was there or no. She saw 
 only the indignities and struggles she had undergone, and had to undergo, 
 and was writhing under then. As she sat looking fixedly at them, rather 
 than at him, she plucked the feathers from a pinion of some rare and 
 beautiful bird, which hung from her wrist by a golden thread, to serve her 
 as a fan, and rained them on the ground. 
 
 He did not shrink beneath her gaze, but stood, until such outward signs 
 of her anger as had escaped her controul subsided, with the air of a man 
 who had his sufficient reply in reserve and would presently deliver it. And 
 he then spoke, looking straight into her kindling eyes. 
 
 " Madam," he said, " I know, and knew before to-day, that 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 yoiir 
 confidence " 
 
 " Confidence ! " she repeated, with disdain. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 445 
 
 He passed it over. 
 
 " — thcat I will make no pretence of concealment. I did see from the 
 first, that there was no affection on your part, for Mr. Dombey — how 
 could it possibly exist between such different subjects ! And I Itave seen, 
 since, that stronger feelings than indifference have been engendered in 
 your breast — how could that possibly be otherwise, either, cii'cumstanced 
 as you have been. But was it for me to presume to avow this knowledge 
 to you in so many words ? " 
 
 " Was it for you, Sir," she replied, " to feign that other belief, and 
 audaciously to thrust it on me day by day? " 
 
 " Madam, it was," he eagerly retorted. " If I had done less, if I had 
 done anything but that, I should not be speaking to you thus ; and I 
 foresaw — who could better foresee, for 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 say, whichldid not believe, — the time was likely to come, when such 
 an understanding as we have now arrived at, woidd be serviceable." 
 
 " Serviceable to whom. Sir ?" she demanded, scornfully. 
 
 "To you. I v/iU not add to myself, as warning me to refrain even from that 
 limited commendation of Mr. Dombey, in Avhich I can honestly indulge, in 
 order that I may not have the misfortune of saying anything distasteful 
 to one whose aversion and contempt" with great expression "are so 
 keen." 
 
 "It is honest in you, Sir," 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 convenience, friendships of interest and convenience, deal- 
 ings of interest and convenience, marriages of interest and convenience, 
 every day." 
 
 She bit her blood-red lip ; but without wavering in the dark, stern watch 
 she kept upon him. 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Carker, sitting down in a chair that was near her, 
 with an air of the most profound and most considerate respect, "why 
 should I hesitate now, being altogether devoted to your service, to speak 
 plainly ! It was natural that a lady, endowed as you are, should think it 
 feasible to change her husband's character in some respects, and mould him 
 to a better -form." 
 
 " It was not natural to me. Sir," she rejoined. " I had never any ex- 
 pectation or intention of that kind." 
 
 The proud undaunted face showed him it was resolute to wear no mask 
 he offered, but 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 wife, at once without submitting 
 
446 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 to him, and Avithout coming into such violent collision with him. But 
 Madam, you did not know Mr. Dombey (as you have since ascertained), 
 when you thought that. You did not know how exacting and how proud 
 he is, or how he is, if I may say so, the slave of his own greatness, and 
 goes yoked to his own triumphal car like a beast of burden, with no 
 idea on earth but that it is behind liim and is to be drawn on, over 
 everything and through everything." 
 
 His teeth gleamed through his malicious relish of this conceit, as he 
 went on talking : 
 
 " Mr. Dombey is really capable of no more true consideration for you, 
 Madam, than for me. The comparison is an extreme one ; I intend it 
 to be so ; but quite just. Mi'. Dombey, in the plenitude of his power, asked 
 me — I had it from his own lips yesterday morning — to be his go-between 
 to you, because he knows I am not agreeable to you, and because 
 he intends that I shall be a punishment for your contumacy ; and be- 
 sides that, because he really does consider, that I, his paid servant, am 
 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 wife, a part of liimself, to receive. You may ima- 
 gine how regardless of me, how obtuse to the possibility of my having 
 any individual sentiment or opinion he is, when he tells me, openly, that I 
 am so employed. You know how perfectly indifferent to your feelings he 
 is, when he threatens you with such a messenger. As you, of course, have 
 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 part, of something that had 
 passed between herself and her husband, rankled and smarted in her 
 haughty breast, Hke a poisoned arrow. 
 
 " I do not recal all this to widen the breach between yourself and 
 Mr. Dombey, Madam — 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 him, have, in our various positions, done our part, I dare say, 
 to confirm him in his way of thinking ; but if we had not done so, others 
 would — or they would not have been about him ; and it has always been, 
 from the beginning, the very staple of his life. Mr. Dombey has had to 
 deal, in short, with none but submissive and dependent persons, who have 
 bowed the knee, and bent the neck, before 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 part, nor her eyes falter. He saw the soft down tremble once again, 
 and he saw her lay the plumage of the beautiful bii-d against her bosom for 
 a moment ; and he unfolded one more ring of the coil into which he had 
 gathered himself. 
 
 "Mr. Dombey, though a most honourable gentleman," he said, "is so 
 prone to pervert even facts to his own view, when he is at all opposed, in 
 consequence of the warp in his mind, that he — can I give a better instance 
 than this ! — ^he sincerely believes (you will excuse the foUy of what I am 
 about to say ; it not being mine) that his severe expression of opinion to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. M7 
 
 his present wife, on a certain special occasion she may remember, before the 
 lamented death of Mrs. Skewton, produced a withering effect, and 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 strong, and, I am persuaded, so unalterable," he repeated those 
 words slowly and vnth. great emphasis, " that I am almost afraid to incur 
 your displeasure anew, when I say that in spite of these defects and 
 my fuU knowledge of them, I have become habituated to Mr. Dombey, and 
 esteem him. But when I- say so, it is not, believe me, for the mere sake of 
 vaunting a feeling that is so utterly at variance with your own, and for 
 which you can have no sympathy" — oh how distinct and plain, and 
 emphasized tliis was ! " but to give you an assurance of the zeal with 
 which, in this unhappy matter, I am yours, and the indignation with 
 which I regard the part I am required 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 coU ! 
 
 " It is growing late," said Carker, after a pause, " and you are, as you 
 said, fatigued. But the second object of this interview, I must not forget. 
 I must recommend you, I must entreat you in the most earnest manner, 
 for sufficient reasons that I have, to 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 affection, Sir ! " said Edith, knitting her broad brow and 
 rising. " "VMio judges my affection, or measures it out. You ? " 
 " It is not I who do so." He was, or feigned to be, perplexed. 
 "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 stiU were, regarding each other as before ; " I am in a difficulty 
 here. You have told me you will receive no message, and you have 
 forbidden me to return to that subject; but the two subjects are so 
 closely entwined, I find, that unless you will accept this vague caution from 
 one who has now the honoiu to possess your confidence, though the way 
 to it has been through your displeasure, I must violate the injunction you 
 have laid upon me." 
 
 " You know that you are free to do so, Sir," said Edith. " Do it." 
 So pale, so trembling, so impassioned ! He had not miscalculated the 
 effect, then ! 
 
 " His instructions were," he said, in a low voice, "that I should 
 inform you that yom- demeanour towards Miss Dombey is not agree- 
 able to him. That it suggests comparisons to him which are not favour- 
 able to himself. That he desires it may be wholly changed ; and that 
 if you are in earnest, he is confident it will be ; for your continued 
 show of affection will not benefit its object." 
 " That is a threat," she said. 
 
448 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " That is a threat," he answered in his voiceless manner of assent : 
 adding aloud, " but not directed against you" 
 
 Proud, erect, and dignified, as she stood confronting him; and looking 
 through him, as she did, with her full bright flashing eye ; and smiling, as 
 she was, with scorn and bitterness ; she sunk as if the ground had dropped 
 beneath her, and in an instant would have fallen on the floor, but that he 
 caught her in his arms. As instantaneously she threw him off, the moment 
 that he touched her, and, drawing back, confronted him again, immoveable, 
 with 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 arise, or how soon, from your 
 being unacquainted with his state of mind. I understand INIiss Dombey is 
 concerned, now, at the dismissal of her old servant, which is likely to have 
 been a minor consequence in itself. You don't blame me for requesting 
 that ]\Iiss Dombey might not be present. May I hope so ? " 
 
 " I do not. Please to leave me. Sir." 
 
 " I knew that your regard for the young lady, which is very sincere and 
 strong, I am weU persuaded, would render it a great unhappiness to you, 
 ever to be a prey to the reflection that you had injured her position and 
 ruined her futm-e hopes," said Carker, hurriedly, but eagerly. 
 
 " No more to-night. Leave me, if you please." 
 
 " I shall be here constantly in my attendance upon him, and in the trans- 
 action of business matters. You will allow me to see you again, and 
 to consult what should be done, and 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 so, for want of oppor- 
 tunity, or 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 wUl understand, when I wish to see you, that Miss Dombey is not 
 to be present ; and that I seek an interview as one who has the happiness 
 to possess your confidence, and who comes to render you every assistance 
 in his power, and, perhaps, on many occasions, to 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 gaze, whatever that might be, 
 she answered, " Yes ! " and once more bade him go. 
 
 He bowed, as if in compliance ; but turning back, when he had nearly 
 reached the door, said : 
 
 " I am forgiven, and have explained my fault. May I — for INIiss Dom- 
 bey's sake, and 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 his, and kissed it, and withdrew. And when he had closed the 
 door, he waved the hand with Avhich he had taken her's, and thrust it in 
 his breast. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 449 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 IIECOGNIZANT AND REFLECTIVE. 
 
 Among sundry minor alterations in Mr. Carker's life and habits tliat 
 began to take place at this time, none was more remarkable than the extra- 
 ordinary diligence with which he applied himself to business, and the close- 
 ness with which he investigated every detail that the affairs of the House 
 laid open to him. Always active and penetrating in such matters, his 
 lynx-eyed vigilance now increased twenty-fold. Not only did his wary 
 watch keep pace with every present point that every day presented to him 
 in some new form, but in the midst of these engrossing occupations he 
 found leisure — that is, he made it — to review the past transactions of the 
 Firm, and his share in them, during a long series of years. Frequently 
 when the clerks were all gone, the offices dark and empty, and aU similar 
 places of business shut up, Mr. Carker, with the whole anatomy of the 
 iron room laid bare before him, would explore the mysteries of books 
 and papers, with the patient progress of a man who was dissecting the 
 minutest nerves and fibres of his subject. Perch, the messenger, who 
 usually remained on these occasions, to entertain himself with the perusal 
 of the Price Current by the light of one candle, or to doze over the fire in 
 the outer office, at the imminent risk every moment of diving head fore- 
 most into the coal box, could not withhold the tribute of his admiration 
 from this zealous conduct, although it much contracted his domestic enjoy- 
 ments ; and again, and again, expatiated 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 House, he 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 per centage on its dealings ; and, participating in all its facilities for 
 the employment of money to advantage, was considered, by the minnows 
 among the tritons of the East, a rich man. It began to be said, among 
 these shrewd observers, that Jem Carker, of Dombey's, was looking about 
 him to sec what he was worth; and that he was calling in his money at a 
 good time, like 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 chief, or with his cleanness, neatness, sleekness, or any cat-like 
 quality he possessed. It was not so much that there was a change in him, 
 in reference to any of his habits, as that the whole man was intensified. 
 Everything that had been observable in him before, was observable 
 now, but with a greater amount of concentration. He did each single 
 thing, as if he did nothing else — a pretty certain indication in a man of 
 that range of ability and purpose, that he is doing something which sharpens 
 and keeps aUve his keenest powers. 
 
 G G 
 
450 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 The only decided alteration in Mm, was, that as he rode to and fro 
 along the streets, he would fall into deep fits of musing, like that in which 
 he had come away from Mr. Dombey's house, on the morning of that 
 gentleman's disaster. At such times, he would keep clear of the obstacles 
 in his way, mechanically ; and would appear to see and hear nothing until 
 arrival at his destination, or some sudden chance or effort roused him. 
 
 Walking his white-legged horse thus, to the counting-house of Dombey 
 and Son one day, he was as unconscious of the observation of two pairs of 
 women's eyes, as of the fascinated orbs of Eob the Grinder, who, in waiting 
 a street's length from the appointed place, as a demonstration of punctu- 
 ality, vainly touched and retouched his hat to attract attention, and trotted 
 along on foot, by his master's side, prepared to hold his stirrup when he 
 should alight. 
 
 " See where he goes ! " cried one of these two women, an old creature, 
 who stretched out her shrivelled arm to point him out to her companion, a 
 young woman, who stood close beside her, withdrawn like herself into a 
 gateway. 
 
 Mrs. Brown's daughter looked out, at 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 said, in a low voice ; " but 
 it 's well I should, perhaps. I see. I see ! " 
 
 " Not changed ! " said the old woman, with 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 woman, watching her daughter 
 with her red eyes ; " so easy, and so trim, a' horseback, whUe we are in 
 the mud — " 
 
 " And of it," said her daughter, impatiently. " We are mud, under- 
 neath his horse's feet. What should we be ? " 
 
 In the intentness with which she looked after him again, she made a 
 hasty gesture with her hand when the old woman began to reply, as if her 
 view could be obstructed by mere sound. Her mother watching her, and 
 not him, remained silent ; until her kindling glance subsided, and she drew 
 a long breath, as if in the relief of his being gone. 
 
 " Deary ! " said the old Avoman then. " Alice ! Handsome gal ! 
 Ally ! " She gently shook her sleeve to arouse her attention. " Will 
 you let him go like that, when you can wring money from him. Why, it 's 
 a wickedness, my daughter." 
 
 "Haven't I told you, that I wUl 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 penny, if I knew it, that had gone through his 
 white hands — unless, it was, indeed, that I could poison it, and send it 
 back to him? Peace, mother, and 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 riches, and 
 I '11 take them from him, and use them. Come away. It 's no good 
 looking at his horse. Come away, mother ! " 
 
 But the old woman, for whom the spectacle of Eob the Grinder 
 returning down the street, leading the riderless horse, appeared to have 
 some extraneous interest that it did not possess in itself, surveyed that 
 
r^- 
 
 f'^. •;^^^^;S<!2^:^^;^-- O^ cf/ur^fy?i-i/l(^/. 
 
 /? 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 451 
 
 young man wath the utmost earnestness ; and seeming to have whatever 
 doubts she entertained, resolved as he drew nearer, glanced at her daughter 
 with brightened eyes and with her finger on her lip, and emerging from 
 the gateway at the moment of his passing, touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 " Why, where 's my sprightly llob been, all this time ! " she said, as he 
 turned round. 
 
 The sprightly Eob, whose sprightlluess was very much diminished by 
 the salutation, looked exceedingly dismayed, and said, with the water 
 rising in his eyes : 
 
 " Oh ! why can't you leave a poor cove alone. Misses Brown, when 
 he's getting an honest livelihood and conducting himself respectable? 
 What do you come and deprive a cove of his character for, by talking to 
 him in the streets, when 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 
 ^ourvfay ! Why, I thought," said the Grinder, producing 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 woman, appealing to her daughter, 
 " that he talks to me, who knew him weeks and months together, my 
 deary, and have stood his friend many and many a time among the pigeon- 
 fancying tramps and bird-catchers." 
 
 "Let the birds be, will you Misses Brown?" retorted Eob, in a tone 
 of the acutest anguish. " I think a cove had better have to do with lions 
 than them little creeturs, for they 're always flying back in your face when 
 you least expect it. Well, how dy'e do and what do you want !" These 
 polite inquiries the Grinder uttered, as it were under protest, and with great 
 exasperation and vindictiveness. 
 
 " Hark how he speaks to an old friend, my deary 1" 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 knows, and has sported 
 and cheated with, where to find liim — " 
 
 " Will you hold your tongue. Misses Brown ? " interrupted the 
 miserable Grinder, glancing quickly round, as though he expected to see 
 his master's teeth shining at his elbow. " What do you take a pleasurq_^ 
 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 woman, patting the animal's neck. 
 
 " Let him alone, will you Misses Brown ? " cried Eob, pushing away 
 her hand. *' You're enough to drive a penitent cove mad ! " 
 
 " Why, what hurt do I do him, child ?" returned the old woman. 
 
 " Hurt ?" said Eob. " 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 moment, and smoothed it gently with his 
 finger, as if he seriously believed what he said. 
 
 The old woman looking back to mumble and mouth at her daughter, 
 who followed, kept close to Eob's heels as he walked on with the bridle in 
 his hand ; and pursued the conversation. 
 
 " A good place, Eob, eh ?" said she. " You're in luck, my child." 
 
 " Oh don't talk about luck, Misses Brown," returned the wretched 
 Grinder, facing round and stopping. "If you'd never come, or if you'd 
 go away, then indeed a cove might be considered tolerable lucky. Can't 
 
 G g2 
 
452 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 you go along Misses Brown, and not foller me!" blubbered Rob, with 
 sudden defiance. " If the young woman's a friend of yours, why don't she 
 take you away, instead of letting you make yourself so disgraceful !" 
 
 " What !" croaked the old woman, putting her face close to his, with 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 times, and slept sound in a corner when you had no other bed but 
 the paving-stones, and do you talk to me like this ! Have I bought and 
 sold with you, and helped you in my way of business, schoolboy, sneak, 
 and what not, and do you tell me to go along ? Coidd I raise a crowd of 
 old company about you to-morrow morning, that would follow you to 
 ruin like copies of your own shadow, and do you turn on me with your 
 bold looks ! I'll go. Come AHce." 
 
 " Stop, Misses Brown ! " cried the distracted Grinder. " What are you 
 doing of? Don't put yourself in a passion! Don't let her go, if 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 do you do? Besides," said Hob 
 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 stiU. 
 
 " 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 
 Airs. 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 ! " 
 
 " W^hy, 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." 
 
 " Aye, aye ? " 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 kuow'd her, Rob. But Mr. Carker — " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 453 
 
 " Hush ! " said Kob, glancing cautiously up at tlie packer's, and at the 
 liottle-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 Bob, 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. 
 
 Bob 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 Kob; "but we don't live at home 
 just now." 
 
 " Where then ? " asked the old woman. 
 
 " Lodgings ; up near Mr. Dombey's," returned Eob. 
 
 The younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly upon him, and so 
 suddenly, that Eob was quite confounded, and offered the glass again, but 
 with no more efl'ect upon her than before. 
 
 " Mr. Dombey — you and I used to talk about him, sometimes, you 
 know," said Kob 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 Kob, 
 unwillingly ; " and my master has to be up there, more than usual, either 
 v/ith 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 Kob. 
 
 " He and she ? " 
 
 " What, Mr. and Mrs. Dombey ? " said Kob. " How should / know !" 
 
 " Not them — Master and Mrs. Dombey, chick," replied the old woman, 
 coaxingly. 
 
 " I don't know," said Kob, 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 Kob 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 Kob, 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 Kob 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. 
 
 " Kob, lovey ! " said the old woman, beckoning him to the other end 
 of the bench. " You were always a pet and favomite 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 ! " 
 
454! DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " 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 Uke this here ! " 
 
 " Won't you come and see me, Eobby ! " cried Mrs. Brown. " Oho, 
 won't you ever come and see me ? " 
 
 " Yes, I teU you ! Yes, I will ! " returned the Grinder. 
 
 " That 's my own Kob ! That 's my lovey ! " said Mrs. BrowTi, drying 
 the tears upon her shrivelled face, and giving him a tender squeeze. 
 « At the old place, Eob?" 
 
 " Yes," replied the Grinder. 
 
 " Soon, Eobby dear ? " cried Mrs. Brown ; " and often ? " 
 
 " Yes. Yes. Y'es," replied Eob. " I will indeed, upon my soul 
 and body." 
 
 "And then," said 'Mis. Brown, with her arms uplifted towards the 
 sky, and her head thrown back and shaking, " if he 's true to his word, 
 I '11 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, Eob — half starves me.'* 
 
 But as the reluctant Grinder put it in her hand, her daughter, coming 
 quietly back, caught the hand in hers, and twisted out the coin. 
 
 " What," she said, " mother ! always money ! money from the hrst, 
 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 Eob 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 some one 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 pro- 
 spective 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 admii-able 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 Eob quaked before 
 him, more than half expecting to be taxed with Mrs. Brown, gave him 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 455 
 
 tlxe 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 untd 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, vnih 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 i/ou 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 om- 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 1" said the Manager, pointing at him, as if there 
 were some other person present to whom he v/as 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 waU, like a 
 rotten picture, and left so, for Heaven knows how many years ; /le's aU 
 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 1 
 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 aU events," replied John 
 Carker. " But apart from my history here " 
 
 " His history here 1 " 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 
 
456 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 think that any body here, would be indiiferent to a miscliance 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 any one, 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 teU you," said the Manager, " that your hypocrisy and meekness — 
 that all the hypocrisy and meekness of this place — is not worth thai 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 evU rather than 
 good : and who would not turn upon him, if he had the power and bold- 
 ness. The nearer to his favour, the nearer to his insolence j 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 yom- ear with such repre- 
 sentations ; 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 in you. I wiU 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." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 457 
 
 " I have no suspicions," said the Manager. " Mine are certainties. 
 Yon pusillanimous, abject, cringing dogs ! AH 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-oorner, and sought 
 one shining window from among those at the back of the house. Asso- 
 ciated with it was a certain stately presence, a gloved hand, the remem- 
 brance 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 
 httle to receive him as one Avho had the privilege to talk to her of her 
 own defiant disregard of her own husband, and her abandonment of high 
 cuDnsideration 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 sufi'ering him to draw nearer and yet nearer to her every day, in spite 
 of the hate she cherished for him. In spite of it ! Por that very reason; 
 since in its depths, too far down for her thi'eatening eye to pierce, though 
 she could see into them dimly, lay the dark retaUation, whose faintest 
 
458 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 reahty, 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 repellant at his side, and sometimes 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, bu.t he set his own there, straight. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE THUNDERBOLT. 
 
 The banier 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 pro- 
 prietorship. 
 
 Now, she, with aU 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 humili- 
 ations and exasperations against her; and that figure, still her husband's. 
 
 Was Mr. Dombey's master-vice, that ruled him so inexorably, an 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 459 
 
 unnatural characteristic ? It might be worth while, 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 dovm. 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 Avholesome weed, that, set in 
 this foetid bed, could have its natural growth, or put its little leaves forth 
 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, fax 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 outraged 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 aifections and repulsions of man- 
 kind, overhanging the devoted spots, and creeping on, to blight the inno- 
 cent and spread contagion among the pure. Then should we see how the 
 same poisoned fountains that flow into our hospitals and lazar-houses, in- 
 undate 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. Unnatursd 
 humanity ! When we shall gather grapes from thorns, and figs from 
 
460 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 thistles ; when fields of grain shall spring np from the oBFal in the by 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 more 
 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 
 cur too-long neglect ; and, from the thick and sullen air where Vice and 
 Fever propagate together, raining the tremendous social retributions 
 w^hich 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, owning 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 esti- 
 mates ; 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 Avife; 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 aft'ection, 
 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 : 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 461 
 
 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 hke 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 
 mamma was greatly changed. At the time of her father's accident, and 
 when he was lying in his room down-stairs, 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. 
 
 " Mamma," 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 Mamma. 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 
 Mamma ? 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 teU 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 ? " 
 
 "Axe we to he estranged. Mamma?" 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 tlu-ough 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. Mamma ? " 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, Mamma, when ? " 
 
462 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " 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 hence- 
 forth 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 avoid- 
 ance 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 beautifid 
 Medusa, looking on him, face to face, to strike him dead. Yes, and she 
 would have done it, if she had had the charm. 
 
 " Mamma," 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 
 Httle." 
 
 " 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 Avhat 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 dai'k home — I am a shadow on it, I know 
 well — and let us never speak of this again." 
 
 " Mamma," 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 sohtude around her. As the image of the father whom she 
 loved had insensibly become a mere abstraction, so Edith, following the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 463 
 
 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 rething 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 roiling 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 in her modest self- 
 reliance, and her deep intensity of feeUng ; both child and woman seemed 
 at once expressed in her fair face and fragile delicacy of shape, and 
 gracefully to mingle there ; — as if the spring should be unwiUing 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 strange 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 
 IVIr. 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. Skew- 
 ton's death ; observing to some particular friends, with her usual engaging 
 little scream, that she couldn't separate the family from a notion of tomb- 
 stones, 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 
 
464 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 tis 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 (Mi-s. Skewton had been lying stricken 
 with paralysis when the first came round), with an uneasiness, amount- 
 ing 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, Avhich, 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 
 erening 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 every one, 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, 
 bu.t 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 house- 
 keeper that there Avill be some company to dinner here to-morrow." 
 
 " I do not diiie at home," she answered. 
 
 " Not a large party," pursued IVIr. 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 appear- 
 ances in these thino;s which must be maintained before the world. If vou 
 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 /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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 465 
 
 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 teU 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 woidd 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 thi-ead 
 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." 
 
 H H 
 
466 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " 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 any one 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 any body'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 aU 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 wiU, 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 aff'ections 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. " Aye I " 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 
 
(C 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 467 
 
 turned as dull and dim as tarnislied honour. Carker still sat and listened, 
 with his eyes cast down. 
 
 " Mrs. Dombey," said Afr. Dombey, resuming as much as he could of 
 his arrogant composure, " you will not conciliate me, or turn me from any 
 purpose, by this com-se 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, TVIrs. Dombey," he observed; " I direct.'' 
 I wdl 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 browns, 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." 
 
 " Eelease me, then," said Edith, immoveable invoice, 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 woidd permit my name to be handed about 
 in such connexion ? Pooh pooh. Madam ! Eie 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 possi- 
 bility 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 
 
 H H 2 
 
468 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 for obedience in those who owe obedience to me than I am myself. 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 to-day, 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 shaU 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 has done this and that. You wiU 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 diiferent opinion from you," addressing Mr Dombey, " I must ask, had 
 you not better re-consider 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 vmderstand " — 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 yom* pre-eminent 
 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 ofi"ering 
 advice to me on such a point, and you mistake me (I am sui-prised 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, " yon mistook my position, when you honoured me with the nego- 
 tiations 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 iU with his words, though they were hu.mbly 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 
 wUdly on her shoulders, cast the gems upon the ground. From each arm, 
 she unclasped a diamond bracelet, flung it down, and trod upon the 
 
^ 
 
^^:??\^^A>^^.^s«?§;;^«^s^ 
 
 
 ■■/' 
 
 // 
 
 /. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 469 
 
 glittering heap. Witliout 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 shoidd 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 sUent 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 uncon- 
 sciously 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, tlirough 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 departm'c, 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 any one, which, even under such innocent cu'cumstances, 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 some- 
 where near her. 
 
 It invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night. Eising in the 
 morning, unrefreshed, and with a heavy recollection of the domestic 
 unhappiness of the preceding day, she sought Edith again, in aU the 
 rooms, and did so, from time to time, aU 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 tearfid face and outstretched arms, Edith recoiled and shrieked ! 
 
 " Don't come near me !" she cried. " Keep away ! Let me go by ! " 
 
 " Mamma ! " 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 ! " 
 
470 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 Mamma ? " was her first question. 
 
 " Gone out to dinner," said Mrs. Pipchin. 
 
 " And Papa ? " 
 
 " Mr. Dombey 's 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 ofi^ences, 
 many young victims in the days of the Brighton Castle had been com- 
 mitted 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 minis- 
 tration 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 indis- 
 tinct 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-gaUery 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, down stairs. 
 
 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 rain drops 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. Foiu- 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 
 
DOMBEY AND £0N, 471 
 
 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 wliite in the face, and heard him ask in a quick, 
 trembling, voice, for Mrs. Dombey's maid. The whole house was roused j 
 for she was there, in a moment, very pale too, and speaking incoherently. 
 
 She said she had dressed he rmistress early — fuU 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 — some one 
 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 wUdly 
 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 humi- 
 liation ; 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 
 hm'ried 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. 
 
472 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Compassion for her father was the first distinct emotion that made 
 head against the flood of sorrow which overwheLned 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 I'lorence 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 down stairs. 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 
 liim 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. Tor 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. 
 
 Han 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 yeUow 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 XLVIII. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF FLORENCE, 
 
 In the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the forlorn girl hm-ried 
 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, 
 biit 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 
 
DOMBEl AND SON. 473 
 
 feelings in her so liurt bosom. Somewliere, anywhere, to hide her head ! 
 somewhere, anywhere, for refuge, never more to look upon the p^ace 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 wide 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 con- 
 cern, 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, indif- 
 ferently, 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 foot- 
 step and the rustle of a dress, the Captain turned with a palpitating remem- 
 
474 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 brance of the dreadful Mrs. Mac Stinger, 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 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 alai-m and sympathy depicted on his coun- 
 tenance. " 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, 
 reheved her of her bonnet, moistened her lips and forehead, put back her 
 hair, covered her feet with his own coat which he pidled off for the pur- 
 pose, patted her hand — so small in his, that he was struck with wonder 
 when he touched it — and seeing that her eyeUds 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 ekaUed by few and excelled by 
 none. What cheer, my lady lass ! " 
 
 " Captain Cuttle 1 Is it you ! " exclaimed Florence, raising herself a 
 little. 
 
 " Y'es, 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 an't been here this 
 many a long day. He an'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 ! " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 475 
 
 " Do you live here? " asked Florence. 
 
 " Yes, my lady lass," returned the Captain. 
 
 " Oh Captain Cuttle ! " cried Elorence, putting her hands together, 
 and speaking wildly. " Save me ! keep me here ! Let no one know 
 where I am ! I '11 teU 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. " ToUy 
 my Heart's Delight ! Stay a bit ! We'll put up this here dead-light, 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 
 aU 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 imtil it shone like bm-nished 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 aU, 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 liim ; and she did it. Chrging to this rough ci'eature 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 oldSol GiUs'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 liis tad, and displays of his teeth, with 
 now and then a growl or so. But by tliis time, liis 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 
 
476 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 preparations for riorence, 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 '11 get more way upon you. Now, T '11 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 ghstening 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, with- 
 out making any noise ! Keep up a good heart, pretty. It 's only people 
 going by." 
 
 But for aU 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 some one listening and watching," whispered Flo- 
 rence. " Some one who saw me come — who followed me, perhaps." 
 
 " It an'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 ig 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 
 aU 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 Dio- 
 genes. " 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 growUng 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 
 aiTangement 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 477 
 
 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 up stairs. 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 wownded 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 '11 stand off and 
 on outside that door, and that there man \vill 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 councU 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 thresh- 
 hold, 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 an't what you may caU exactly free this morning ; and there- 
 fore 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 oft" 
 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 
 
478 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 measui-e, 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 knowy 
 grazing upon the surface of the earth. Captain Gills." 
 
 The more IVIr. Toots went on in this way, the more the Cai)tain 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 ! Hap- 
 pening to be this way, early tlus 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 clori't keep a dog, do you. Captain GUIs ? " 
 
 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 
 doVn 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." 
 
 " Wliat 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 your- 
 self, you would, no doubt, come prepared." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 470 
 
 "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 jpound 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 '11 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 chuckles. 
 
 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 hesita- 
 tion, " as you '11 excuse my doing of it, brother." 
 
 " Captain Gills," retm-ned Mr. Toots, " whatever you do, is satisftictory 
 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 intrusted 
 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 Mr. 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, 
 4nd shook it hard. 
 
 "No thank'ee," said the Captain. "Nothing. Onlyl'U take it as a favour 
 
480 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 if you '11 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 ia 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 constitu- 
 tion. I 'd rather not. This, however, is forbidden ground. Captain 
 Gills, good b'ye ! " 
 
 Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of Mr. Toots's fare- 
 well, 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 up stairs. 
 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 tad, 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. AU 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 
 dehcate 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 481 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 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 unconscious- 
 ness 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 loop-holes and pieces of fret-work 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 hUl-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 sufi^usion — 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 
 
 T I 
 
43£ DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 
 yom* own self, arterwards, pretty, or shall Ed'ard Cuttle come and fetch 
 you?" 
 
 As Florence assured him that she was quite able to walk down stairs, 
 the Captain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in permit- 
 ting 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 liimself 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 father- 
 less, 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 I — 
 could not yet Qonsider, 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 intrust her, in time, with the educa- 
 tion of theii" own daughters. And she thought how strange and sorrowful 
 it would be, thus to become a grey-hau'ed 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 supphant head hidden from aU, 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 necessaiy 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 
 cakn 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 483 
 
 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 fibre. 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 ! " aU of 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 wan your nat'ral born friend like, wam'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," mui'mured 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. W eU, well ! If our poor Wal'r was here, my 
 lady lass — or if he could be — for he 's drownded, an'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, Avho seemed to have quite forgotten his own dinner, 
 laid down his knife and fork, and di-ev/ his chair to the sofa. 
 
 •' Wal'r was a trim lad, warn't he, precious? " said the Captain, after 
 
 II 2 
 
484 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 sitting for some time silently rubbing Ms chin, witb his eyes fixed upoa 
 her, " and a brave lad, and a good lad ? " 
 
 Florence tearfully assented. 
 
 " And he 's drownded, Beauty, an'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 ; warn't you ? " 
 
 Florence answered " Yes." 
 
 " And Wal'r's drownded," said the Captain. " An'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 Avant of 
 appetite, went on growling at intervals, in a ruminating tone of sympathy, 
 "PoorWal'r. Aye, aye ! Drownded. An't he?" And always waited 
 for her answer, in which the great point of these singular reflection* 
 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 ferA^ency 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. 
 
 Bat 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 him- 
 self so graced and honoured. When he had filled his pipe in an absolute 
 reverie of satisfaction, Florence lighted it for him — the Captain having na 
 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 485 
 
 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 
 doud from his lips, slowly puffed it forth, as if it were a scroll coming out 
 of his mouth, bearing the legend " Poor Wal'r, aye, aye. Drownded, an'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 trust- 
 fulness. Faith, hope, and charity, shared his whole natm'e 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 figui-e, 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 story-book might have sat by the fire-side, and 
 talked as Captain Cuttle and poor Florence thought — 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 aU 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 neigh- 
 bouring shop, where she could buy the few necessaries she immediately 
 ivanted. 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 miforeseen 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 every one 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 httle outfit — at the word " niece," he 
 
486 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 bestowed a most significant look on Florence, accompanied with panto- 
 mime, 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, 
 " Aye, aye, put it anywheres, my lady lass, so long as you know where to 
 find it again. It an'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 precau- 
 tions as they had come ; the Captain opening the door of the little Midship- 
 man'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 per- 
 fection) ; and, encouraging her with every kind word and inconsequential 
 quotation he could possibly think of, led her upstairs to her bed-room. 
 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 imwilling to leave her. 
 
 " Poor Wal'r ! " said the Captain. 
 
 " Poor, poor Walter ! " sighed Florence. 
 
 "Drownded, an't he?" said the Captain. 
 
 Florence shook her head, and sighed. 
 
 " Good night, my lady lass ! " said Captain Cuttle, putting out his hand. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 487 
 
 " God bless you, dear, kind friend ! " 
 
 But the Captain lingered stiU, 
 
 " 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 con- 
 fusion. " No, no ; what should I have to tell you, pretty ! You don't 
 expect as I 've got anything good to teU you, sure? " 
 
 " No ! " said Florence, shaking her head. 
 
 The Captain looked at her wistfully, and repeated " No," — still linger- 
 ing, and still showing embarrassment. 
 
 " Poor Wal'r ! " said the Captain. " My Wal'r, as I used to call you 1 
 Old Sol GiUs's nevy ! Welcome to all as knowed you, as the flowers in 
 May ! Where are you got to, brave boy ! Drownded, an'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 shoul- 
 ders unexpectedly emerged again, as from the deep, apparently for no other 
 purpose than to repeat, " Drownded, an'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 shel- 
 tering 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 some- 
 thing 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 com- 
 posed 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, grutt" reader, and frequently stopping at a hard word to give himself 
 such encouragement as " Now, my lad ! With a will ! " or, " Steady, 
 
488^ DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Ed'ard Cuttle, steady ! " whicli 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 foot- 
 steps 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 calUng through it, like a hoarse breeze, " Poor 
 Wal'r ! Drownded, an't he ? " After which he withdrew, and turning in 
 again, slept tiU 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 cruized completely round the 
 parlour in that frail bark, and more than once went ashore against the 
 wainscoat 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 Httle 
 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 fiUed lier eyes, the Captain broke a long silence thus : 
 
 " You never was at sea, my own? " 
 
 " No," replied Florence. 
 
 " Aye," 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 thi'ough the storm and dark, 
 as if you was a diiving, head on, to the world witliout 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 
 woUume), ' A stiff nor-wester 's blowing, Bill ; hark, don't you hear it roar 
 now ! Lord help 'em, how I pitys all unhappy folks ashore now ! ' " 
 Which quotation, as particularly applicable to the terrors of the ocean, the 
 Captain delivered in a most impressive manner, concluding with a 
 sonoroiis " Stand by ! " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 489 
 
 " Were you ever in a dreadful storm ? " asked Florence. 
 
 " Why aye, my lady lass, I 've seen my share of bad weather," said the 
 Captain, tremulously wiping his head, " and I 've had my share of knocking 
 about ; but — but it an't of myself as I was a meaning to speak. Our dear 
 boy," drawing closer to her, " Wal'r, darling, as was drownded." 
 
 The Captain spoke in such a trembling voice, and looked at Florence 
 with a face so pale and agitated, that she clung to his hand in aifright. 
 
 " Tour face is changed," cried Florence. " You are altered in a 
 moment. What is it ? Dear Captain Cuttle, it turns me cold to see you ! " 
 
 " What ! Lady lass," returned the Captain, supporting her with his hand. 
 " don't be took aback. No, no ! AU 's well, all 's well, my dear. As I 
 was a saying — Wal'r — he 's — he 's drownded. An'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 deep, my beauty," said the Captain ; 
 " and over many a brave ship, and many and many a bould heart, the 
 secret waters has closed up, and never told no tales. But there 's escapes 
 upon the deep, too, and sometimes one man out of a score, — ah ! may be out 
 of a hundred, pretty, — has been saved by the mercy of God, and come home 
 after being give over for dead, and told of all hands lost. I — I know a 
 story. Heart's Delight," stammered the Captain, " o' this natur, as was 
 told to me once ; and being on this here tack, and you and me sitting 
 alone by the foe, maybe you 'd like to hear me tell it. Would you, 
 deary ? " 
 
 Florence, trembling with an agitation which slie could not control or 
 understand, involuntarily followed his glance, which went behind her into 
 the shop, where a lamp was burning. The instant that she turned her 
 head, the Captain sprung out of his chair, and interposed his hand. 
 
 " There 's nothing there, my beauty," said the Captain. " Don't look 
 there ! " 
 
 "Why not?" asked Florence. 
 
 The Captain murmured something about its being dull that way, and 
 about the fire being cheerful. He drew the door ajar, which liad been 
 standing open until now, and resumed his seat. Florence followed him 
 with her eyes, and looked intently in his face. 
 
 " The story was about a ship, my lady lass," began the Captain, " as 
 sailed out of the Port of London, with a fair wind and in fair weatlier, 
 bound for — don't be took aback, my lady lass, she was only out'ard bound, 
 pretty, only out'ard bound I" 
 
 The expression on Florence's face alarmed the Captain, who was himself 
 very hot and flurried, and showed scarcely less agitation than she did. 
 
 " Shall I go on. Beauty?" said the Captain. 
 
 "Yes, yes, pray !" cried Florence. 
 
 Tlie Captain made a gulp as if to get down something that was sticking 
 in his throat, and nervously proceeded : 
 
 " That there unfort'nate ship met with such foul weather, out at sea, 
 as don't blow once in twenty year, my darling. There was hurricanes 
 ashore as tore up forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales at 
 sea in them latitudes, as not the stoutest wessel ever launched could live 
 in. Day arter day that there unfort'nate ship behaved noble, I'm told, and 
 
490 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 did her duty brave, my pretty, but at one blow a'most her bulwarks was 
 stove in, her masts and rudder carried away, her best men swept overboard, 
 and she left to the mercy of the storm as had no mercy but blowed harder 
 and harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat her in, and 
 every time they come a thundering at her, broke 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 man, and so she went to pieces, Beauty, and 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 Captain, rising from 
 his chair, and clenching his hand with prodigious energy and exultation, 
 " was a lad, a gallant lad — as I 've heerd tell — that had loved, when he 
 was a boy, to 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 hearts and oldest hands was hove down, he was firm and 
 cheery. It warn't the want of objects to like and love ashore that gave him 
 courage, it was his nat'ral mind. I 've seen it in his face, when he was no 
 more than a child — aye, many a time ! — and when I thought it nothing 
 but his good looks, bless him ! " 
 
 " And was he saved ! " cried Florence. " Was he saved ! " 
 " That brave lad," said the Captain, — " look at me, pretty ! Don't look 
 round — " 
 
 Florence had hardly power to repeat, " Why not ? " 
 " Because there 's nothing there, my deary," said the Captain. " Don't 
 be took aback, pretty creetur ! Don't, for the sake of Wal'r, as was dear to 
 all on us ! That there lad," said the Captain, " arter v^^orking with the 
 best, and standing by the faint-hearted, and never making no complaint 
 nor sign of fear, and keeping up a spirit in all hands that made 'em honour 
 him as if he 'd been a admiral — that lad, along with the second-mate and 
 one seaman, was left, of all the beatin' hearts that went aboard that ship, 
 the only living creeturs — lashed to a fragment of the wreck, and 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 way, pretty ! — a sail bore 
 down upon 'em, and they was, by the Lord's mercy, took 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 more, my lady lass ! with a good heart ! — aboard that ship, they 
 went a long voyage, right away across th3 chart (for there warn't no 
 touching nowhere), and on that voyage the seaman as was picked up with 
 
 him died. But he was spared, and " 
 
 The Captain, \vithout knowing what he did, had cut a slice of bread 
 from the loaf, and put it on his hook (which was his usual toasting-fork), 
 on which he now held it to the fire ; looking behind Florence with gi-eat 
 emotion in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and burn like fuel. 
 
.*: 
 
(2/^ Q^'^A-fZ^^!^'' ^^^ ^-^' u/^^^ /iayt^t/^' 
 
DOMBEY AND 80N. 491 
 
 " Was spared," repeated Florence, "and ?" 
 
 " And come home in that ship," said the Captain, still looking in the 
 same direction, " and — don't be frightened, pretty — and landed ; and one 
 morning come cautiously to his own door to take a obserwation, knowing 
 that his friends would think Mm drownded, when he sheered off at the 
 unexpected " 
 
 "At the unexpected barking of a dog ? " cried Florence, quickly. 
 
 "Yes," roared the Captain. " Steady, darling ! courage! Don't look 
 round yet. See there ! upon the wall 1 " 
 
 There was the shadow of a man upon the wall close to her. She 
 started up, looked round, and, with a piercing cry, saw Walter Gay 
 behind her 1 
 
 She had no thought of him but as a brother, a brother rescued from 
 the grave ; a shipwrecked brother saved and at her side ; and rushed into 
 his arms. In all the world, he seemed to be her hope, her comfort, refuge, 
 natural protector. " Take care of Walter, I was fond of Walter ! " The 
 dear remembrance of the plaintive voice that said so, rushed upon her 
 sou], like music in the night. " Oh welcome home, dear Walter 1 Welcome 
 to this stricken breast ! " She felt the words, although she could not utter 
 them, and held him in her pure embrace. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, in a fit of delirium, attempted to wipe his head with the 
 blackened toast upon his hook ; and finding it an uncongenial substance 
 for the purpose, put it into the crown of his glazed hat, put his glazed hat 
 on with some difficulty, essayed to sing a verse of Lovely Peg, broke 
 down at the first word, and retired into the shop, whence he presently 
 came back, express, with a face all flushed and besmeared, and the starch 
 completely taken out of his shirt-collar, to say these words : 
 
 " Wal'r, my lad, here is a little bit of property as I should wish to make 
 over, jintly ! " 
 
 The Captain hastily produced the big watch, the tea-spoons, the sugar- 
 tongs, and the canister, and laying them on the table, SAvept them with 
 his great hand into Walter's hat ; but in handing that singular strong 
 box to Walter, he was so overcome again, that he was fain to make another 
 retreat into the shop, and absent himself for a longer space of time than 
 on his first retirement. 
 
 But Walter sought him out, and brought him back; and then the 
 Captain's great apprehension was, that Florence would suffer from this 
 new shock. He felt it so earnestly, that he turned quite rational, and 
 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 hat, and to take his place at the tea-board ; but 
 finding Walter's grasp upon his shoulder, on one side, and Florence 
 whispering her tearful congratulations on the other, the Captain suddenly 
 bolted again, and was missing for a good ten minutes. 
 
 But never in all his life had the Captain's face so shone and glistened, 
 as when, at last, he sat stationary at the tea-board, looking from Florence 
 to Walter, and from Walter to Florence. Nor was this effect produced 
 or at all heightened by the immense quantity of polishing he had adminis- 
 tered 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 
 
493 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 within tlie Captain that spread itself over his whole visage, and 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 youth, and all its frank and hopeful qualities, 
 shining once more, in the fresh, wholesome manner, and the ardent face : 
 would have kindled something of this light in his countenance. The 
 admiration and sympathy with which he turned his eyes on Florence, 
 whose beauty, grace, and innocence could have won no truer or more 
 zealous cham.pion than himself, would 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 together, and in all the 
 fancies springing out of that association, that came sparkling and beaming 
 into his head, and danced about it. 
 
 How they talked of poor old Uncle Sol, and 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 Diogenes, whom the Captain had decoyed upstairs some 
 time before, lest he should bark again ; the Captain, though he was in 
 one continual flutter, and made many more short plunges into the shop, 
 fully comprehended. But he no more dreamed that Walter looked on 
 Florence, as it were, from a new and far-ofi^ place ; that while his eyes 
 often sought the lovely face, they seldom met its open glance of sisterly 
 afi"cction, but v.'ithdrew themselves when hers were raised towards him ; 
 than he believed that it was Walter's ghost who sat beside him. He 
 saw them there together in their youth and beauty, and he knew the 
 story of their younger days, and he had no inch of room beneath his great 
 blue waistcoat for anything save admiration of such a pair, and gratitude 
 for their being re-united. 
 
 They sat thus, until it grew late. The Captain would have been 
 content to sit so, for a week.- But Walter rose, to take leave for the 
 night. 
 
 " Going Walter ! " said Florence. " Where ? " 
 
 " He slings his hammock for the present, lady lass," said Captain 
 Cuttle, " round at Brogley's. Within hail, Heart's Delight." 
 
 " I am the cause of your going away, Walter," said Florence. " There 
 is a houseless sister in your place." 
 
 " Dear Miss Dombey," replied Walter, hesitating — " if it is not too 
 bold, to call you so ! — " 
 
 " — Walter ! " she exclaimed, surprised. 
 
 " If anything could make me happier in being allowed to see and speak 
 to you, would it not be the discovery that I had any means on earth of 
 doing you a moment's service! Where would I^not go, what would I not 
 do, for your sake ! " 
 
 She smiled, and called him brother. 
 
 " You are so clianged," said Walter — 
 
 " I changed ! " she niterrupted. 
 
 " — To me," said Walter, softly, as if he were thinking aloud, 
 " changed to me. I left you such a child, and find you — oh ! something 
 £0 different — " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 493 
 
 " But your sister, Walter. You tave not forgotten what we promised 
 to eacli other, when 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 now, Walter, when 
 you find me poor and abandoned, with no home but this, and no friends 
 but the two who hear me speak ! " 
 
 " I would ! Heaven knows I would ! " said Walter. 
 
 " Oh Walter ! " exclaimed Florence, through her sobs and tears. " Dear 
 brother ! Show me some Avay through the world — some humble path that 
 I may take alone, and labour in, and sometimes think of you as one who 
 will protect and care for me as for a sister ! Oh, help me Walter, for I 
 need help so much ! " 
 
 " Miss Dombey ! Florence ! I would die to help you. But your 
 friends are proud and rich. Your father " 
 
 " No, no ! Walter ! " She shrieked, and put her hands up to her 
 head, in an attitude of terror that transfixed him where he stood. " Don't 
 say that word ! " 
 
 He never, from that hour, forgot the voice and look with which she 
 stopped him at the name. He felt that if he were to live a hundred years, 
 he never could forget it. 
 
 Somewhere — anywhere — but never home ! All past, all gone, all lost, 
 and broken up ! The whole history of her untold slight and suffering was 
 in the cry and look ; and he felt he never could forget it, and he never did. 
 
 She laid her gentle face upon the Captain's shoulder, and related how and 
 why she had fled. If every sorrowing tear she shed in doing so, had been 
 a curse upon the head of him she never named or blamed, it would have 
 been better for him, Walter thought, with awe, than to be renounced out 
 of such a strength and might of love. 
 
 " There, precious ! " said the Captain, when she ceased ; and deep 
 attention the Captain had paid to her while she spoke ; hsteuing, with his 
 glazed hat all awry, and his mouth wide open. " Awast, awast, my eyes ! 
 Wal'r, dear lad, sheer off for to-night, and leave the pretty one to me ! " 
 
 AValter took her hand in both of his, and put it to his lips, and kissed 
 it. He knew now that she was, indeed, a homeless w^anderiug fugitive ; 
 but, richer to him so, than in all the wealth and pride of her right station, 
 she seemed farther off than even on the height that had made him giddy 
 in his boyish dreams. 
 
 Captain Cuttle, perplexed by no such meditations, guarded Florence to 
 her room, and 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 her, to turn in under the counter. On abandoning his watch 
 for that purpose, he could not help calling once, rapturously, through the 
 keyhole, " Drownded. An't he, pretty ? " — or, when he got down stairs, 
 making another trial at that verse of Lovely Peg. But it stuck in his 
 throat somehow, and he could make nothing of it ; so he went to bed, and 
 dreamed that old Sol Gills was married to Mrs. MacStinger, and kept 
 prisoner by that lady in a secret chamber on a short allowance of victuals. 
 
494 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 MR. TOOTS'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 There was an empty room fenmstairs at the Wooden Midshipman's, 
 which, in days of yore, had been Walter's bed-room. Walter, rousing up the 
 Captain betimes in the morning, proposed that they should carry thither 
 such furniture out of the little parlour, as would grace it best, so 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 cause, he turned to (as he himself said) with a wiU ; 
 and, in a couple of hours, this garret was transformed into a species of land- 
 cabm, adorned with all the choicest moveables out of the parlour, inclusive 
 even of the Tartar frigate, which the Captain hung up over the chimney-piece 
 with such extreme delight, that he could do nothing for half-an-hour after- 
 wards but walk backward from it, lost in admu-ation. 
 
 The Captain could be induced by no persuasion of Walter's to wind up 
 the big watch, or to take back the canister, or to touch the sugar-tongs 
 and tea-spoons. " No, no, my lad ; " was the Captain's invariable reply 
 to any solicitation of the kind, " I 've made that there little property over, 
 jintly." These words he repeated with great unction and gravity, evi- 
 dently believing that they had the virtue of an Act of Parliament, and that 
 unless he committed himself by some new admission of ownership, no flaw 
 could be found in such a form of conveyance. 
 
 It was an advantage of the new arrangement, that besides the greater 
 seclusion it afforded Florence, it admitted of the Midshipman being 
 restored to his usual post of observation, and also of the shop shutters 
 being taken down. The latter ceremony, however little importance the 
 unconscious Captain attached to it, was not whoUy superfluous ; for, on 
 the previous day, so much excitement had been occasioned in the neigh- 
 bourhood, by the shutters remaining unopened, that the Instrument Maker's 
 house had been honoured with an unusual share of public observation, and 
 had been intently stared at from the opposite side of the way, by groups 
 of hungry gazers, at any time between sunrise and sunset. The idlers and 
 vagabonds had been particidarly interested in the Captain's fate ; con- 
 stantly grovelling in the mud to apply their eyes to the ceUar-grating, 
 under the shop-window, and delighting then* 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 faction, who were of 
 opinion that he lay murdered with a hammer, on the stairs. It was not 
 without exciting some discontent, therefore, that 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 quarter, a 
 man of an ambitious character, who had expected to have the distinction 
 of being present at the breaking open of the door, and of giving evidence 
 in full uidform before the coroner, went so far as to say to an opposite 
 neighbour, that the chap in the glazed hat had better not try it on there — 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 4&ii 
 
 without more particularly mentioning what — and further, that he, the 
 Beadle, would keep his eye upon him. 
 
 "Captain Cuttle," saidWalter, musing, when they stood resting from their 
 labours at the shop-door, looking down the old familiar street ; it being 
 still early in the morning ; " nothing at all of Uncle Sol, in all that time ! " 
 
 " Nothing at all, my lad," replied the Captain, shaking his head. 
 
 " Gone in search of me, dear, kind, old man," said Walter ; " yet never 
 write to you ! But why not ? He says, in effect, in this packet that you gave 
 me," taking the paper from his pocket, which had been opened in the pre- 
 sence of the enUghtened Bunsby, " that if you never hear from him before 
 opening it, you may beheve him dead. Heaven forbid ! But you would 
 have heard of him, even if he icere dead ! Some one woiald have written, 
 surely, by his desiie, if he could not ; and have said, ' on such a day, there 
 died in my house,' or 'under my care,' or so forth, 'Mr. Solomon Gills of 
 London, who left this last remembrance and this last request to you.' " 
 
 The Captain, who had never climbed to such a clear height of proba- 
 bility before, was greatly impressed by the wide prospect it opened, and 
 answered, with a thoughtful shake of his head, " Well said, my lad ; 
 wery well said." 
 
 " I have been thinking of this, or, at least," said Walter, colouring, 
 " I have been thinking of one thing and another, all through a sleepless 
 night, and I cannot believe. Captain Cuttle, but that my Uncle Sol (Lord 
 bless him !) is alive, and will return. I don't so much wonder at his going 
 away, because, leaving out of consideration that spice of the marvellous 
 which was always in his character, and his great affection for me, before 
 which every other consideration of his life became nothing, as no one 
 ought to know so well as I who had the best of fathers in him," — 
 Walter's voice was indistinct and husky here, and he looked away, along 
 the street, — "leaving that out of consideration, I say, I have often read 
 and heard of people who, having some near and dear relative, who was 
 supposed to be shipwrecked at sea, have gone down to live on that part of 
 the sea-shore where any tidings of the missing ship might be expected to 
 arrive, though only an hour or two sooner than elsewhere, or have even 
 gone upon her track to the place whither she was bound, as if their going 
 would create intelligence. I think I should do such a thing myself, as 
 soon as another, or sooner than many, perhaps. But why my uncle 
 shouldn't write to you, when he so clearly intended to do so, or how he 
 shoxdd die abroad, and you not know it through some other hand, I cannot 
 make out." 
 
 Captain Cuttle observed, with a shake of his head, that Jack Bunsby 
 himself hadn't made it out, and that he was a man as could give a pretty 
 taut opinion too. 
 
 " If my \mcle had been a heedless young man, likely to be entrapped by 
 jovial company to some drinking-place, where he was to be got rid of for 
 the sake of what money he might have about him," saidWalter ; " or if he 
 had been a reckless sailor, going ashore with two or three months' pay in 
 his pocket, I could understand his disappearing, and leaving no trace 
 behind. But, being what he was — and is, I hope — I can't believe it." 
 
 " Wal'r my lad," inquired the Captain, wistfully eyeing him as he pon- 
 dered and pondered, " what do you make of it, then ? " 
 
496 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Captain Cuttle," returned Walter, " I don't know what to make of it. 
 suppose he never has written ? There is no doubt about that ? " 
 
 " If so be as Sol Gills wrote, ray lad," replied the Captain, argument- 
 atively, " where 's his dispatch ? " 
 
 " Say that he intrusted it to some private hand," suggested Walter, 
 " and that it has been forgotten, or carelessly thrown aside, or lost. 
 Even that is more probable to me, than the other event. In short, I 
 not only cannot bear to contemplate that other event, Captain Cuttle, 
 but I can't, and won't." 
 
 " Hope, you see, Wal'r," said the Captain, sagely, " Hope. It 's that 
 as animates you. Hope is a buoy, for which you overhaul your Little 
 Warbler, sentimental diwision, but Lord, my lad, like 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 anchor, if I can't find no bottom to let it go in? " 
 
 Captain Cuttle said this rather in his character of a sagacious citizen and 
 householder, bound to impart a morsel from his stores of wisdom to an 
 inexperienced youth, than in his own proper person. Indeed, his face 
 was quite luminous as he spoke, with new hope, caught from Walter ; 
 and he appropriately concluded by slapping him ]o\\ the back ; and say- 
 ing, with enthusiasm, " Hooroar, my lad ! Indiwidually, I 'm o' your 
 opinion." 
 
 Walter, with his cheerful laugh, retiu*ned the salutation, and 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 packet, or ship letter, you understand — " 
 
 " Aye, aye, my lad," said the Captain, approvingly. 
 
 " — And that you have missed the letter, anyhow ? " 
 
 " Why, Wal'r," said the Captain, turning his eyes upon.him with a faint 
 approach to a severe expression, " an't I been on the look-out for any 
 tidings of that man o' science, old Sol Gills, your uncle, day and night, 
 ever since I lost him ? An't my heart been heavy and watchful always, 
 along of him and you ? Sleeping and waking, an't I been upon my post, 
 and wouldn't I have scorned to quit it while this here Midshipman held 
 together ! " 
 
 "Yes, Captain Cuttle," replied Walter, grasping his hand, "I know you 
 would, and 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-step, or that I again have hold of this true hand. 
 Do you?" 
 
 " No, no, Wal'r," returned the Captain, with his beaming face. 
 
 " I'U hazard no more conjectures," said Walter, fervently shaking the 
 hard hand of the Captain, who shook his with no less good will. " All I 
 will add is. Heaven forbid that I should touch my uncle's possessions, 
 Captain Cuttle ! Everything that he left here, shall remain in the care 
 of the truest of stewards and kindest of men — and if his name is not Cuttle, 
 he has no name ! Now, best of friends, about — Miss Dombey." 
 
 There was a change in Walter's manner, as he came to these two words ; 
 and when he uttered them, all his confidence and cheerfulness appeared to 
 have deserted him. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 497 
 
 " I thought, before Miss Dombey stopped me when I spoke of ter 
 father last night," said Walter " — you remember how ? " 
 
 The Captam well remembered, and shook liis head. 
 
 " I thought," said Walter, " before that, that we had but one hard duty 
 to perform, and that it was, to prevail upon her to communicate with her 
 friends, and to return home." 
 
 The Captain muttered a feeble " Awast ! " or a " Stand by! " or some- 
 thing or other, equally pertinent to the occasion ; but it was rendered so 
 extremely feeble by the total discomfiture with which he received this 
 announcement, that what it was, is mere matter of conjecture. 
 
 "But," said Walter, "that is over. I think so, no longer. I would 
 sooner be put back again upon that piece of wreck, on which I have so 
 t)ften floated, since my preservation, in my dreams, and there left to drift, 
 and drive, and die ! " 
 
 "Hooroar my lad ! " exclaimed the Captain, in a burst of uncontrol- 
 lable satisfaction. " Hooroar ! Hooroar ! Hooroar ! " 
 
 " To think that she, so young, so good, and beautiful," said Walter, 
 " so delicately brought up, and born to such a different fortune, should 
 strive with the rough world ! — But we have seen the gulf that cuts off all 
 behind her, though no one but herself can know how deep it is ; and there 
 is no return." 
 
 Captain Cuttle, without quite understanding this, greatly approved 
 «f it, and observed, in a tone of strong corroboration, that the wind was 
 right abaft. 
 
 " She ought not to be alone here ; ought she. Captain Cuttle ? " said 
 Walter, anxiously. 
 
 " Well my lad," replied the Captain, after a little sagacious considera- 
 tion. " ^ don't know. You being here to keep her company, you see, 
 and you too being jintly — " 
 
 "Dear Captain Cuttle ! " remonstrated W^ilter. " I being here ! Miss 
 Dombey, in her guileless innocent heart, regards me as her adopted brother ; 
 but what would the guile and guilt of my heart be, if I pretended to 
 believe that I had any right to approach her, familiarly, in that character 
 — if I pretended to forget that I am bound, in honour, not to do it ! " 
 
 " Wal'r my lad," hinted the Captain, with some revival of his discom- 
 fiture, " an't there no other character as — " 
 
 " Oh 1 " returned W^alter, "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 ever, by taking advantage of her being here for refuge, so trusting 
 and so unprotected, to 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 so, than you." 
 
 " Wal'r my lad," said the Captain, drooping more and more, " prowid- 
 ing as there is any just cause or impedemint why two persons should not 
 be jined together in the house of bondage, for which you '11 overhaul the 
 place and make a note, I hope I should declare it as promised and wowed 
 in the banns. So there an't no other character ; an't there, my lad? " 
 
 Walter briskly waved his hand in the negative. 
 
 " Well, my lad," growled the Captain slowly, " I won't deny but what 
 
 K £ 
 
498 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 I find myself wery much down by tlie head, along o' this here, or hut 
 what I've gone clean about. But as to Lady-lass, Wal'r, mind you, wot's 
 respect and duty to her, is respect and duty in my articles, howsumever 
 disapinting ; and therefore I follows in your wake, my lad, and feel as 
 you are, no doubt, acting up to yourself. And there an't no other 
 character, an't there!" said the Captain, musing over the ruins of his 
 fallen castle, with a very despondent face. 
 
 " Now, Captain Cuttle," said Walter, starting a fresh point with a 
 gayer air, to cheer the Captain up — but nothing could do that ; he was 
 too much concerned — " I think we should exert ourselves to find some 
 one who will be a proper attendant for Miss Dombey while she remains 
 here, and 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 ray belief as she 
 was sent away again the will of Heart's Delight. I made a signal for 
 her when Lady-lass first come, and she rated of her wery high, and said 
 she had been gone a long time." 
 
 " Then," said Walter, " do you ask Miss Dombey where she 's gone, 
 and we 'U try to find her. The morning 's getting on, and Miss Dombey 
 will soon be rising. You are her best friend. Wait for her up stairs, 
 and leave me to take care of aU down here." 
 
 The Captain, very crest-fallen indeed, echoed the sigh with which 
 Walter said this, and complied. Florence was delighted with her new 
 room, anxious to see Walter, and overjoyed at the prospect of greeting 
 her old friend Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan was gone, 
 except that it was in Essex, and no one could say, she 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-step, and that he was a friend of his, and 
 that he was a young gentleman of property, and that he hopelessly 
 adored Miss Dombey. The Captain also related how the intelligence of 
 Walter's supposed fate had fii'st made him acquainted with Mr. Toots, and 
 how there was solemn treaty and compact between them, that Mr. Toots 
 should be mute upon the subject of his love. 
 
 The question then was, whether Florence could trust Mr. Toots ; and 
 Florence saying, with a smile, " Oh, yes, with her whole heart ! " it became 
 important to find out where Mr. Toots lived. This, Florence didn't 
 know, and the Captain had forgotten ; and the Captain was telling Walter, 
 in the little parlour, that Mr. Toots was sure to be there soon, when in 
 came Mr. Toots himself. 
 
 " Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, rushing into the parlour without any 
 ceremony, " I 'm in a state of mind bordering on distraction ! " 
 
 Mr. Toots had discharged those words, as from a mortar, before he 
 observed Walter, whom he recognised with what may be described as a 
 chuckle of misery. 
 
 " You 'U excuse me. Sir," said Mr. Toots, holding his forehead, " but I 'm 
 at present in that state that my brain is going, if not gone, and anything 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 499 
 
 approachiiig to politeness in an individual so situated, would be a hollow 
 mockery. Captain Gills, I beg to request the favour of a private 
 iuterview." 
 
 " Why, Brother," returned the Captain, taking him by the hand, " you 
 are the man as we was on the look-out for." 
 
 " Oh Captain GUIs," said Mr. Toots, " what a look-out that must be, 
 of which / am the object ! I haven 't dared to shave, I '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 boots, I 'd stretch him a 
 Corpse before me ! " 
 
 All these indications of a disordered mind were verified in Mr. Toots's 
 appearance, which was wild and savage. 
 
 " See here, Brother," said the Captain. " This here 's old Sol GlUs's 
 nevy Wal'r. Him as was supposed to have perished at sea." 
 
 Mr. Toots took his hand from his forehead, and 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 Gills, will you allow me a word in the shop ? " 
 
 He took the Captain by the coat, and going out with him whispered : 
 
 " That then. Captain GiUs, is the party you spoke of, when you said 
 that he and Miss Dombey were made for one another ? " 
 
 " Why, aye, my lad," replied the disconsolate Captain ; " I was of that 
 mind once." 
 
 " And at this time ! " exclaimed Mr. Toots, with his hand to his fore- 
 head again. " Of all others ! — a hated rival ! At least, he an't a hated 
 rival," said Mr. Toots, stopping short, on second thoughts, and taking 
 away his hand; "what should I hate him for? No. If my affection 
 has been truly disinterested, Captain Gills, let me prove it now ! " 
 
 Mr. Toots shot back abruptly into the parlour, and said, wringing Walter 
 by the hand : 
 
 " How-de-do ? I hope you didn't take any cold. I — I shall be very 
 glad if you '11 give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. I wish you many 
 happy returns of the day. Upon my word and honour," said Mr. Toots, 
 warming as he became better acquainted with Walter's face and figure, 
 " I 'm very glad to see you ! " 
 
 " Thank you, heartUy," said Walter " I couldn't desire a more 
 genuine and genial welcome." 
 
 " Couldn't you, though ? " said Mr. Toots, still 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 is, upon the — I mean wherever 
 you came from last, you know." 
 
 All these good wishes, and better intentions, Walter responded to 
 manfully. 
 
 Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, " I should wish to be strictly honour- 
 able ; but I trust I may be allowed now, to allude to a certain subject 
 that " 
 
 " Aye, aye, my lad," returned the Captain. " Preely, freely." 
 
 " Then Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, — " and Lieutenant Walters- 
 are you aware that the most dreadful circumstances have been happening 
 at Mr. Dombey's house, and that Miss Dombey herself has left her father, 
 
 kk3 
 
500 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 who, in my opinion," said IVIr. Toots, with great excitement, " is a 
 Brute, that it would be a flattery to call a — a marble monument, or a bird 
 of prey, — and that she is not to be found, and has gone no one knows 
 where ? " 
 
 " May I ask how you heard this ? " inquired Walter. 
 
 " Lieutenant Walters," said Mr. Toots, who had arrived at that appella- 
 tion by a process peculiar to himself; probably by jumbling up his 
 Christian name with the seafaring profession, and supposing some relation- 
 ship between him and the Captain, which would extend, as a matter of 
 course, to their titles ; " Lieutenant Walters, I can have no objection to 
 make a straightforward reply. The fact is, that feeling extremely interested 
 in everything that relates to Miss Dombey — not for any sellish reason, 
 Lieutenant Walters, for I am well aware that the most agreeable thing: I 
 could do for all parties would be to put an end to my existence, which 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 
 man, of the name of Towlinson, who has lived in the family some time ; 
 and Towlinson informed me, yesterday evening, that this was the state of 
 things. Since which, Captain Gills — and Lieutenant Walters — I have 
 been perfectly frantic, and have been lying down on the sofa all night, the 
 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. Toots, starting from his chair and shaking hands 
 with liim anew, "the relief is so excessive, and unspeakable, that if you 
 were to tell me now that Miss Dombey was married even, I could smile. 
 Yes, Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, appealing to him, " upon my soul 
 and body, I really think, whatever I might do to myself immediately 
 afterwards, that I could smile, I am so relieved." 
 
 " It will be a greater relief and delight still, to such a generous mind 
 as your's," said Walter, not at all slow in returning his greeting, " to 
 find that you can render service to Miss Dombey. Captain Cuttle, wiU 
 you have the kindness to take Mr. Toots up stairs ? " 
 
 The Captain beckoned to Mr. Toots, who followed him with a bewildered 
 countenance, and ascending to the top of the house, was introduced, 
 without a word of preparation from his conductor, into rioreuce'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 her, 
 seized her hand, kissed it, dropped it, seized it again, fell upon one 
 knee, shed tears, chuckled, and was quite regardless of his danger of 
 being pinned by Diogenes, who, inspired by the belief that there was 
 something hostile to his mistress in these demonstrations, worked round 
 and round him, as if only undecided at what particular point to go in for 
 the assault, but quite resolved to do him a fearful mischief. 
 
 " Oh Di, you bad, forgetful dog ! Dear Mr. Toots, I am so rejoiced 
 to see you ! " 
 
 " Thankee," said Mr. Toots, " I am pretty well, I 'm much obliged to 
 you. Miss Dombey. I hope all the family are the same." 
 
 Mr. Toots said this without the least notion of what he was talking 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 501 
 
 about, and sat down on a chair, staring 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 mentioned, MissDombey," 
 gasped Mr. Toots, "that I can do you some service. If I could by any 
 means wash out the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I con- 
 ducted myself — much more like a Parricide than a person of independent 
 property," said Mr. Toots, with severe self-accusation, " I should sink 
 into the silent tomb with a gleam of joy." 
 
 " Pray Mr. Toots," said Florence, " do not wish me to forget anything 
 in our acquaintance. I never can, believe me. You have been far too 
 kind and good to me, always." 
 
 " Miss Dorabey," 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, "is, whether you 
 remember where Susan, whom you were so kind as to accompany to the 
 coach-office when she left me, is to be found." 
 
 " Why I do not certainly, Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots, after 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 there, 
 but was going farther on. But Miss Dombey, if your object is to find 
 her, and to have her here, myself and the Chicken will produce her with 
 every dispatch that devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the 
 Chicken's, can insure." 
 
 Mr, Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived by the prospect of 
 being useful, and the disinterested sincerity of his devotion was so 
 unquestionable, that it would have been cruel to refuse him. Florence, 
 with an instinctive delicacy, forbore to urge the least obstacle, though 
 she did not forbear to overpower him with thanks ; and Mi\ Toots proudly 
 took the commission upon himself for immediate execution. 
 
 " Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots, touching her proffered hand, with a 
 pang of hopeless love visibly shooting through him, and flashing out in 
 his face, " Good bye ! Allow me to take the liberty of saying, that your 
 misfortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you may trust me, next 
 to Captain Gills himself. I am quite aware. Miss Dombey, of my own 
 deficiencies — they 're not of the least consequence, thank you — but I am 
 entirely to be relied upon, I do assui'e you. Miss Dombey." 
 
 With that Mr. Toots came out of the room, again accompanied by the 
 Captain, who, standing at a little distance, holding his hat under his arm 
 and arranging his scattered locks with his hook, had been a not uninterested 
 witness of what passed. And when the door closed behind them, the 
 light of Mr. Toots's life was darkly clouded again, 
 
 " Captain Gills," said that gentleman, stopping near the bottom of the 
 stairs, and turning round, " to tell you the truth, I am not in a frame of mind 
 at the present moment, in 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 Gills, and I 
 should take it as a particular favour if you'd let me out at the private 
 door." 
 
503 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Brother," returned the Captain, "you shall shape your own course. 
 Wotever course you take, is plain and seamaulike, I '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 passage, behind the half-opened door, "that I hope 
 you '11 bear in mind, Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieutenant 
 Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite come into my property 
 now, you know, and I don't know what to do with it. If I could be at all 
 useful in a pecuniary point of view, I should glide into the silent tomb with 
 ease and smoothness." 
 
 Mr. Toots said no more, but slipped out quietly and shut the door 
 upon himself, to cut the Captain off from any reply. 
 
 Florence thought of this good creature, long after he had left her, 
 with mingled emotions of pain and pleasure. He was so honest and 
 warm-hearted, that to see him again and be assured of his truth to her in 
 her distress, was a joy and comfort beyond all price ; but for that very 
 rt.ison, it was so affecting to think that she caused him a moment's 
 unhappiness, or ruffled, by a breath, the harmless current of his life, that 
 her eyes filled with tears, and her bosom overflowed with pity. Captain 
 Cuttle, in his different way, thought much of Mr. Toots too ; and so did 
 Walter ; and when the evening came, and they were all sitting together 
 in Florence's new room, Walter praised him in a most impassioned 
 manner, and told Florence what. he had said on leaving the house, with 
 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 day, or the next, or for several 
 days; and in the meauAvhile Florence, without any new alarm, lived like a 
 quiet bird in a cage, at the top of the old Instrument-maker's house. 
 But Florence drooped and hung her head more and more plainly, as the 
 days went on ; and the expression that had been seen in the face of the 
 dead child, was often turned to the sky from her high window, as if it 
 sought his angel out, on the bright shore of which he had spoken : lying on 
 his little bed. 
 
 Florence had been weak and delicate of late, and 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 her, anxious for her, proiul 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 through, he seldom approached 
 her room. If she asked for him, he came, again 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 uneasy, and soon left her. 
 Unsought, he never came, all day, between the morning and the night. 
 When the evening closed in, he was always there, and that was her happiest 
 time, for then she half believed that the old Walter of her childhood 
 was not changed. But, even then, some trivial word, look, or circumstance 
 would show her that there was an indefinable division between them which 
 could not be passed. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 503 
 
 And she could not but see that these revealings of a great alteration in 
 Walter manifested themselves in despite of his utmost eflbrts to hide them. 
 In his consideration for her, she thought, and in the earnestness of his 
 desu-e to spare her any wound from his kind hand, he resorted to innu- 
 merable 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 untiring, tender, ever zealous friend — saw it, 
 too, Florence thought, and it pained him. He was less cheerful and hope- 
 ful than he had been at first, and would steal looks at her and Walter, 
 by turns, when they were all three together of an evening, with quite a 
 sad face. 
 
 Florence resolved, at last, to speak to Walter. She believed she knew 
 now what the cause of his estrangement was, and she thought it would 
 be a relief to her full heart, and woidd set him more at ease, if she 
 told him she had found it out, and quite submitted to it, and did not 
 reproach him. 
 
 It was on a certain Sunday afternoon, that Florence took this resolution. 
 The faithful Captain, in an amazing shirt-coUar, was sitting by her, 
 reading with his spectacles on, and she asked him where Walter was. 
 
 " I think he 's down below, my lady lass," returned the Captain. 
 
 " I should like to speak to him," said Florence, rising hurriedly as if 
 to go down stairs. 
 
 " I '11 rouse him up here. Beauty," said the Captain, " in a trice." 
 
 Thereupon the Captain, with much alacrity, shoiddered his book — for 
 he made it a point of duty to read none but very large books on a Sun- 
 day, as having a more staid appearance : and had bargained, years ago, for 
 a prodigious volume at a book-stall, five lines of which utterly confounded 
 him at any time, insomuch that he had not yet ascertained of what subject 
 it treated — and withdrew. Walter soon appeared. 
 
 " Captain Cuttle tells me. Miss Dombey," — he eagerly began on coming 
 in — ^but stopped when he saw hfer face. 
 
 " You are not so weU to-day. You look distressed. You have been 
 weeping." 
 
 He spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremor in his voice, that 
 the tears gushed into her eyes at the sound of his words. 
 
 " Walter," said Florence, gently, " I am not quite weU, and I have 
 been weeping. I want to speak to you." 
 
 He sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful and innocent facej 
 and his own turned pale, and his lips trembled. 
 
 " You said, upon the night when I knew that you were saved — and oh! 
 dear Walter what I felt that night, and what I hoped ! " — 
 
 He put his trembling hand upon the table between them, and sat looking 
 at her. 
 
 — " that I was changed, I was surprised to hear you say so, but I 
 understand, now, that I am. Don't be angry with me, Walter. I was too 
 much overjoyed to think of it, then." 
 
 She seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenuous, confiding, 
 loving child he saw and heard. Not the dear woman, at whose feet he 
 would have laid the riches of the earth. 
 
504 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " You remember tlie last time I saw you, Walter, before you weut away ? '" 
 
 He put Ws hand into his breast, and took out a little purse. 
 
 " I have always worn it round my neck ! If I had gone down in the 
 deep, it would have been with me at the bottom of the sea," 
 
 " And you will wear it still, Walter, for my old sake ? " 
 
 "Until I die!" 
 
 She laid her hand on his, as fearlessly and simply, as 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 so, Walter. Do 
 you recollect that a thought of this change seemed to come into our mind& 
 at the same time that evening, when we Avere talking together?" 
 
 " No ! " he answered, in a wondering tone. 
 
 " Yes, Walter. I had been the means of injuring your hopes and 
 prospects even then. I feared to think so, then, bat I know it now. If 
 you were able, then, in your generosity, to hide from me that you knew it 
 too, you cannot do so now, although you try as generously as before. You 
 do. I thank you for it, Walter, deeply, truly ; but you cannot succeed. 
 You have suffered too much in your own hardships, and in those of your 
 dearest relation, quite to overlook the innocent cause of all the peril and 
 affliction that has befallen you. You cannot quite forget me in that cha- 
 racter, and we can be brother and sister no longer. But, dear Walter, do 
 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 
 aU I ask is, Walter, in the name of the poor child who was your sister 
 once, that you will not struggle with yourself, and pain yom-self, for my 
 sake, now that I know all ! " 
 
 Walter had looked upon her while she said this, with a face so fuU of 
 wonder and amazement that it had room for nothing else. Now he 
 caught up the hand that touched his, so entreatingly, and held it between 
 his own. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Dombey," he said, "is it possible that while I have been, 
 suffering so much, in striving with my sense of Avhat is due to you, and 
 must be rendered to you, I have made you suffer what your words dis- 
 close to me. Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you but as 
 the single, bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boyhood and my youth. 
 Never have I from the first, and never shall I to the last, regard your part 
 in my life, but as something sacred, never to be lightly thought of, never 
 to be esteemed enough, never, until death, to be forgotten. Again to see 
 you look, and hear you speak, as you did on that night when Ave parted, 
 is happiness to me that there are no words to utter : and to be loved and 
 trusted as your brother, is the next great gift I could receive and prize ! " 
 
 " Walter," said Florence, looking at him earnestly, but with a changing 
 face, " what is that which is due to me, and must be rendered to me, at 
 the sacrifice of all this?" 
 
 " Eespect," said Walter, in a low tone. " Eeverence." 
 
 The colour dawned in her face, and she timidly and thoughtfully with- 
 drew 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." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 505 
 
 The colour overspread her face. She made a gesture as if of entreaty 
 that he wouJd say no more, and her face dropped upon her hands. 
 
 They were both silent for a time ; she weeping. 
 
 " I owe it to a heart so trusting,pure,andgood," said Walter, "even to tear 
 myself from it, though I rend my own. How dare I say it is my Aster's!" 
 
 She was weeping still. 
 
 " If you had been happy; surrounded as you should be by loving and 
 admiring friends, and by all that makes the station you were born 
 to, enviable," said Walter ; " and if you had called me brother, then, in 
 your affectionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered to the 
 name from my distant place, with no inward assurance that I wronged 
 your spotless truth by doing so. But here — and now ! — " 
 
 " Oh thank you, thank you, Walter ! li'orgive my having wronged 
 you so much. I had no one to advise me. I am quite alone." 
 
 " Florence!" said Walter, passionately, " I am hurried onto say, what 
 I thought, but a few moments ago, nothing could have forced from my 
 lips. If I had been prosperous ; if I had any means or hope of being 
 one diay 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 others, to protect and cherish you — that I was worthy of in 
 nothing but the love and honour that I bore you, and 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 you, which I dare accept and dare 
 assert ; but that if I had that right, I would regard it as a trust so 
 precious and so priceless, that the undivided truth and fervor of my 
 life would poorly acknowledge its worth." 
 
 The head was still bent down, the tears still ftvUing, and 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 name, and touch this gentle hand 
 in token of your sisterly forgetfulness of what I have said." 
 
 She raised her head, and spoke to him with such a solemn sweet- 
 ness in her eyes; with such a calm, bright, placid smile shining on 
 him through her tears ; with such a low, soft tremble in her frame and 
 voice ; that the innermost chords of his heart were touched, and his sight 
 was dim as he listened. 
 
 "No Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget it, for the world. 
 Ai'e you — are you very poor ? " 
 
 "1 am but a wanderer," said Walter, "making voyages to live, across 
 the sea. That is my calling now." 
 
 " Are you soon going away again, Walter? " 
 
 " Very soon." 
 
 She sat looking at him for a moment ; then timidly put her trembling 
 hand in his. 
 
 "If you will take me for yonr wife, Walter, I will love you dearly. If 
 you will let me go with you, Walter, I will go to the world's end without 
 fear. I can give up nothing for you — I have nothing to resign, and no 
 one to forsake ; but all my love and life shall be devoted to you, and with 
 
506 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 my last breath I will breathe your name to God if I have sense and 
 memory left." 
 
 He caught her to his heart, and laid her cheek against his own, and 
 now, no more repulsed, no more forlorn, she wept indeed, upon the breast 
 of her dear lover. 
 
 Blessed Sunday Bells, ringing so tranquilly in their entranced ' and 
 happy ears ! Blessed Sunday peace and quiet, harmonising with the 
 calmness in their souls, and making holy air around them ! Blessed 
 twUight stealing on, and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as she 
 falls asleep, like a hushed child, upon the bosom she has clung to ! 
 
 Oh load of love and trustfulness that lies so lightly there ! Aye, look 
 down on the closed eyes, Walter, with a proudly tender gaze ; for in aU 
 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 sitting, and looked up at the sky- 
 light, until the day, by little and little, faded away, and the stars peeped 
 down. He lighted a candle, lighted a pipe, smoked it out, and wondered 
 what on earth was going on upstairs, and why they didn't call him to tea. 
 
 Florence came to his side while he was in the height of liis wonderment. 
 
 " Aye ! lady lass ! " cried the Captain. " Why, you and Wal'r have 
 had a long spell o' talk, my beauty." 
 
 Florence put her Httle hand round one of the great buttons of his coat, 
 and said, looking down into his face : 
 
 " Dear Captain, I want to tell you something, if you please." 
 
 The Captain raised his head pretty smartly, to hear what it was. 
 Catching by this means a more distinct view of Florence, he pushed back 
 his chair, ;i! rl himself with it, as far as they could go. 
 
 " What ! Heart's Delight ! " cried the Captain, suddenly elated. " Is 
 it that ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said Florence, eagerly. 
 
 " Wal'r ! Husband ! That ? " roared the Captain, tossing up his 
 glazed hat into the skylight. 
 
 "Yes ! " cried Florence, laughing and crying together. 
 
 The Captain immediately hugged her ; and then, picking up the glazed 
 hat and putting it on, drew her arm through his, and conducted her upstairs 
 again ; where he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be made. 
 
 " What, Wal'r my lad ! " said the Captain, looking in at the door, with 
 his face like an amiable warming-pan. " So there ain't no other cha- 
 racter, ain't there ? " 
 
 He had like to have suffocated himself wdth this pleasantry, which he 
 repeated at least forty times during tea ; polishing his radiant face with the 
 sleeve of his coat, and dabbing his head all over with his pocket-hand- 
 kerchief, in the intervals. But he was not without a graver source of 
 enjoyment to fall back upon, when so disposed, for he was repeatedly heard 
 to say in an under tone, as he looked with ineffable delight at Walter and 
 Florence : 
 
 " Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your life, 
 than when you made that there little property over, jintly ! " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 507 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 ME. DOMBEY AND THE WORLD. 
 
 What is the proud man doing, while the days go by ? Does he ever 
 think of his daughter, or wonder where she is gone ? Does he suppose 
 she has come home, and is leading her old life in the weary house ? 
 No one can answer for him. He has never uttered her name, since. 
 His household dread him too much to approach a subject on which he 
 is resolutely dumb ; and the only person who dare question him, he silences 
 immediately. 
 
 " My dear Paul ! " murmurs his sister, sidling into the room, on the 
 day of Florence's departure, " your wife! that upstart woman! Is it possible 
 that what I hear confusedly, is true, and that this is her return for your 
 unparalleled devotion to her ; extending, I am sure, even to the sacrifice 
 of your own relations, to 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 lirst party, Mrs. Chick makes great use of her 
 pocket handkerchief, and falls on Mr. Dombey's neck. But Mr. Donibey 
 frigidly lifts her oif, and hands her to a chair. 
 
 " I thank you, Louisa," he says, " for this mark of your alTection ; but 
 desire that our conversation may refer to any other subject. When I 
 bewail my fate, Louisa, or express myself as being in want of consolation, 
 you can ofter it, if you will have the goodness." 
 
 " My dear Paul," rejoins his sister, with her handkerchief to her face, 
 and shaking her head, " I know your great spirit, and wiU say no more 
 upon a theme so painful and revolting ; " on the heads of which two 
 adjectives, Mrs. 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 brother sternly, " silence ! Not another word of 
 this ! " 
 
 Mrs. Chick can only shake her head, and use her handkerchief, and 
 moan over degenerate Dombeys, who are no Dombeys. But whether 
 Florence has been inculpated in the flight of Edith, or has followed her, or 
 has done too much, or too little, or anything, or nothing, she has not the 
 least idea. 
 
 He goes on, without deviation, keeping his thoughts and feelings close 
 within his own breast, and imparting them to no one. He makes no search 
 for his daughter. He may think that she is with his sister, or that she is 
 under his own roof. He may think of her constantly, or 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 
 supremacy, seeing her, a patient gentle creature, in the path below it, to have 
 any fear of that. Shaken as he is by liis disgrace, he is not yet humbled 
 
508 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 to the level earth. The root is broad and deep, and in the course of years 
 its fibres have spread out and gathered nourishment from everything 
 around it. The tree is struck, but not down. 
 
 Though he hide the world within him from the world without — which 
 he believes has but one purpose for the time, and that, to watch him 
 eagerly Avherever he goes — he cannot hide those rebel traces of it, which 
 escape in hollow eyes and cheeks, a haggard forehead, and a moody, 
 brooding air. Impenetrable as before, he is still an altered man ; and, 
 proud as ever, he is humbled, or those marks would not be there. 
 ' The world. What the world thinks of him, how it looks at him, what 
 it sees in him, and what it says — this is the haunting demon of his mind. It 
 is everywhere where he is ; and, worse than that, it 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 wait- 
 ing 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 him, in every place ; and is always busiest, he knows, 
 when he has gone away. When he is shut up in his room at night, 
 it is in his house, outside it, audible in footsteps on the pavement, visible 
 in print upon the table, steaming to and fro on railroads and in ships ; 
 restless and busy everywhere, with 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 Peenix, who comes from Baden-Baden, 
 purposely to talk to him. Witness Major Bagstock, who accompanies Cousin 
 Feenix on that friendly mission. 
 
 Mr. Dombey receives them with his usual dignity, and stands erect, in 
 his old attitude, before 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. Pitt, upon the book-case, represents it. That there are eyes in its 
 own map, hanging on the wall. 
 
 " An unusually cold spring," says Mr. Dombey — to deceive the world. 
 
 "Damme, Sir," says the Major, in the warmth of friendship, " Joseph 
 Bagstock is a bad hand at a counterfeit. If you want to hold your friends 
 ofi', Dombey, and to give them the cold shoulder, J. B. is not the man for 
 your purpose. Joe is rough and tough, Sir ; blunt, Sir, blunt, is Joe. 
 His Eoyal Highness the late Duke of York did me the honour to say, 
 deservedly or undeservedly — never mind that — ' If there is a man in the 
 service on wlion I can depend for coming to the point, that man is Joe 
 — Joe Bagstock.'" 
 
 Mr. Dombey nitimates his acquiescence. 
 
 " Now, Dombey," says the Major, " I am a man of the world. Our 
 friend Feenix — if I may presume to — " 
 
 " Honoured, I am sure," says Cousin Feenix. 
 
 " — is," proceeds the Major, with a wag of his head, " also a man of the 
 ■world. Dombey, i/ou are a man of the world. Now, when three men 
 of the world meet together, and are friends — as I believe " — again appeal- 
 ing to Cousin Feenix. 
 
 " lam sure," says Cousin Feenix, " most friendly." 
 
 " — and are friends," resumes the Major, " Old Joe's opinion is (J 
 may be wrong), that the opinion of the world on any particular subject, is 
 very easily got at." 
 
Q 
 
 ^.^^^^ a^^ t/y '^^M^ 
 
 ^- 
 
 iWl 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 509 
 
 " Undoubtedly," says Cousin Peenix. " In point of fact, it's quite a 
 self-evident sort of tiling. I am extremely anxious, Major, tliat my friend 
 Dombey should hear me express my very great astonishment and regret, 
 that my lovely and accomplished relative, who was possessed of every 
 qualification to make a man happy, should have so far forgotten what was 
 due to — in point of fact, to 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 
 ten, with whom my friend Dombey is probably acquainted — that it had 
 upset me in a confounded way, and made me bilious. It induces a 
 man to reflect, this 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 time, I think the effect upon a devilish lively woman like 
 herself, would have been prostration, and that she would have fallen, in 
 point of fact, a victim." 
 
 " Now, Dombey ! — " says the Major, resuming his discourse with great 
 energy, 
 
 " 1 beg your pardon," interposes Cousin Feenix. "Allow me another 
 word. My friend Dombey will permit me to say, that if any circumstance 
 could have added to the most infernal state of pain in which I find 
 myself on this occasion, it 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 teeth, in point of fact — of very inferior station to her husband. 
 But while I must, rather peremptorily, request my friend Dombey not to 
 criminate my lovely and accomplished relative imtil her criminality is 
 perfectly established, I beg to assure my friend Dombey that the family I 
 represent, and which is now almost extinct (devilish sad reflection for a 
 man), will interpose no obstacle in his way, and will be happy to assent 
 to any honourable course of proceeding, with a view to the future, that 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 afi^air, and^a 
 — in point of fact, I am not aware that I need trouble my friend Dombey 
 with any further observations." 
 
 Mr. Dombey bows, without raising his eyes, and is silent. 
 
 " Now, Dombey," says the Major, " our friend Feenix having, with an 
 amount of eloquence that old Joe B. has never heard surpassed — no, by 
 the Lord, Sir ! never ! " — says the Major, very blue, indeed, and grasping 
 his cane in the middle — " stated the case as regards the lady, I sliall 
 presume upon our friendship, Dombey, to offer a word on another aspect 
 of it. Sir," says the Major, with the horse's cough, " the world in 
 these things has opinions, which must be satisfied." 
 
 " I know it," rejoins Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Of course you know it, Dombey," says the Major. " Damme, Sir, I 
 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 spoken out. 
 little, Sir, have 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 !" 
 
 m 
 
510 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Major," returns Mr. Dombey, " I am obliged. I shall put myself in 
 your hands when the time comes. The time not being come, I have for- 
 borne to speak to you." 
 
 " Where is the fellow, Dombey ? " inquires the Major, after gasping and 
 looking at him, for a minute. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Any intelligence of him ? " asks the Major. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Dombey, I am rejoiced to hear it," says the Major. " I congratulate 
 you." 
 
 " You will excuse — even you. Major," replies Mr. Dombey, " my 
 entering into any further detail at present. The intelligence is of a sin- 
 gular kind, and 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 graciously, and 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 relative, and Cousin Feenix and Major Bagstock retire, 
 leaving that husband to the world again, and to ponder at leisure on their 
 representation of its state of mind concerning his affairs, and on its just 
 and reasonable expectations. 
 
 But who sits in the housekeeper's room, shedding tears, and talking to 
 Mrs. Pipchin in a low tone, with uplifted hands ? It is a lady with her 
 face concealed in a very close black bonnet, wliich appears not to belong 
 to her. It is Miss Tox, who has borrowed this disguise from her 
 servant, and comes from Princess's Place, thus secretly, to revive her old 
 acquaintance with Mrs. Pipchin, in order to get certain information of the 
 state of Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " How does he bear it, my dear creature ? " asks Miss Tox. 
 
 " Well," says Mrs. Pipchin^ in 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 answers, in three 
 distinct jerks, " Ah ! Perhaps. I suppose so." 
 
 *' To tell you my mind Lucretia," says Mrs. Pipchin ; she still calls 
 Miss Tox Lucretia, on account of having made her lii-st experiments in 
 the child-quelling-line of business on that lady, when an unfortunate and 
 weazen little girl of tender years ; " to tell you my mind, Lucretia, I 
 think it 's a good riddance. I don't want any of your brazen faces here, 
 myself ! " 
 
 " Brazen indeed ! WeU may you say brazen, Mrs. Pipchin ! " returns 
 Miss Tox. " To leave him ! Such a noble figure of a man ! " And here 
 Miss Tox is overcome. 
 
 " I don't know about noble, I 'm sure," observes Mrs. Pipchin, 
 irascibly rubbing her nose. " But I know this — that when people meet 
 with trials, they must bear 'em. Hoity, toity ! I have had enough to 
 bear myself, in my time 1 What a fuss there is ! She 's gone, and well 
 got rid of. Nobody wants her back, I should think ! " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 511 
 
 This hint of the Peruvian Mines, causes Miss Tox to rise to go away ; 
 when Mrs. Pipchin rings the bell for Towlinson to show her out. Mr. 
 Towlinson, not having seen Miss Tox for ages, grins, and hopes slie 's 
 well ; observing that he didn't know her at first, in that bonnet. 
 
 " Pretty well, Towlinson, I thank you," says Miss Tox. " I beg 
 you 'U have the goodness, when you happen to see me here, not to mention 
 it. My visits are merely to Mrs. Pipchin." 
 
 " Very good. Miss," says Towlinson. 
 
 " Shocking circumstances occur, Tovj^linson," says Miss Tox. 
 
 " Very much so indeed, JNIiss," rejoins Towlinson. 
 
 " I hope, Towlinson," says Miss Tox, who in her instruction of the 
 Toodle family, has acquired an admonitorial tone, and a habit of im- 
 proving passing occasions, " that Avhat has happened here, wiU be a 
 warning to you, Towlinson." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss, I'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 case, when the vinegary 
 Mrs. Pipchin, suddenly 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 room, she shrinks into the inmost depths of 
 the black bonnet, and walks on tiptoe ; and there is not another atom in 
 the world which haunts him so, that feels such sorrow and solicitude 
 about him, as Miss Tox takes out under the black bonnet into the street, 
 and tries to carry home shadowed 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 Towlinson, and the hufts and rebuffs of 
 Mrs. Pipchin, and all to ask how he does, and how he bears his misfor- 
 tune : but she has nothing to do with Mr. Dombey's world. Exacting and 
 harassing as ever, it goes on without her ; and she, a by no means bright 
 or particular star, moves in her little orbit in the corner of another system, 
 and knows it quite well, and comes, and cries, and goes away, and is 
 satisfied. Verily Miss Tox is easier of satisfaction than the world that 
 troubles Mr. Dombey so much ! 
 
 At the Counting House, the clerks discuss the great disaster in all its 
 lights and shades, but chiefly wonder who will get Mr. Carker's place. 
 They are generally of opinion that it wiU be shorn of some of its emolu- 
 ments, and 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 it, and 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 social, not to say jovial turn, and 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 
 rival, with whom he has been at deadly feud for months ; and a little 
 dinner being proposed, in commemoration of their happily restored amity, 
 takes 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 Chair, who says, Gentlemen, he can't disguise from 
 
512 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 himself that this is not a time for private dissensions. Eecent occurrences 
 to which he need not more particularly allude, but 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 murnmr), have caused him to reflect; and he feels that for 
 him and Eobinson to have any personal differences at such a moment, 
 would be for ever to deny that good feeling in the general cause, for 
 which he has reason to tliiiik and hope that the gentlemen in Dombey's 
 House have always been distinguished. Eobinson replies to this like a 
 man and a brother ; and one gentleman who has been in the office three 
 years, under continual notice to quit on account of lapses in his arithmetic, 
 appears in a perfectly i\evf light, suddenly bursting out with a thrilling 
 speech, in which he says, May their respected chief never again know the 
 desolation which has fallen on his hearth ! and says a great variety of 
 things, beginning with " May he never again," which are received with 
 thunders of applause. In short, a most delightful evening is passed, 
 only interrupted by a difference between two juniors, who, quarrelling 
 about the probable amount of Mr..Carker's late receipts per annum, defy 
 each other with decanters, and are taken out greatly excited. Soda water is 
 in general request at the office next day, and most of the party deem the 
 bill an imposition. 
 
 As to Perch, the messenger, he 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 every body 
 concerned in the late tiansaction, everywhere, and said to them, " Sir," or 
 " Madam," as the case was, " why do you look so pale ? " at which each 
 shuddered from head to foot, and said, " Oh Perch ! " and ran away. 
 Either the consciousness of these enormities, or the reaction consequent 
 on liquor, reduces 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 Ball's Pond ; and Mrs. Perch frets a good deal, for she 
 fears his confidence in woman is shaken now, and that he half expects on 
 coming home at night to find her gone off" with some Viscount. 
 
 Mr. Dombey's servants are becoming, at the same time, quite dissipated, 
 and unfit for other service. They have hot suppers every night, and "talk 
 it over " with smoking drinks upon the board. Mr. Towlinson is always 
 maudlin after half-past ten, and 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 Florence, and wonder where she is ; but agree that if Mr. 
 Dombey dont, know, Mrs. Dombey does. This brings them to the latter, 
 of whom Cook says. She had a stately way though, hadn't she ? But she 
 was too high ! They all agree that she was too high ; and Mr. Towlinson's 
 old flame the housemaid (who is very virtuous) entreats that you will 
 never talk to her any more, about people who holds their heads up, as 
 if the ground wasn't good enough for 'em. 
 
 Everything that is said and done about it except by Mr. Dombey, is 
 done in chorus. Mr. Dombey and the world are alone together. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 513 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 SECRET INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 Good Mrs. Brown and her claugliter Alice, kept silent company toge- 
 ther, in their own dwelling. It was early in the evening, and late in the 
 spring. But a few days had elapsed since Mr. Dombey liad told Major 
 Bagstock of his singular intelligence, singidarly obtained, which might turn 
 out to be valueless, and might turn out to be tme ; 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 too, but in a 
 less sharp degree, and sometimes it darkened, as if with gathering disap- 
 pointment and incredulity. The old woman, without heeding these 
 changes in its expression, though her eyes were often turned towards it, 
 sat mumbling and munching, and listening confidently. 
 
 Their abode, though poor and miserable, was not so utterly wretched as 
 in the days when only good Mrs. Brown inhabited it. Some few attempts 
 at cleanliness and order were manifest, though made in a reckless, gipsy 
 way, that might have connected them, at a glance, with the younger 
 woman. The shades of evening thickened and deepened as the two kept 
 sUence, until the blackened walls were nearly lost in the prevailing gloom. 
 
 Then Alice broke the silence which had lasted so long, and said : 
 
 " You may give him up, mother. He '11 not come here." 
 
 " Death give him up ! " returned the old woman, impatiently. " He 
 tclll 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 childhood, I know ! " croaked the old 
 woman. " That's the respect and duty that I get from my own gal, but I'm 
 wiser than you take me for. He '11 come. T' other day when I touched 
 his coat in the street, he looked round as if I was a toad. But Lord, to 
 see him when I said their names, and asked him if he 'd like to find out 
 where they was ! " 
 
 '•' Was it so angry ? " asked her daughter, roused 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 woman, hobbling to the 
 cupboard, and lighting a candle, which displayed the workings of her 
 mouth to ugly advantage, as she brought it to the table. " I might as 
 well call your face only angry, when you think or talk about 'em." 
 
 It was something different from that, truly, as she sat as still as a 
 crouched tigress, with her kindling eyes. 
 
 " Hark ! " said the old woman, triumphantly, " I hear a step coming. 
 It 's not the tread of any one that lives about here, or comes this way 
 
 L L 
 
614 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 often. We don't walk like that. We should grow proud on such neigli- 
 bours ! Do you hear him ? " 
 
 " I believe you are right, mother," replied Alice, in a low voice. " Peace F 
 open the door." 
 
 As she drew herself within her shawl, and gathered it about her, the old 
 woman complied ; and peering out, and beckoning, gave admission to Mi*. 
 Bombey, who 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 woman, curtseying and chattering. " I told you so, but there's no 
 harm in it." 
 
 " Who is that?" asked Mr. Dombey, looking 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 steadily, 
 and she, without any acknowledgment of his presence, looked at him. 
 The shadow on his face was darker when he turned his glance away from 
 her; and even then it wandered back again, furtively, as if he were 
 haunted by her bold eyes, and some remembrance they inspired. 
 
 " Woman," said Mr. Dombey to the old witch who was chuckling and 
 leering close at his elbow, and who, when he turned to address her, 
 pointed stealthily at her daughter, and rubbed her hands, and pointed 
 again, " Woman ! I believe that I am weak and forgetful of my station 
 in coming here, but you know why I come, and what you oiFered when 
 you stopped me in the street the other day. VV-hat 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 disdain- 
 ful glance about him, " when I have exerted my power and means to 
 obtain it in vain? I do not think," he said, after a moment's pause, 
 during which he had observed her, sternly, " that you are so audacious as 
 to mean to trifle with me, or endeavour to impose upon me. But if 
 you have that purpose, you had better stop on the threshold of your 
 scheme. My humour is not a trifling one, and my acknowledgment will 
 be severe." 
 
 " Oh a proud, hard, gentleman ! " chuckled the old woman, shaking 
 her head, and rubbing her shrivelled hands, " oh hard, hard, hard ! But 
 your worship shall see with yom- own eyes and hear with your own ears ; 
 not with ours — and if your worship's put upon their track, you won't 
 mind paying something for it, will you, honourable deary ?" 
 
 " Money," returned Mr. Dombey, apparently relieved, and re-assurcd 
 by this enquiry, " will bring about unlikely things, I know. It may turn 
 even means as unexpected and unpromising as these, to account. Yes. 
 For any reliable information I receive, I will pay. But I must have the 
 information first, and judge for myself of its vabie." 
 
 " Do you know nothing more powerful than money?" asked the- 
 younger woman, without rising, or altering her attitude. 
 
 " Not here, I should imagine," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " You should know of something that is more powerful elsewhere, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON'. 515 
 
 as I judge," she returned. " Do you know nothing of a woman's 
 anger?" 
 
 " You have a saucy tongue, Jade," said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Not usually," she answered, without any show of emotion : " I speak 
 to you now, that you may understand us better, and rely more on us. 
 A woman's anger is pretty much the same here, as in your fine house. 
 / am angry. I have been so, many years. I have as good cause for my 
 anger as you have for yours, and its object is the same man," 
 
 He started, in spite of himself, and looked at her with astonishment. 
 
 " Yes," she said, with a kind of laugh. " Wide as the distance may 
 seem between us, it is so. How it is so, is no matter ; that is my story, and 
 I keep my story to myself. I would bring you and him together, because 
 I have a rage against him. My mother there, is avaricious and poor ; and 
 she would sell any tidings she could glean, or anything, or anybody, for 
 money. It is fair enough perhaps, that you should pay her some, if she 
 can help you to what you want to know. But that is not my motive. I 
 have told you what mine is, and 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 more, if you wait here till sunrise 
 to-morrow." 
 
 The old woman who had shown great uneasiness during this speech 
 Avhich had a tendency to depreciate her expected gains, pulled Mr. 
 Dombey softly by the sleeve, and whispered to him not to mind her. He 
 glanced at them both, by turns, with a haggard look, and said, in a deeper 
 voice than was usual with him : 
 
 " Go on — what do you know ? " 
 
 " Oh, not so fast, your worship 1 Ave must wait for some one," answered 
 the old woman. " It's to be got from some one else — wormed out — 
 screwed and twisted from him." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Mr. Dombey. 
 
 " Patience," she croaked, laying her hand, like a claw, upon his arm. 
 " Patience. I'll get at it. I know I can ! If he was to hold it back 
 from me," said good Mrs. Brown, crooking 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 impassive, silent, and regardless of him. 
 
 "Do you tell me, woman," he said, when the bent figure of Mrs. 
 Brown came back, shaking its head and chattering to itself, " that there is 
 another person expected here ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said the old woman, looking up into his face, and nodding. 
 
 " From whom you are to extract the intelligence that is to be useful 
 to me ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the old woman nodding again. 
 
 "A stranger? " 
 
 " Chut ! " said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. " What signifies ! 
 Well, well ; no. No stranger to your worship. But he won't see you. 
 He'd be afraid of you, and wouldn't talk. You'll stand behind that door, 
 aiKl judge him for yourself. We don't ask to be believed on trust. What! 
 
 L L 2 
 
51G DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Your worstiip doubts the room behind the door ? Oh the suspicion of 
 you rich gentlefolks ! Look at it, then." 
 
 Her sharp eye had detected an involuntary expression of this feeling on 
 his part, which was not uni-easonable under the circumstances. In satis- 
 faction of it she now took the candle to the door she spoke of. Mr. 
 Dombey looked in ; assured himself that it was an empty, crazy 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 air, 
 as if he were undecided whether to remain or depart, and as if he had 
 some quarrel with himself for being there at all. But soon his tread 
 grew slower and hearier, and his face more sternly thoughtful; as the 
 object with which he had come, fixed itself in his mind, and dilated there 
 again. 
 
 While he thus walked up and down with his eyes on the ground, Mrs. 
 Brown, in the chair from which she had risen to receive him, sat listening 
 anew. The monotony of his step, or the uncertainty of age, made her so 
 slow of hearing, that a footfall without had sounded in her daughter's 
 ears for some moments, and she had looked up hastily to warn her 
 mother of its approach, before the old woman was roused by it. But 
 then she started from her seat, and whispering " Here he is ! " hurried 
 her visitor to his place of observation, and put a bottle and glass upon 
 the table, with such alacrity, as to be ready to fling her arms round the 
 neck of Eob the Grinder on his appearance at the door. 
 
 " And here's my bonny boy," cried IVIrs. Brown, " at last ! — oho, oho ! 
 You 're like my own son Eobby ! " 
 
 "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 hand, wiU you ?" 
 
 " Thinks of a birdcage, afore me!" cried the old woman, apostrophiz- 
 ing the ceiling. " Me that feels more than a mother for him ! " 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I'm very much obbged to you. Misses Brown," said 
 the unfortunate youth, greatly aggravated ; " but you 're so jealous of a 
 cove. I 'm very fond of you myself, and ail that, of course ; but I don 't 
 smother you, do I, Misses Brown?" 
 
 He looked and spoke as if he would have been far from objecting to do 
 so, however, on a favourable occasion. 
 
 " And to talk about birdcages, too ! " whimpered the Grinder. " As if 
 that was a crime ! Why, look 'ee here ! Do you know who this belongs 
 to?" 
 
 " To master, dear?" said the old woman with a grin. 
 
 "Ah!" replied the Grinder, lifting a large cage tied up in a v/rapper, 
 on the table, and untying it with his teeth and hands. " It 's our parrot, 
 this is." 
 
 " Mr. Carker's parrot. Bob ?" 
 
 "Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?" returned the goaded 
 Grinder. " What do you go naming names for ? I 'm blest," said Hob, 
 
. -,' •'/ ,'■ -.f^ /-?/,/>C'/^,'V,^^'';V, ■ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 517 
 
 pulling his hair with both hands in the exasperation of his feelings, " if 
 she an 't enough to make a cove run wild !" 
 
 " What ! ])o you snub me, thankless boy ! " cried the old woman, with 
 ready vehemence. 
 
 "Good gracious. Misses Brown, no!" returned the Grinder, with 
 
 tears in his eyes. " Was there ever such a ! Don 't I dote upon 
 
 you, Misses Brown ? " 
 
 "Do you, sweet Eob ? Do you truly, chickabiddy?" With that, 
 Mrs. 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 legs, and 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 been, Misses Brown?" 
 
 " Ah ! Not here since this night week !" said the old woman, contem- 
 plating him with a look of reproach. 
 
 " Good gracious Misses Brown," returned the Grinder, " I said 
 to-night's a week, that I'd come to-night, didn 't I ? And here I am. 
 How you do go on ! I wish you 'd be a little rational, Misses Brown. 
 I 'm hoarse with saying things in my defence, and my very face is shiny 
 with being hugged." He rubbed it hard with his sleeve, as if to remove 
 the tender polish in question. 
 
 " Drink a little drop to comfort you, my Bobin," said the old woman, 
 filling the glass from the bottle and giving it to him. 
 
 " Thank 'ee, Misses Brown," returned the Grinder. " Here 's your 
 health. And long may you — et cetrer." Which, to judge from the 
 expression of his face, did not include any very choice blessings. " And 
 here's her health," said the Grinder, glancing at Alice, who sat with her 
 eyes fixed, as it seemed to him, on the wall behind him, but in reaUty 
 on Mr. Dombey's face at the door, " and wishing her the same and many 
 of 'em ! " 
 
 He drained the glass to these two sentiments, and set it down. 
 
 " Well, I say. Misses Brown!" he proceeded. " To go on a little 
 rational now. You 're a judge of birds, and up to their ways, as I know 
 to my cost." 
 
 " Cost !" repeated Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " Satisfaction, I mean," returned the Grinder. " How you do take up 
 a cove. Misses Brown ! You've put it all out of my head again." 
 
 " Judge of birds, Bobby," suggested the old woman. 
 
 " Ah !" said the Grinder, " Well, I 've got to take care of this parrot — 
 certain things being sold, and a certain establishment broke up — and 
 as I don 't want no notice took at present, I wish you 'd attend to her for 
 a week or so, and give her board and lodging, will you ? If I mmt 
 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 you, I mean. Misses Brown," returned the craven Eob. 
 " Not that I want any inducement but yourself, Misses Brown, I 'm sure. 
 Don't begin again, for goodness sake." 
 
518 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " He don't care for me ! He don't care for me, as I care for him ! " cried 
 Mrs. Brown, lifting up her skinny hands. " But I'll take care of his bird." 
 
 " Take good care of it too, you know, Mrs. Brown," said Kob, shaking 
 his head. " If you was so much as to stroke its feathers once, the wrong 
 way, I believe it would be found out." 
 
 " Ah, so sharp as that, Kob ? " said Mrs. Brown, quickly. 
 
 " Sharp, Misses Brown ! " repeated Bob. " But this is not to be talked 
 about." 
 
 Checking himself abruptly, and not without a fearful glance across the 
 room. Bob filled the glass again, and having slowly emptied it, shook his 
 head, and 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 slily, and hitching her chair nearer his, and 
 looking in at the parrot, who came down from the gilded dome at her call, 
 said : 
 
 " Out of place now, Bobby ? " 
 
 " Never yoii, mind. Misses Brown," returned the Grinder, shortly. 
 
 " Board wages perhaps. Bob ? " said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " Pretty PoUy ! " said the Grinder. 
 
 The old woman darted a glance at him that might have warned him to 
 consider his ears in danger, but it was his turn to look in at the parrot 
 now, and however expressive his imagination may have made her angry 
 scowl, it was unseen by his bodily eyes. 
 
 " I wonder master didn't take you with him. Bob," said the old woman, 
 in a wheedling voice, but with increased malignity of aspect. 
 
 Bob was so absorbed in contemplation of the parrot, and in trolling his 
 forefinger on the wires, that 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 said, 
 in a voice that choked with its efi"orts to be coaxing : 
 
 " Bobby, my child." 
 
 "Well, Misses Brown," returned the Grinder. 
 
 " I say I wonder Master didn't take you with him, dear." 
 
 " Never j^OM mind. Misses Brown," returned the Grinder. 
 
 Mrs. Brown instantly directed the clutch of her right hand at his hair, 
 and the clutch of her left hand at his throat, and held on to the object 
 of her fond affection with such extraordinary fury, that his face began 
 to blacken in a moment. 
 
 " Misses Brown ! " exclaimed the Grinder, " let go, will you ! What 
 are you doing of! Help, young woman ! Misses Brow — Brow — ! " 
 
 The young woman, however, equally unmoved by his direct appeal to 
 her, and by his inarticulate utterance, remained quite neutral, until, after 
 struggling with his assailant into a corner. Bob disengaged himself, and 
 stood there panting and fenced in by his own elbows, while the old woman, 
 panting too, and stamping with rage and eagerness, appeared to be 
 collecting her energies for another swoop upon him. At this crisis Alice 
 interposed her voice, but not in the Grinder's favour, by saying, 
 
 " Well done, Mother. Tear him to pieces ! " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 519 
 
 *' What, young woman ! " blubbered Eob ; " are you against me too ? 
 What have I been and done ? What am I to be tore to pieces for, I should 
 like to know ? Why do you take and choke a cove who has never done 
 you any harm, neither of you ? Oall yourselves females, too ! " said the 
 frightened and afflicted Grinder, with his coat-cuff at his eye. " I 'm sur- 
 prised 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 offence. Misses 
 Brown ? " retorted the tearful Eob. " 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 lady, to dare to play at fast and loose 
 with me ! But I '11 talk to you no more, my lad. Now go ! " 
 
 " I am sure. Misses Brown," returned the abject Grinder, " I never 
 insiniwated that I wished to go. Don't talk like that. Misses Brown, if 
 you please." 
 
 " I won't talk at all," said Mrs. Brown, with 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 '11 slip those after him 
 that shall talk too much ; that won't be shook away ; that '11 hang to him 
 like leeches, and slink arter him like foxes. What ! He knows 'em. He 
 knows his old games and his old ways. If he 's forgotten 'em, they '11 
 «oon remind him. Now let him go, and see how he'll do Master's 
 business, and keep Master's secrets, with such company always following 
 him up and down. Ha, ha, ha ! He '11 find 'em a different sort from 
 you and me, Ally ; close as he is with you and me. Now let him go, now 
 let him go ! " 
 
 The old woman, to the unspeakable dismay of the Grinder, walked her 
 twisted figure round and roixnd, in a ring of some four feet in diameter, 
 constantly repeating these words, and shaking her fist above her head, and 
 working her mouth about. 
 
 " Misses Brown," pleaded Eob, coming a little out of his corner, " I 'm 
 sure you wouldn't injure a cove, on second thoughts, and in cold blood, 
 would you ? " 
 
 " Don't talk to me," said Mrs. Brown, still wrathfully pursuing her 
 circle. " Now let him go, now let him go ! " 
 
 " Misses Brown," urged the tormented Grinder, " I didn't mean to — 
 Oh, what a thing it is for a cove to get into such a line as this ! — I was 
 only careful of talking. Misses Brown, because I always am, on 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 gossip. Misses Brown. Don't go on like this, if you 
 please. Oh, couldn't you have the goodness to put in a word for a 
 miserable cove, here ! " said the Grinder, appealing in desperation to the 
 daughter. 
 
 " Come mother, you hear what he says," she interposed, in her stern 
 
520 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 voice, and witt an impatient action of her head ; " try him once more, and 
 if you fall out with him again, ruin him, if you like, and have done 
 with him." 
 
 Mrs. Brown, moved as it seemed by this very teilder exhortation, 
 presently began to howl ; and softening by degrees, took the apologetic 
 Grinder to her arms, who embraced her with a face of unutterable woe, 
 and, like a victim as he was, resumed his former seat, close by the side of 
 his venerable friend ; whom he suffered, not without much constrained 
 sweetness of countenance, combating very expressive physiognomical 
 revelations of an opposite character, to draw his arm through hers, and 
 keep it there, 
 
 " And how 's Master, deary dear? " said Mrs. Brown, when, sitting in 
 this amicable posture, they had pledged each other. 
 
 " Hush ! If you 'd be so good. Misses Brown, as to speak a little 
 lower," Eob implored. "Why, he's pretty well, thankee, I suppose." 
 
 " You 're not out of place, Eob by ? " said Mrs. Brown, in a wheedling 
 tone. 
 
 " Why, I 'm not exactly out of place, nor in," faltered Eob. " I — I 'm 
 still in pay, Misses Brown." 
 
 " And nothing to do, Eob ? " 
 
 " Nothing particular to do just now. Misses Brown, but to — keep my 
 eyes open," said the Grinder, rolling them in a forlorn way. 
 
 " Master abroad, Eob ? " 
 
 " Oh, for goodness sake, Misses Brown, couldn't you gossip with a 
 cove about anything else ! " cried the Grinder, in a burst of despair. 
 
 The impetuous Mrs. Brown rising directly, the tortured Grinder 
 detained her, stammering " Ye-yes, Misses Brown, I believe he 's 
 abroad. What 's she staring at ? " he added, in allusion to the daughter, 
 whose eyes were fixed upon the face that now again looked out behind him, 
 
 " Don't mind her, lad," said the old woman, holding him closer to pre- 
 vent his turning round. " It 's her way — her way. TeU me, Eob. Did 
 you ever see the lady, deary ? " 
 
 " Oh, Misses Bro\vn, what lady ? " cried the Grinder in a tone of pite- 
 ous supplication. 
 
 " What lady ? " she retorted. " The lady ; Mrs Dombey." 
 
 " Yes, I believe I see her once," replied Eob. 
 
 " The night she went away, Eobby, eh ? " said the old woman in his 
 ear, and taking note of every change in his face. " Aha ! I know it was 
 that night." 
 
 " Well, if you know it was that night, you know, Mrs. Brown," replied 
 Eob, " it 's no use putting pinchers into a cove to make him say so." 
 
 " Where did they go that night, Eob ? 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 hag, holding him closer yet, patting the hand 
 that was drawn through his arm against her other hand, and searching 
 every line in his face with her bleared eyes. " Come ! Begin ! I want 
 to be told all about it. What, Eob, boy ! You and me can keep a 
 secret together, eh ? We 've done so before now. Where did they go 
 first, Eob ? " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 521 
 
 The wretdied Grinder made a gasp, and a pause. 
 
 "Are you dumb ? " said the old woman, angrily. 
 
 " Lord, Misses Brown, no ! You expect a cove to be a flash of light- 
 ning. I wish f teas the electric fluency," muttered the bewildered 
 Grinder. " I 'd have a shock at somebody, that would settle their 
 business." 
 
 " What do you say? " asked the old woman, with a grin. 
 
 " I 'm wishing my love to you, Misses Brown," returned the false Rob, 
 seeking consolation in the glass, " Where did they go to first, was it ! 
 Him and her do you mean ? " 
 
 "Ah !" said the old woman, eagerly. "Them two." 
 
 " Why, thev didn 't go nowhere — not together, I mean," answered 
 Eob. 
 
 The old woman looked at him, as though she had a strong impulse upon 
 her to make another clutch at his head and throat, but 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 go, or has been able to say how they did go. They went 
 diff"erent ways, I tell you. Misses Brown." 
 
 " Ay, ay, ay ! To meet at an appointed place," chuckled the old woman, 
 after a moment's silent and keen scrutiny of his face. 
 
 " Why, if they weren't a going to meet somewhere, I suppose they might 
 as well have stayed at home, mightn't they. Misses Brown ? " returned the 
 unwilling Grinder. 
 
 " Well, Kob ? Well ? " said the old woman, drawing his arm yet tighter 
 through her own, as if, in her eagerness, she were afraid of his slipping 
 away. 
 
 "What, haven't we talked enough yet, Misses Brown?" returned the 
 Grinder, who between his sense of injury, his sense of liquor, and his sense 
 of being on the rack, had become so lachrymose, that at almost every 
 answer he scooped his coat-cuff into one or other of his eyes, and uttered 
 an unavailing whine of remonstrance. " Did she laugh that night, was it ? 
 Didn't you ask if she laughed. Misses Brown ?" 
 
 " Or cried?" added the old wonaan, nodding assent. 
 
 " Neither," said the Grinder. " She kept as steady when she and me 
 — oh, I see you will have out of me, Misses Brown ! But take your solemn 
 oath now, that 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 steady, then, when she and me went down to Southamp- 
 ton," said the Grinder, " as a image. In the morning she was just the 
 same, Misses Brown. And when she went away in the packet before daj"^- 
 light, by herself — me pretending to be her servant, and seeing her safe 
 aboard — she was just the same. Now, are you contented, Mrs. Brown?" 
 
 "No, Rob. Not yet," answered Mrs. Brown, decisively. 
 
 "Oh, here's a woman for you !" cried the unfortunate Eob, in an out- 
 burst of feeble lamentation over his own helplessness. " What did you 
 wish to know next. Misses Brown ?" 
 
522i DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " What became of Master ? Where did he go ?" She inquired, 
 still holding him tight, and looking close into his face, with her sharp 
 eyes. 
 
 " Upon my soul, I don't know, Misses Brown," answered Eob. " Upon 
 my soul I don't know what he did, nor where he went, nor anything about 
 him. I only know what he said to me as a caution to hold my tongue, 
 when we parted ; and I tell you this, Mrs. Brown, as a friend, that sooner 
 than ever repeat a word of what we're saying now, you had better take 
 and shoot yom-self, or shut yourself up in this house, and set it a-fire, for 
 there's nothing he wouldn't do, to be revenged upon you. You don't know 
 him half as well as I do. Misses Brown. You're never safe from him, I 
 teU you." 
 
 " Haven't I taken an oath," retorted the old woman, " and won't I 
 keep it?" 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I hope you will, Misses Brown," returned Eob, some- 
 what doubtfully, and not without a latent threatening in his manner. 
 " For your own sake, quite as much as mine." 
 
 He looked at her as he gave her this friendly caution, and emphasized 
 it with a nodding of his head ; but finding it uncomfortable to encounter 
 the yellow face with its grotesque action, and the ferret eyes with their 
 keen old wintry gaze, so close to his own, he looked down uneasily and sat 
 shuffling in his chair, as if he were trying to bring himself to a sullen 
 declaration that he would answer no more questions. The old w^oman, 
 still holding him as before, took this opportunity of raising the forefinger 
 of her right hand, in the air, as a stealthy signal to the concealed observer 
 to give particular attention to what was about to follow. 
 
 " Eob," she said, in her most coaxing tone. 
 
 " Good gracious Misses Brown, what 's the matter now ? " returned the 
 exasperated Grinder. 
 
 " Eob ! where did the lady and Master appoint to meet ? " 
 
 Eob shufiied more and more, and looked up and looked down, and bit 
 his thumb, and dried it on his waistcoat, and finally said, eyeing his 
 tormentor askant, " How should / know, Misses Brown ? " 
 
 The old woman held up her finger again, as before, and replying, 
 " Come lad ! It 's no use leading me to that, and there leaving me. I 
 want to know " — waited for his answer. 
 
 Eob after a discomfited pause, suddenly broke out with, " How can 
 I pronounce the names of foreign places, Mrs. Brown? What an 
 unreasonable woman you are I " 
 
 "But you have heard it said, Eobby," she retorted firmly, "and you 
 know what it sounded like. Come ! " 
 
 " I never heard it said. Misses Brown," returned the Grinder. 
 
 " Then," retorted the old woman quickly, " you have seen it written, 
 and you can spell it." 
 
 Eob, with a petulant exclamation between laughing and crying — for he 
 was penetrated with some admiration of Mrs. Brown's cunning, even 
 through this persecution — after some reluctant fumbling in his waistcoat 
 pocket, produced from it a little piece of chalk. The old woman's eyes 
 sparkled when she saw it between his thumb and finger, and hastily 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 523 
 
 clearing a space on the deal table, that he might write the word there, she 
 once more made her signal with a shaking hand. 
 
 " Now I teU you before hand what it is. Misses Brown," said Eob, 
 "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 met, or whose plan it was that 
 they was to go away alone, I 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 word, 
 you'd believe that. Shall I tell you Misses Brown ? " 
 
 "Tes, Eob." 
 
 " Well then Misses Brown. The way — now you won't ask any more, 
 you know ? " said Eob, turning his eyes, which were now fast getting 
 drowsy and stupid, upon her. 
 
 " Not another word," said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " Well then, the way was this. When a certain person left the lady 
 with me, he put a piece of paper with a direction written on it in the 
 lady's hand, saying it was in case she should forget. She wasn't afraid 
 of forgetting, for she tore it up as soon as his back was turned, and when 
 I put up the carriage steps, I shook out one of the pieces — she sprinkled 
 the rest out of the window, I suppose, for there was none there afterwards, 
 though I looked for 'em. There was only one word on it, and that was 
 this, if you must and wiU know. But remember ! You 're upon your 
 oath. Misses Brown 1 " 
 
 Mrs. Brown knew that, she said. Eob, having nothing more to say, 
 began to chalk, slowly and laboriously, on 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, M'ill you ! " 
 
 " Then write large, Eob," 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, Eob 
 went on Avith 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 
 feU asleep. 
 
524 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Xot until lie Lad been heavily asleep sometime, and was snoring roundly, 
 did the old woman turn towards the door where Mr. Dombey stood con- 
 cealed, and beckon him to come through the room, and pass out. Even 
 then, she hovered over Eob, 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 wiU 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 disre- 
 garded 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 LIII. 
 
 MOKE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 Theue 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 w^orld 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 disposi- 
 tion to resent the least flaw in the ample recognition of his import- 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 525 
 
 ance by others, set this way like many streams united into one, and 
 bore him on upon their tide. The most impetuously passionate and vio- 
 lently 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 OAvn 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 conso- 
 lation 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 theii* 
 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 Ball's 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, wliich 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 Mi-. Perch, meekly, " but for the state of health of 
 IS'Irs. 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 sme. 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 eff"ect of drink 
 upon me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been taking more 
 than was good for me over-night." 
 
526 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 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 ques- 
 tioned, which he was in the daily habit of making, 
 
 " Therefore I can judge," said Mr. Perch, shaking his head again, and 
 speaking in a silvery murmur, " of the feelings of such as is at all pecu- 
 liarly 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 smUe ; " but perhaps you '11 be so good as cast your eye over 
 it, Sir." 
 
 John Carker broke the seal, which was IVIr. 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 'U 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 in- 
 creased 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 milintary 
 frogs, is in the parlour of the King's Arms all the blessed day, I hap- 
 pened, 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 527 
 
 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, mysell" 
 
 "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 liai 
 happened. I am dismissed !" 
 
 She looked as little shocked and as hopeful as she could, but it was dis- 
 tressing news, for many reasons. 
 
 " ' I need not tell you,' " said John Carker, reading the letter, "'why your 
 name would henceforth have an unnatural sound, in however remote a 
 connexion with mine, or why the daily sight of any one who bears it, 
 would be unendurable to me, I have to notify the cessation of all engage- 
 ments between us, from this date, and to request that no renewal of any 
 communication with me, or my establishment, be ever attempted by you.' — 
 Enclosed, is an equivalent in money to a generously long notice, and this 
 is my discharge. Pleaven knows, Harriet, it is a lenient and considerate one, 
 when we remember all ! " 
 
 " If it be lenient and considerate to punish you at all, John, for 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 name, and to think that there 
 is something cursed and wicked in our blood. I should almost think it 
 too, Haniet, but for yon." 
 
 " Brother, don't speak like this. If you have any special reason, as 
 you say you have, and think you have — though I say, No ! — 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 him, to take one in her own. 
 
 "After so many years, this parting is a melancholy thing I know," 
 said his sister, " and the cause of it is dreadful to us both. We have 
 to live, too, and must look about us for the means. Well, well ! We 
 can do so, undismayed. It is our pride, not our trouble, to strive, John, 
 and to strive together." 
 
 A smile played on her lips, as she kissed his cheek, and entreated 
 him to be of good cheer. 
 
 " Oh, dearest sister ! Tied, of your own noble will, to a ruined man ! 
 whose reputation is blighted ; who has no friend himself, and 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. " Now, let 
 me tell you, dear," quietly sitting by his side. " I have, as you have, 
 expected this ; and when I have been thinking of it, and fearing that it 
 would happen, and preparing myself for it, as well as I could, I have 
 resolved to tell you, if it should be so, that I have kept a secret from you, 
 and that we liave a friend." 
 
 " What is our friend's name, Harriet ? " he answered, with a sorrowful 
 smile. 
 
 " Indeed I don't know, but 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." 
 
528 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Harriet ! " exclaiiaed her wondering brotlier, " where does this 
 friend live ? " 
 
 " Neither do I know that," she returned. " But he knows us both, 
 and our history — all our little history, John. That is the reason why, at 
 his own suggestion, I have kept the secret of his coming here, from you, 
 lest his acquaintance with it should distress you." 
 
 " Here ! Has he been here, Harriet ? " 
 
 " Here, in this room. Once," 
 
 « What kind of man ? " 
 
 " Not young. 'Grey-headed,' as he said, 'and fast growing gi-eyer.' But 
 generous, and frank, and good, I am sure." 
 
 " And only seen once, Harriet ? " 
 
 " In this room only once," said his sister, with the slightest and 
 most transient glow upon her cheek ; " but, when here, he entreated me 
 to suifer him to see me once a week as he passed by, in token of our 
 being well, and continuing to need nothing at his hands. For I told 
 him, when 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 then, and always on the same day, and at the 
 same hour, he has gone past ; always on foot ; always going in the same 
 direction — towards London ; and never pausing longer than to bow to 
 me, and wave his hand cheerfully, as a kind guardian might. He made 
 that promise when he proposed these curious interviews, and has kept it 
 so faithfully and pleasantly, that 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 vanished, and 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 Avith 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 wiU return. When he 
 does, dear John, let 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 friend, I 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 painted, as vividly as she could, the features, stature, and 
 dress of her visitor ; but John Carker, either from having no knowledge 
 of the original, or from some fault in her description, or from some 
 abstraction of his thoughts as he walked to and fro, pondering, coiUd 
 not recognise the portrait she presented to him. 
 
 However, it was agreed between them that he should see the original 
 when he next appeared. This concluded, the sister applied herself, witli 
 a less anxious breast, to her domestic occupations ; and the grey -haired 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 529 
 
 man, late Junior of Dombey's, devoted tlie first day of his unwonted 
 liberty to working in the garden. 
 
 It was quite late at night, and the brother was reading aloud while the 
 sister plied her needle, when 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 brother, this souud, unusual there, 
 became almost alarming. The brother going to the door, the sister sat 
 and listened timidly. Some one spoke to him, and he replied, and 
 seemed surprised ; and after a few words, the two approached together. 
 
 " Harriet," said her brother, lighting in their late visitor, and speaking 
 in a low voice, " Mr. Morfin — the gentleman so long in Dombey's house 
 with James." 
 
 His sister started back, as if a ghost had entered. In the doorway 
 stood the unknown friend, with the dark hair sprinkled with grey, the 
 ruddy face, the broad clear brow, and hazel eyes, whose secret she had 
 kept so long ! 
 
 " John ! " she said, half breathless, " It is the gentleman I told you 
 of, to-day ! " 
 
 " The gentleman. Miss Harriet," said the visitor, coming in — for he 
 had stopped a moment in the doorway ; " is greatly reheved to hear you 
 say that : he has been devising Avays and means, all the way here, of ex- 
 plaining himself, and has been satisfied with none. Mr. John, I am not 
 quite a stranger here. You were stricken with astonishment when you 
 saAv 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 are, we shouldn't have 
 reason to be astonished half so often." 
 
 By this time, he had greeted Harriet with that agreeable mingling of 
 cordiality and respect which she recollected so well, and had sat down 
 near her, pulled off his gloves, and thrown them into his hat upon the 
 table. 
 
 "There's nothing astonishing," he said, "in my having conceived a 
 desire to see your sister, Mr. John, or in my having gratified it in my own 
 way. As to the regularity of my visits since (which she may have men- 
 tioned 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 pockets, and 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 say, with a kind of irritable thoughtful ness : 
 
 " It 's this same habit that confirms some of us, who are capable of 
 better things, in 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 day, according to the temper of our clay, like images, and 
 leaves us as susceptible as images to new impressions and convictions. 
 You shall judge of its influence on me, John. For more years than I 
 need name, I had my small, and exactly-defined share, in the management of 
 Dombey's house, and saw your brother (who has proved himself a scoundrel! 
 Your sister will forgive my being obliged to mention it) extending and extend- 
 ing his influence, until the business and its owner were his football ; and 
 
 M M 
 
530 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 saw you toiling at your obscure desk every day ; and was quite content 
 to be as little troubled as I migbt be, out of my own strip of duty, and to 
 let everything about me go on, day by day, unquestioned, like a great 
 machine — that was its habit and mine — and to take it all for granted, and 
 consider it all right. My Wednesday nights came regularly round, our 
 quartette parties came regularly off, my violoncello was in good tune, and 
 there was nothing wrong in my world — or, if anything, not much — or 
 little or much, it was no affaii' of mine." 
 
 " I can answer for your being more respected and beloved during all 
 that time than anybody in the House, Sir," said John Carker. 
 
 " Pooh ! Good-natured and easy enough, I dare say," 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 do, 
 made no court to either of them, and was glad to occupy a station in 
 which none was required. So I should have gone on till now, but 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 one, perhaps, originally ; and 
 were separated, as Mr. Morfin says," said her brother, looking back to him 
 for the resumption of his explanation. 
 
 " I have whistled, hummed tunes, gone 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 was, and couldn't otherwise avoid knowing some- 
 thing of it, I walked out. I walked out once, John, during a conversation 
 between two brothers, to which, in the beginning, young Walter Gay was a 
 party. But I overheard some of it before I left the room. You remember 
 it sufficiently, perhaps, to tell your sister what its nature was ? " 
 
 " It refen-ed, Harriet," said her brother, in a low voice, " to the past, 
 and to our relative positions in the House." 
 
 " Its matter was not new to me, but 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 me, because I was used to it," said their visitor ; 
 " and induced me to recal the history of the two brothers, and 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 famihar, and quite 
 matters of course to us now, look, when we come to see them from that 
 new and distant point of view which we must all take up, one day or other? 
 I was something less good-natured, as the phrase goes, after that morning, 
 less easy and complacent altogether." 
 
 He sat for a minute or so, drumming with one hand on the table ; and 
 resumed in a hurry, as if he were anxious to get rid of his confession. 
 
 " Before I knew what to do, or whether I could do anything, there was 
 a second conversation between the same two brothers, in 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 gate, I 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 531 
 
 made a pretext of inquiring into the character of a poor neiglibour ; but 
 I wandered out of that tract, and 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 whicli I dared not dispute, 
 for receiving no assistance from me then ; but I established a means of 
 communication between us, which remained imbroken until within these 
 few days, when I was prevented, by important matters that have lately 
 devolved upon me, from maintaining them." 
 
 "How little I have suspected this," said John Carker, "when I have 
 seen you every day. Sir ! If Harriet could have guessed your name — " 
 
 " Why, to tell you the truth, John," 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 intentions, 
 and I made up my mind, at all events, not to disclose myself untd I 
 should be able to do you some real service or other. My second reason 
 was, that I always hoped there might be some lingering possibility of 
 your brother's relenting towards you both ; and in that case, I felt that 
 where there was the chance of a man of his suspicious, watchful character, 
 discovering that you had been secretly befriended by me, there was the chance 
 of a new and fatal cause of division. I resolved, to be sure, at 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 death, courtship, marriage, and domestic 
 unhappiness, have left us no head but your brother for this long, longtime. 
 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 will, and, stretching out a hand to the brother, and a hand to the 
 sister, continued : 
 
 " All I could desire to say, and more, I have now said. AH I mean 
 goes beyond words, as I hope you understand and believe. The time has 
 come, John — though most imfortunately and unhappily come — when I 
 may help you without interfering with that redeeming struggle, which has 
 lasted through so many years ; since you were discharged from it to-day 
 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 first, John," he said good-humouredly, " with a light, 
 without saying what you want to say, whatever that may be;" John 
 Carker's heart was full, and he would have relieved it in speech, if he 
 could ; " and let me have a word with your sister. We have talked alone 
 before, and in this room too ; though it looks more natural with 
 you here." 
 
 Following him out with his eyes, he turned kindly to Harriet, and said 
 in a lower voice, and v/ith 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. 
 
 M M 2 
 
532 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " 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 himself, than for the 
 House he represented; that he has led the House on, to prodigious 
 ventures, often resulting in enormous losses ; that he has always pampered 
 the vanity and ambition of his employer, when it was his duty to have held 
 them in check, and shown, as it was in his power to do, to what they 
 tended here or there; will not perhaps surprise you now. Undertakings have 
 been entered on, to swell the reputation of the House for vast resources, 
 and to exhibit it in magnificent contrast to other merchants' houses, of 
 which it requires a steady head to contemplate the possibly — a few disas- 
 trous changes of affairs might render them the probably — ruinous con- 
 sequences. In the midst of the many transactions of the House, in most 
 parts of the world : a great labyrinth of which only he has held the clue : 
 he has had the opportunity, and he seems to have used it, of keeping the 
 various results afloat, when ascertained, and substituting estimates and 
 generalities for facts. But latterly — you follow me, ^liss Harriet ? " 
 
 " Perfectly, perfectly," she answered, with her frightened face fixed on 
 his. " Pray tell me all the worst at once." 
 
 " Latterly, he appears to have devoted the greatest pains to making 
 these results so plain and clear, that reference to the private books enables 
 one to grasp them, numerous and varying as they are, with 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 1 That it 
 has been his constant practice to minister to that passion basely, and to 
 flatter it corruptly, is indubitable. In that, his criminality, as it is con- 
 nected with the affairs of the House, chiefly consists." 
 
 " One other word before you leave me, dear Sir," said Harriet. 
 " There is no danger in all this ? " 
 
 " How danger ? " he returned, with a little hesitation. 
 
 " To the credit of the House ? " 
 
 " I cannot help answering you plainly, and trusting you completely," 
 said Mr. Morfln, after a moment's survey of her face. 
 
 " You may. Indeed you may ! " 
 
 " I am sure I may. Danger to the Iloixse's credit? No; none. There 
 may be difficulty, greater or less difficulty, but no danger, unless — unless, 
 indeed — the head of the House, unable to bring his mind to the reduction 
 of its enterprises, and positively refusing to believe that it is, or can be, in 
 any position but the position in which he has always represented it to 
 himself, should urge it beyond its strength. Then it Avould totter." 
 
 " But there is no apprehension of that? " said Harriet. 
 
 " There shall be no half-confidence," he replied, shaking her hand, "be- 
 tween us. Mr. Dombey is unapproachable by any one, and his state of mind 
 is haughty, rash, unreasonable, and ungovernable, now. But he is disturbed 
 
D0MJ3EY AND SON. 533 
 
 and agitated now beyond all common bounds, and it may pass. You now 
 know all, both worst and best. No more to-night, and good night ! " 
 
 With that he kissed her hand, and passing out to the door where her 
 brother stood awaiting his coming, put him cheerfully aside when he 
 essayed to speak ; told him that as they would see each other soon and 
 often, he might speak at another time, if he woidd, but there was no leisure 
 for it then ; and went away at a round pace, in order that no word of 
 gratitude might foUow him. 
 
 The brother and sister sat conversing by the fireside, until it was almost 
 day ; made sleepless by this glimpse of the new world that opened 
 before them, and feeling like two people shipwrecked long ago, upon a 
 solitary coast, to whom a ship had come at last, when they were old in 
 resignation, and 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 out, nor did it fade before the sun. Next 
 morning it was there ; at noon ; at night. Darkest and most distinct at 
 night, as is now to be told. 
 
 John Carker had gone out, in piu'suance of a letter of appointment 
 from their friend, and Harriet was left in the house alone. She had been 
 alone, some hours. A dull, grave evening, and a deepening twilight, 
 were not favourable to the removal of the oppression on her spirits. The 
 idea of this brother, long unseen and unknown, flitted about her in 
 frightful shapes. He was dead, dying, calling to her, staring at her, 
 frowning on her. The pictui'es in her mind were so obtrusive and exact, 
 that as the twilight deepened, she dreaded to raise her head and look at 
 the dark corners of the room, lest his wraith, the oftspring of her excited 
 imagination, should be waiting there, to startle her. Once, she had such a 
 fancy of his being in the next room, hiding- —though she knew quite well 
 what a distempered fancy it was, and had no belief in it — that she forced 
 herself to go there, for her own conviction. But in vain. The room 
 resumed its shadowy terrors, the moment she left it; and she had no more 
 power to divest herself of these vague impressions of dread, than if they 
 had been stone giants, rooted in the sohd earth. 
 
 It was almost dark, and she was sitting near the window, with her 
 head upon her hand, looking down, when, sensible of a sudden increase in 
 the gloom of the apartment, she raised her eyes, and uttered an involun- 
 tary cry. Close to the glass, a pale scared face gazed in ; vacantly, for an 
 instant, as searching for an object ; then the eyes rested on herself, and 
 lighted up. 
 
 " Let me in ! Let me in ! I Avant to speak to you ! " and the hand 
 rattled on the glass. 
 
 She recognised immediately the woman with the long dark hair, to 
 whom she had given warmth, food, and shelter, one wet night. Naturally 
 afraid of her, remembering her violent behaviour, Harriet, retreating a 
 little from the window, stood 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." 
 
534 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 The vehement manner of the entreaty, the earnest expression of the 
 face, the trembling of the two hands that were raised imploringly, a 
 certain dread and terror in the voice akin to her own condition at the 
 moment, prevailed with Harriet. She hastened to the door and opened it. 
 
 " May I come in, or shall I speak here ? " said the woman, catching at 
 her hand. 
 
 " What is it that you want ? What is it that you have to say ? " 
 
 " Not much, but let me say it out, or 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 in, if you can trust me for this once ! " 
 
 Her energy again prevailed, and they passed into the fire-light of the 
 little kitchen, where she had before sat, and ate, and dried her clothes. 
 
 " Sit there," said Alice, kneeling down beside her, " and look at me. 
 You remember me ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " You remember what I told you I had been, and where I came from, 
 ragged and lame, with the fierce wind and weather beating on my 
 head?" 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " You know how I came back that night, and threw your money in the 
 dirt, and cursed you and your race. Now, see me here, upon my knees. 
 Am I less earnest now, than I was then ? " 
 
 " If what you ask," said Harriet, gently, " is forgiveness — " 
 
 " But it 's not ! " returned the other, with a proud, fierce look. " What 
 I ask is, to be believed. Now you shall judge if I am worthy of belief, 
 both as I was, and as I am." 
 
 Still upon her knees, and with her eyes upon the fire, and the fire 
 shining on her ruined beauty and her wild black hair, one long tress 
 of which she pulled over her shoulder, and wound about her hand, and 
 thoughtfully bit and tore while speaking, she went on : 
 
 " When I was young and pretty, and this," plucking contemptuously 
 at the hair she held, " was only handled delicately, and couldn't be 
 admired enough, my mother, who had not been very mindful of me as a 
 child, found out my merits, and was fond of me, and proud of me. She 
 was covetous and poor, and thought to make a sort of property of me. 
 No great lady ever thought that of a daughter yet, I 'm sure, or acted as 
 if she did — it 's never done, we all know — and that shows that the only 
 instances of mothers bringing up their daughters wrong, and evil coming 
 of it, are among such miserable folks as us." 
 
 Looking at the fire, as if she were forgetful, for the moment, of having 
 any auditor, she continued in a dreamy way, as she wound the long tress of 
 hair tight round and round her hand. 
 
 " What came of that, I needn't say. Wretched marriages don't come 
 of such things, in our degree ; only wretchedness and ruin. Wretched- 
 ness and ruin came on me — came on me." 
 
 Eaising her eyes swiftly from their moody gaze upon the fire, to 
 Harriet's face, she said — 
 
 " I am wasting time, and there is none to spare ; yet if I hadn't thought 
 of all, I shouldn't be here now. Wretchedness and ruin came on me, I 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 535 
 
 say. I was made a short-lived toy, and 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 Alice, with an eager look. "His 
 usage made a DevU of me. I sunk in wretchedness and ruin, lower and 
 lower yet. I was concerned in a robbery — in every part of it but the 
 gains — and was found out, and sent to be tried, without a friend, without 
 a penny. Though I was but a girl, I would have gone to Death, sooner 
 than ask him for a word, if a word of his could have saved me. I would! 
 To any death that could have been invented. But my mother, covetous 
 always, sent to liim in my name, told the true story of my case, and 
 humbly prayed and petitioned for a small last gift — for not so many 
 pounds as I have fingers on this hand. Who was it do you think, who 
 snapped his fingers at me in my misery, lying, as he believed, at his 
 feet, and left me without even this poor sign of remembrance ; well satis- 
 fied that I should be sent abroad, beyond the reach of further trouble 
 to him, and should die, and rot there? Who was this, do you think?" • 
 
 "Why do you ask me?" repeated Harriet. 
 
 "Why do you tremble?" said AUce, laying 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 more, but 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 
 back, weary and lame, to spurn your gift. I felt that night as if I could 
 have travelled, Aveary and lame, over the whole world, to stab him, if 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 Heaven, why are you come again ?" 
 
 " Since then," said Alice, with the same grasp of her arm, and the same 
 look in her face, " I have seen him ! I have followed him with my eyes, 
 in the broad day. If any spark of my resentment slumbered in my bosom, 
 it sprung into a blaze when my eyes rested on him. You know he has 
 wronged a proud man, and made him his deadly enemy. What if I had 
 given information of him to that man?" 
 
 " Information 1 " repeated Harriet. 
 
 " What if I had found out one who knew your brother's secret; who knew 
 the manner of his flight ; who knew where he and the companion of his flight 
 were gone ? W^hat if I had made him utter all his knowledge, word by 
 word, before this enemy, concealed to hear it ? What if I had sat by at 
 the time, looking into this enemy's face, and seeing it change till it was 
 scarcely human ? What if I had seen him rush away, mad, in pursuit ? 
 What if I knew, now, that he was on his road, more fiend than man, and 
 must, in so many hours, come up with him ? " 
 
 " Kemove your hand ! " said Harriet, recoiling. " Go away ! Your 
 touch is dreadful to me ! " 
 
 " I have done this," pursued the other, with her eager look, regardless 
 of the interruption. " Do I speak and look as if I really had ? Do you 
 believe what I am saying ? " 
 
536 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 cc 
 
 I fear I must. Let my arm go ! " 
 
 " Not yet, A moment more. You can tliink wliat my revengeful pur- 
 pose must have been, to last so long, and urge me to do this ? " 
 
 "Dreadful ! " said Harriet. 
 
 "Then when you see me now," said Alice, hoarsely, "here again, 
 kneeling quietly on the ground, with my touch upon your arm, with my 
 eyes upon your face, you may believe that there is no common earnestness 
 in what I say, and that no common struggle has been battling in my breast. 
 T am ashamed to speak the words, but I relent. I despise myself ; I have 
 fought with myself all day, and all last night; but I relent towards 
 him without reason, and wish to repair what I have done, if 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 night, you would 
 know the danger better." 
 
 " How shall it be prevented ! What can I do ! " cried Harriet. 
 
 " All night long," pursued the other, hurriedly, " I had dreams of him 
 — and yet I didn't sleep — in his blood. All day, I have had him near me." 
 
 " What can I do ! " said Harriet, shuddering at these words. 
 
 " If there is any one who'U write, or send, or go to him, let them lose 
 no time. He is at Dijon. Do you know the name, and Avhere it is ? " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Warn him that the man he has made his enemy is in a frenzy, and 
 that he doesn't know him if he makes light of his approach. Tell him 
 that lie 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 encounter, 
 through me. Anywhere but there ! Any time but now ! Let his foe 
 foUow him, and find him for himself, but not through me ! There is 
 enough upon my head without." 
 
 The fire ceased to be reflected in her jet black hair, uplifted face, and 
 eager eyes ; her hand was gone from Harriet's arm ; and the place where 
 she had been, was empty. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 THE FUGITIVES. 
 
 The time, an hour short of midnight ; the place, a French Apartment, 
 comprising some half-dozen rooms ; — a dull cold hall or corridor, a dining- 
 room, a drawing-room, a bed-chamber, and an inner drawing-room, or 
 boudoir, smaller and more retired than the rest. AU these shut in by one 
 large pair of doors on the main staircase, but each room provided Avith two 
 or three pairs of doors of its own, establishing several means of communi- 
 cation with the remaining portion of the apartment, or with certain small 
 passages within the wall, leading, as is not unusual in such houses, to 
 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 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 537. 
 
 of windows upon one side of the square court-yard in the centre, upon which 
 the whole four sides of the mansion looked. 
 
 An air of splendour, sufficiently faded to be melancholy, and suffi- 
 ciently dazzling to clog and embarrass the details of life with a show of 
 state, reigned in these rooms. The walls and ceilings were gilded and 
 painted ; the floors were waxed and polished ; crimson drapery hung in 
 festoons from window, door, and mirror ; and candelabra, gnarled and 
 intertwisted like the branches of trees, or horns of animals, stuck out 
 from the panels of the wall. But in the day-time, when the lattice- 
 blinds (now closely shut) were opened, and the light let in, traces were 
 discernible among this finery, of wear and tear and dust, of sun and damp 
 and smoke, and lengthened intervals of want of use and habitation, when 
 such shows and toys of life seem sensitive like life, and waste as men 
 shut up in prison do. Even night, and clusters of burning candles, 
 could not wholly efface them, though the general glitter threw them in 
 the shade. 
 
 The glitter of bright tapers, and their reflection in looking-glasses, scraps 
 of gilding, and gay colours, were confined, on this night, to one room — that 
 smaller room witliin the rest, just now enumerated. Seen from the hall, 
 where a lamp was feebly burning, through the dark perspective of open 
 doors, it looked as shining and precious as a gem. In the heart of its 
 radiance sat a beautiful woman — Edith. 
 
 She was alone. The same defiant, scornful woman still. The cheek a 
 little worn, the eye a little larger in appearance, and more lustrous, but the 
 haughty bearing just the same. No shame upon her brow ; no late repent- 
 ance bending her disdainful neck. Imperious and stately yet, and yet 
 regardless of herself and of all else, she sat with her dark eyes cast down, 
 waiting for some one. 
 
 No book, no work, no occupation of any kind but her own thoughts, 
 beguiled the tardy time. Some pui'pose, strong enough to fill up any 
 pause, possessed her. With her lips pressed together, and quivering if for 
 a moment she released them from her control ; with her nostril inflated ; 
 her bands clasped in one another; and her purpose swelling in her breast; 
 she sat, and waited. 
 
 At the sound of a key in the outer door, and a footstep in the hall, she 
 started up, and cried " Who 's that? " The answer was in French, and two 
 men came in with jingling trays, to make preparation for supper. 
 
 " Who had bade them do so ? " she asked. 
 
 " Monsieur had commanded it, Avhen it was his pleasure to take the 
 apartment. Monsieur had said, when he stayed there, for an hour, en 
 route, and left the letter for Madame — Madame had received it, surely ? " 
 
 '«-yes." 
 
 " A thousand pardons ! The sudden apprehension that it miglit have 
 been forgotten had struck him ;" a bald man, with 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 given, in 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." 
 
538 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Editli said no more, but looked on thoughtfully while they prepared the 
 table for two persons, and set the wine upon it. She arose before they had 
 finished, and taking a lamp, passed into the bed-ehamber and into the 
 drawing-room, where 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 key, and put it on the outer side. She then 
 came back. 
 
 The men — the second of whom was a dark, bilious subject, in a 
 jacket, close shaved, and with a black head of hair close cropped — had 
 completed their preparation of the table, and were standing looking at it. 
 He who had spoken before, inquired whether Madame thought it would 
 be long before Monsiem* arrived ? 
 
 " She couldn't say. It was aU 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 aU 
 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 Heaven, here was Monsieur, Behold him !" 
 
 In effect. Monsieur, admitted by the other of the two, came, with his 
 gleaming teeth, through the dark rooms, like a mouth ; and arriving in that 
 sanctuary of light and colour, a figure at full length, embraced Madame, 
 and 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 it, and 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 height, and her face immoveable, 
 
 " Frangois 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 smiles, and presently the 
 supper came. 
 
 The hot dishes were on a chafing-dish ; the cold already set forth, with 
 the change of service on a side-board. Monsieur was satisfied with this 
 arrangement. The supper table being small, it pleased him very well. 
 Let them set the chafing-dish upon the floor, and go. He would remove 
 the dishes with his own hands. 
 
 " Pardon !" said the bald man, politely. " 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 accordingly, persevering in his first proposed impossibility, 
 proceeded to follow the two attendants to the outer door, and secure it 
 after them for the night. The bald man turning round to bow, as he went 
 out, observed that Madame still stood with her hand upon the velvet back 
 
,--m\ 
 
 g^ 
 
 . y//7/ 
 
 ^^■'<^: 
 
 i€/y 
 
 'W^^-:4.'. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 539 
 
 of the great chair, and that her face was quite regardless of him, though she 
 was looking straight before her. 
 
 As the sound of Carker's fastening the door, resounded through the 
 intermediate rooms, and seemed to come hushed and stiiled into that last 
 distant one, the sound of the Cathedral clock striking twelve mingled with 
 it, in Edith's ears. She heard him pause, as if he heard it too and 
 listened ; and then come back towards her, laying a long train of footsteps 
 through the silence, and shutting all the doors behind him as he came 
 along. Her hand, for a moment, left 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 yourself, my love," he said as he 
 entered. 
 
 " What 1 " she returned. 
 
 Her tone was so harsh; the quick turn of her head so fierce ; her atti- 
 tude so repellant ; and her frown so black ; that he stood, with the lamp in 
 his hand, looking at her, as if she had struck him motionless. 
 
 " I say," he at length repeated, putting down the lamp and smiling his 
 most courtly smUe, "how strange to come here alone 1 It was unneces- 
 sary caution surely, and might have defeated itself. You were to have 
 engaged an attendant at Havre or Eouen, and have had abundance of 
 time for the purpose, though you had been the most capricious and dif- 
 ficult (as you are the most beautiful, my love) of women." 
 
 Her eyes gleamed strangely on him, but she stood with her hand resting 
 on the chair, and said not a word. 
 
 " I have never," resumed Carker, " seen you look so handsome, as you 
 do to-night. Even the picture I have carried in my mind during this 
 cruel probation, and which I have contemplated night and day, is exceeded 
 by the reality." 
 
 Not a word. Not a look. Her eyes completely hidden by their 
 drooping lashes, but her head held up. 
 
 " Hard, unrelenting terms they were ! " said Carker, with a smile, " but 
 they are all fulfilled and past, and make the present more delicious and 
 more safe. Sicily shall be the place of our retreat. In the idlest and 
 easiest part of the world, my soul, we'll both seek compensation for old 
 slavery." 
 
 He was coming gaily towards her, when, in an instant, she caught the 
 knife up from the table, and started one pace back. 
 
 " Stand still ! " she said, " or I shall murder you ! " 
 
 The sudden change in her, the towering fury and intense abhorrence 
 sparkling in her eyes and lighting up her brow, made him stop as if a fire 
 had stopped him. 
 
 " Stand still ! " she said, " come no nearer me, upon your life ! " 
 
 They both stood looking at each other. Rage and astonishment were 
 in his face, but he controlled them, and said lightly, 
 
 " Come, come 1 Tush, we are alone, and out of everybody's sight and 
 hearing. Do you think to frighten me with these tricks of virtue ? " 
 
 " Do you think to frighten rae," she answered fiercely, " from any pur- 
 pose that I have, and any course I am resolved upon, by reminding me of 
 the solitude of this place, and there being no help near ? Me who am here 
 alone, designedly ? If I feared you, should I not have avoided you ? K I 
 
540 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 feared you, should I be here, m 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 returned, "until you go back to that chair — 
 except this, once again — Don't come near me ! Not a step nearer. I teU 
 you, if you do, as Heaven sees us, I shall murder you ! " 
 
 " Do you mistake me for your husband ? " he retorted, with a grin. 
 
 Disdaining to reply, she stretched her arm out, pointing to the chair. 
 He bit his lip, frowned, laughed, and sat down in it, with a baffled, irreso- 
 lute, impatient air, he was unable to conceal ; and biting his nail nervously, 
 and looking at her sideways, with bitter discomfiture, even while he feigned 
 to be amused by her caprice. 
 
 . She put the knife down upon the table, and touching her bosom with 
 her hand, said : 
 
 " I have something lying here, that is no love trinket ; and sooner than 
 endure your touch once more, I would use it on you — and you know it, 
 while I speak — with less reluctance than I would on any other creeping 
 thing that lives." 
 
 He affected to laugh jestingly, and entreated her to act her play out 
 quickly, for the supper was growing cold. But the secret look with which 
 he regarded her, was more sullen and lowering, and he struck his foot once 
 upon the floor with a muttered oath. 
 
 "How many times," said Edith, bending her darkest glance upon him, 
 " has your bold knavery assailed me with outrage and insult ? How many 
 times in your smooth manner, and mocking words and looks, have I been 
 twitted with my courtship and my marriage ? How many times have you 
 laid bare my wound of love for that sweet, injured girl, and lacerated it ? 
 How often have you fanned the fire on which, for two years, I have 
 writhed ; and tempted me to take a desperate revenge, when it has most 
 tortured me ? " 
 
 " I have no doubt. Ma'am," he replied, " that you have kept a good 
 account, and that it 's pretty accurate. Come, Edith. To your husband, poor 
 wretch, this was Avell enough — " 
 
 "Why, if," she said, surveying him with a haughty contempt and 
 disgust, that he shrunk under, let him brave it as he would, "if all my 
 other reasons for despising him could have been blown away like feathers, 
 his having you for his counsellor and favoui-ite, would have almost been 
 enough to hold their place." 
 
 " Is that a reason why you have run away with me ? " he asked her, 
 tauntingly. 
 
 " Yes, and why we are face to face for the last time. Wretch ! We 
 meet to-night, and part to-night. For not one moment after I have ceased 
 to speak, will I stay here ! " 
 
 He turned upon her with his ugliest look, and griped the table with his 
 hand ; but neither rose, nor otherwise answered or threatened her. 
 
 " I am a woman," she said, confronting him stedfastly, " who from her 
 very childhood, has been shamed and steeled. I have been offered and 
 rejected, put up and appraised, until my very soul has sickened. I have 
 not had an accomplishment or grace that might have been a resource to 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 541 
 
 me, but it has been paraded and vended to enhance my value, as if 
 the common crier had called it throiigh the streets. My poor, proud 
 friends, have looked on and approved ; and every tie between us has been 
 deadened in my breast. There is not one of them for whom I care, as I 
 could care for a pet-dog. I stand alone in the world, remembering well 
 what a hollow world it has been to me, and what a hollow part of it I 
 have been myself. You know this, and 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 indifference, to 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 
 sold, as infamously as any woman with a halter round her neck is sold in 
 any market-place. You know that." 
 
 " Yes," he said, showing all his teeth. " I know that." 
 
 " And calculated on it," she rejoined once more, " and so pursued me. 
 From my marriage day, I found myself exposed to such new shame — 
 to such solicitation and pursuit (expressed as clearly as if it had been 
 written in the coarsest words, and thrust into my hand at every turn) from 
 one mean villain, that I felt as if I had never known humiliation till that 
 time. This shame, my husband fixed upon me; hemmed me round with, 
 himself; steeped me in, with his own hands, and 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 me, or to be a new misfortune on its innocent object — 
 driven from each to each, and 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 closely, as she stood before him in the very triumph 
 of her indignant beauty. She was resolute, he 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 you, 
 to now, when my instinctive repugnance is enhanced by every minute's 
 knowledge of you I have since had, you have been a loathsome creature 
 to me which has not its like on earth ; how then ? " 
 
 He answered, with a faint laugh, " Aye ! How then, my queen? " 
 
 " On that night, when, emboldened by the scene you had assisted at, 
 you dared come to my room and speak to me," she said, " what 
 passed? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and laughed again. 
 
 " What passed ? " she said. 
 
 " Your memory is so distinct," he returned, " that I have no doubt 
 you can recal it." 
 
 " I can," she said. " Hear it, ! Proposing then, this flight — not this 
 flight, but the flight you thought it — you told me that in the having 
 given you that meeting, and leaving you to be discovered there, if you 
 
542 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 SO thought fit ; and in the having suffered you to be alone with me many 
 times before, — and having made the opportunities, you said, — and in the 
 having openly avowed to you that I had no feeling for my husband but 
 aversion, and no care for myself — I was lost ; I had given you the power 
 to traduce my name ; and I lived, in virtuous reputation, at the pleasure 
 of your breath." 
 
 " All stratagems in love — " he interrupted, smiling. " The old adage — " 
 
 " On that night," said Edith, " and then, the 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 night, and then, I turned from everything but passion and resent- 
 ment. I struck a bloAV that laid your lofty master in the dust, and set 
 you there, before me, looking at me now, and knowing what I mean." 
 
 He sprung up from his chair with a great oath. She put her hand into 
 her bosom, and not a finger trembled, not 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 night, and 
 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 her, while that taint was hot upon me, and in what a 
 flood the knowledge rushed upon me, when I saw her, that in releasing 
 her from the persecution I had caused her by my love, I brought a shame 
 and degradation on her name through mine, and in all time to come should 
 be the solitary figure representing in her mind her first avoidance of a 
 guilty creature — then. Husband, from whom I stand divorced henceforth, 
 I will forget these last two years, and undo what I have done, and undeceive 
 you ! " 
 
 Her flashing eyes, uplifted for a moment, lighted again on Carker, and 
 she held some letters out, in her left hand. 
 
 " See these ! " she said, contemptuously. " You have addressed these 
 to me in the false name you go by ; one here, some elsewhere on my road. 
 The seals are unbroken. Take them back ! " 
 
 She crunched them in her hand, and tossed them to his feet. And as 
 she looked upon him now, a smile was on her face. 
 
 "We meet and part to-night," she said. " You have fallen on Sicilian 
 days and sensual rest, too soon. You might have cajoled, and fawned, 
 and played your traitor's part, a little longer, and grown richer. You 
 purchase your voluptuous retirement dear ! " 
 
 "Edith!" he retorted, menacing her with his hand. "Sit down! 
 Have done with this ! What devil possesses you ? " 
 
 " Their name is Legion," she replied, uprearing her proud form as if 
 she would have crushed him ; " you and your master have raised them in 
 a fruitful house, and they shall tear you both. False to him, false to his 
 innocent child, false every way and everywhere, go forth and boast of me, 
 and gnash your teeth, for once, to know that you are lying ! " 
 
 He stood before her, muttering and menacing, and scowling round 
 as if for something that would help him to conquer her; but with 
 the same indomitable spirit she opposed him, without faltering. 
 
 " In every vaunt you make," she said, " I have my triumph. I single 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 543 
 
 out in you the meanest man I know, tlie parasite and tool of tte proud 
 tyrant, that his wound may go the deeper, and 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 
 despicable, if not as odious, as 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 moment, he would have 
 pinioned her ; but she was as firm as rock, and her searching eyes never 
 left him. 
 
 " We don't part so," he said. " Do you think I am drivelling, to let 
 you go in your mad temper ? " 
 
 " Do you think," she answered, " that I am to be stayed ? " 
 
 " I 'U try, my dear," he said, with a ferocious gesture of his head. 
 
 " God's mercy on you, if 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 
 faintly shone again. " We must make a treaty of this, or I may take 
 some unexpected course. Sit down, sit down ! " 
 
 " Too late ! " she cried, with 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 not, never can, and never shall. 
 I'll die, and make no sign. For this, I am here alone with you, at the 
 dead of night. For this, I have met you here, in a false name, as your 
 wife. For this, I have been seen here by those men, and left here. 
 Nothing can save you now." 
 
 He would have sold his soul to root her, in her beauty, to the floor, 
 and make her arms drop at her sides, and have her at his mercy. But 
 he could not look at her, and not be afraid of her. He saw a strength 
 within her that was resistless. He saw that she was desperate, and 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 bosom, and he thought that if it struck at him, and failed, it would 
 strike there, just as soon. 
 
 He did not venture, therefore, to advance towards her ; but the door by 
 which he had entered was behind him, and he stepped back to lock it. 
 
 "Lastly, take my warning ! look to yourself! " she said, and smiled 
 again. " You have been betrayed, as all betrayers are. It has been made 
 known that you are in this place, or were to be, or have been. If I live, I 
 saw my husband in a carriage in the street to-night ! " 
 
 " Strumpet, it 's false ! " cried Carker. 
 
 At the moment, the bell rang loudly in the hall. He turned white, as 
 she held her hand up like an enchantress, at whose invocation the sound 
 had come. 
 
 "Hark! do you hear it?" 
 
 He set his back against the door ; for he saw a change in her, and 
 fancied she was coming on, to pass him. But, in a moment, she was 
 gone through the opposite doors communicating with the bedchamber, and 
 they^shut upon her. 
 
544 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Once tumed, once clianged in lier inflexible unyielding look, lie felt that 
 he could cope with her. lie thought a sudden terror, occasioned by this 
 night-alarm, had subdued her ; not the less readily, for her overwrought 
 condition. Throwing open the doors, he followed, almost instantly. 
 
 But the room was dark ; and as she made no answer to his call, he was 
 fain to go back for the lamp, lie held it up, and looked round, everywhere, 
 expecting to see her crouching in some corner ; but the room was empty. 
 So, into the drawing-room and dining-room he went, in succession, with 
 the uncertain steps of a man in a strange place ; looking fearfully about, 
 and prying behind screens and couches ; but she was not there. No, nor 
 in the hall, which was so bare that he could see that, at a glance. 
 
 All this time, the ringing at the bell was constantly renewed, and 
 those without were beating at the door. He put his lamp down at a 
 distance, and going near it, listened. There were several voices talking 
 together ; at least two of them in English ; and though the door was 
 thick, and there was great confusion, he knew one of these too well to 
 doubt whose voice it was. 
 
 He took up his lamp again, and came back quickly through all the 
 rooms, stopping as he quitted each, and looking round for her, with the 
 light raised above his head. He was standing thus in the bedchamber, 
 when the door, leading to the little passage in the wall, caught his eye. 
 He went to it, and found it fastened on the other side; but she had 
 dropped a veil in going through, and shut it in the door. 
 
 AH 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 place, which had confused him, even in his return from 
 the hall ; the frustration of his schemes (for, strange to say, he would have 
 been much bolder, if they had succeeded) ; the unseasonable time ; the 
 recollection of having no one near to whom he could appeal for any 
 friendly office ; above all, the sudden sense, which made even his heart 
 beat hke lead, that the man whose confidence he had outraged, and 
 whom he had so treacherously deceived, was there to recognise and 
 challenge him Avith his mask plucked off his face ; struck a panic through 
 him. He tried the door in which the veil was shut, but couldn't force it. 
 He opened one of the windows, and looked down through the lattice of 
 the blind, into the courtyard; but it was a high leap, and the stones were 
 pitiless. 
 
 The ringing and knocking still continuing — his panic too — he Avent 
 back to the door in the bedchamber, and with some new eff"orts, each more 
 stubborn than the last, wrenched it open. Seeing the little staircase not 
 far oflF, and feeling the night-air coming up, he stole back for his hat and 
 coat, made the door as secure after him as he coidd, crept down lamp in 
 hand, extinguished it on seeing the street, and having put it in a corner, 
 went out where the stars were shining. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 545 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 EOB THE GEIKDEB, LOSES HIS PLACE. 
 
 The porter at the iron gate which shut the court-yard from the street, 
 had left the little wicket of his house open, and was gone away ; no doubt 
 to mingle in the distant noise at the door on the great staircase. Lifting 
 the latch softly, Carker crept out, and shutting the jangling gate after him 
 with as little noise as possible, hurried off. 
 
 In the fever of his mortification and unavailing rage, the panic that had 
 seized upon him mastered him completely. It rose to such a height that 
 he would have blindly encountered almost any risk, rather than meet the 
 man of whom, two hours ago, he had been utterly regardless. His fierce 
 arrival, Avhich he had never expected ; the sound of his voice ; their having 
 been so near a meeting, face to face ; he would have braved out this, after 
 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 himself, 
 seemed to have rent and shivered all his hardihood and self-reliance. 
 Spurned like any reptile; entrapped and mocked; turned upon, and 
 trodden down by the proud M^oman whose mind he had slowly poisoned, 
 as he thought, until she had sunk into the mere creature of his pleasure ; 
 undeceived in his deceit, and with his fox's hide stripped off, he sneaked 
 away, abashed, degraded, and afraid. 
 
 Some other terror came upon him quite removed from this of being 
 pursued, suddenly, like an electric shock, as he was creeping through the 
 streets. Some visionaiy terror, unintelligible and inexplicable, associated 
 with a trembling of the ground, — a rush and sweep of something through 
 the air, like Death upon the wing. He shrunk, as if to let the thing go 
 by. It was not gone, it never had been there, yet what a startling horror 
 it had left behind. 
 
 He raised his wicked face, so full of trouble, to the night sky where the 
 stars, so full of peace, were 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 wm strange and remote, 
 originating in his being left alone so suddenly amid the ruins of his plans — 
 his greater dread of seeking refuge now, in Italy or in Sicily, where men 
 might be hired to assassinate him, he thought, at 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 too, and 
 go to England. 
 
 " I am safer there, in any case. If I should not decide," he thought, 
 " to give this fool a meeting, I am less likely to be traced there, than 
 abroad here, now. And if I should (this cursed fit being over), at least I 
 shall not be alone, without a soul to speak to, or advise with, or stand by 
 me. I shall not be run in upon and worried like a rat." 
 
 He muttered Edith's name, and clenched his hand. As he crept along, 
 
 N N 
 
546 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 in the sliadow of the massive buildings, he set his teeth, and muttered 
 dreadful imprecations on her head, and looked from side to side, as if in 
 search of her. Thus, he 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 
 lantern, in company with whom he was presently in a dim coach-house, 
 bargaining for the hire of an old phaeton, to 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 came, he 
 stole away again, beyond the town, past the old ramparts, out on the open 
 road, which seemed to glide away along the dark plain, like a stream ! 
 
 Whither did it flow ? What was the end of it ? As he paused, with 
 some such suggestion within him, looking over the gloomy flat where the 
 slender trees marked out the way, again that flight of Death came rushing 
 up, again went on, impetuous and resistless, again was nothing but a 
 horror in his mind, dark 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 him, lighted here and 
 there, and starry worlds were hidden by the masonry of spire and roof 
 that hardly made out any shapes against the sky. Dark and lonely dis- 
 tance lay around him everywhere, and the clocks were faintly striking two. 
 
 He went forward for what appeared a long time, and a long way ; often 
 stopping to listen. At last the ringing of horses' bells greeted his anxious 
 ears. Now softer, and now louder, now inaudible, now ringing very 
 slowly over bad. ground, now brisk and merry, it came on ; until with a 
 loud shouting and lashing, a shadowy postilion muffled to the eyes, checked 
 his foiir struggling horses at his side. 
 
 " Who goes there 1 Monsieur ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Monsieur has walked a long way in the dark midnight." 
 
 " No matter. Every one to his taste. Were there any other horses 
 ordered at the Post-house ? " 
 
 " A thousand devils ! — and pardons ! other horses ? at this hour ? No." 
 
 " Listen, my friend. I am mu.ch hurried. Let us see how fast we can 
 travel ! The faster, the more money there will be to drink. Off we go 
 then ! Quick ! " 
 
 " Halloa ! whoop ! Halloa ! Hi ! " Away, at a gallop, over the black 
 landscape, scattering the dust and dirt like spray ! 
 
 The clatter and commotion echoed to the hurry and discordance of the 
 fugitive's ideas. Nothing clear without, and nothing clear within. Objects 
 flitting past, merging into one another, dimly descried, confusedly lost 
 sight of, gone ! Beyond the changing scraps of fence and cottage imme- 
 diately upon the road, a lowering waste. Beyond the shifting images that 
 rose up in his mind and vanished as they showed themselves, a black 
 expanse of dread and rage and baffled villany. Occasionally, a sigh of 
 mountain air came from the distant Jura, fading along the plain. Some- 
 times that rush which was so furious and horrible, again came sweeping 
 through his fancy, passed away, and left a chill upon his blood. 
 
 The lamps, gleaming on the medley of horses' heads, jumbled with the 
 shadowy driver, and the fluttering of his cloak, made a thousand indistinct 
 shapes, answering to his thoughts. Shadows of familiar people, stooping 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 547 
 
 at their desks and books, in their remembered attitudes ; strange appari- 
 tions of the man whom he was flying from, or of Edith ; repetitions in the 
 ringing bells and rolling wheels, of words that had been spoken ; con- 
 fusions of time and place, making last night a month ago, a month ago 
 last night — home now distant beyond hope, now instantly accessible; 
 commotion, discord, hurry, darkness and confusion in his mind, and 
 all around him. — Hallo ! Hi ! away at a gallop over the black land- 
 scape ; dust and dirt flying like spray, the smoking horses snorting and 
 plunging as if each of them were ridden by a demon, away in a frantic 
 triumph on the dark road — whither ! 
 
 Again the nameless shock comes speeding up, and as it passes, the 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 slacken- 
 ing ! On, on ! Away with him upon the dark road wildly ! 
 
 He could not think to any purpose. He could not separate one subject 
 of reflection from another, sufficiently to dwell upon it, by itself, for a 
 minute at a time. The crash of his project for the gaining of a volup- 
 tuous compensation for past restraint ; the overthrow of his treachery to 
 one who had been true and generous to him, but whose least proud 
 word and look he had treasured up, at interest, for 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 mis-shapen schemes of retaliation 
 upon her, floated in his brain ; but notliing was distinct. A hurry and 
 contradiction pervaded all his thoughts. Even while he was so busy 
 with this fevered, ineffectual thinking, his one constant idea was, that he 
 would postpone reflection until some indefinite time. 
 
 Then, the old days before the second marriage rose up in his remem- 
 brance. He thought how jealous he had been of the boy, how jealous he 
 had been of the girl, how artfully he had kept intruders at a distance, 
 and drawn a circle round his dupe that none but himself should cross ; 
 and then he thought, had he done all this to be flying now, like a scared 
 thief, from only the poor dupe ? 
 
 He could have laid hands upon himself for his cowardice, but it was the 
 very shadow of his defeat, and 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 Edith, and hated Mr, Dombey and hated 
 himself, but still he fled, and could do nothing else. 
 
 Again and again he listened for the sound of wheels behind. Again 
 and again his fancy heard it, coming on louder and louder. At last he 
 was so persuaded of this, that he cried out, " Stop !" preferring even the 
 loss of ground to such uncertainty. 
 
 The word soon brought carriage, horses, diiver, all in a heap together, 
 across the road. 
 
 " The devil !" cried the driver, looking over his shoulder, " what 's the 
 matter ! " 
 
 N N 2 
 
548 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 "Hark! What's that?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 « That noise." 
 
 " Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed 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 head, stand still ! " to another horse, who bit 
 another, who frightened the other two, who plunged and backed. " There 
 is nothing coming." 
 
 "Nothing?" 
 
 " No, nothing but the day yonder." 
 
 " Yon are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed. Go on ! " 
 
 The entangled equipage, half hidden in the reeking cloud from the horses^ 
 goes on slowly at ftrst, for the driver, checked unnecessarily in his 
 progress, sulkily takes out a pocket knife, and puts a new lash to his 
 whip. Then " Hallo, whoop ! Hallo, hi !" Away once more, savagely. 
 
 And now the stars faded, and the day glimmered, and standing in the 
 carriage, looking back, he could discern the track by which he had come, 
 and see that there was no traveller within view, on all the heavy expanse. 
 And soon it was broad day, and the sun began to shine on corn-fields and 
 vineyards ; and solitary labourers, risen from little temporary huts by 
 heaps of stones upon the road, were, here and there, at work repairing the 
 highway, or eating bread. By and by, there were peasants going to 
 their daily labour, or to market, or lounging at the doors of poor cottages, 
 gazing idly at him as he passed. And then there was a postyard, ankle- 
 deep in mud, with steaming dunghills and vast outhouses half ruined ; 
 and looking on this dainty prospect, an immense, old, shadeless, glaring, 
 stone chateau, with half its windows blinded, and green damp crawling 
 . lazily over it, from the balustraded terrace to the taper tips of the extin- 
 guishers upon the turrets. 
 
 Gathered up moodily in a corner of the carriage, and only intent on 
 going fast — except when he stood up, for a mile together, and looked back ; 
 which he would do whenever there was a piece of open country — he went 
 on, still postponing thought indefinitely, and stiU always tormented with 
 thinking to no purpose. 
 
 Shame, disappointment, and discomfiture gnawed at his heart ; a con- 
 stant apprehension of being overtaken, or met — for he was groundlessly 
 afraid even of travellers, who came towards him by the way he was going 
 — oppressed liim heavily. The same intolerable awe and dread that had 
 come upon him in the night, returned unweakened in the day. The m.ono- 
 tonous ringing of the bells and tramping of the horses ; the monotony of 
 his anxiety, and useless rage ; the monotonous wheel of fear, regret, and 
 passion, he kept turning round and round ; made the journey like a visiA, 
 in which nothing was quite real but his own torment. • * 
 
 It was a vision of long roads, that stretched away to an horizon, always 
 receding and never gained ; of ill-paved towns, up hill and down, where 
 faces came to dark doors and ill-glazed windows, and where rows of mud- 
 bespattered cows and oxen were tied up for sale in the long narrow streets, 
 butting and lowing, and receiving blows on their blunt heads from bludgeons 
 that might have beaten them in ; of bridges, crosses, churches, postyards, new 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 549 
 
 ?iorses being put in against their wills, and the horses of the last stage reek- 
 ing, panting, and laying their drooping heads together dolefully at stable 
 doors ; of little cemeteries with black crosses settled sideways in the graves, 
 and withered wreaths upon them dropping away ; again of long, long 
 roads, dragging themselves out, up hill and down, to the treacherous horizon. 
 
 Of morning, noon, and sunset ; night, and the rising of an early moon. 
 Of long roads temporarily left behind, and a rough pavement reached ; of 
 battering and clattering over it, and looking up, among house-roofs, at a 
 gi'eat church-tower ; of getting out and eating hastily, and drinking 
 draughts of wine that had no cheering influence ; of coming forth afoot, 
 among a host of beggars — blind men with quivering eyelids, led by old 
 women holding candles to their faces ; idiot girls ; the lame, the epileptic, 
 and the palsied — of passing through the clamour, and looking from his 
 seat at the upturned countenances and outstretched hands, with a hurried 
 dread of recognising some pursuer pressing forward — of gallopping away 
 again, upon the long, long road, gathered \ip, dull and stunned, in his 
 corner, or rising to see where the moon shone faintly on a patch of the 
 same endless road miles away, or looking back to see who followed. 
 
 Of never sleeping, but sometimes dozing with unclosed eyes, and spring- 
 ing up with a start, and a reply aloud to an imaginary voice. Of cursing 
 himself for being there, for having fled, for having let her go, for not having 
 confronted and defied him. Of having a deadly quarrel with the whole world, 
 but 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 
 liui'ried somewhere, whither he must go. Of old scenes starting up among 
 the novelties through which he travelled. Of musing and brooding over 
 what was past and distant, and seeming to take no notice of the actual 
 objects he encountered, but with a wearisome exhausting consciousness of 
 being bewildered by them, and having their images all crowded in his hot 
 brain after they were gone. 
 
 A vision of change upon change, and still the same monotony of bells 
 and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of town and country, post- 
 yards, horses, drivers, hiU and valley, light and darkness, road and 
 pavement, height and hollow, wet weather and dry, and still the same 
 monotony of bells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. A vision 
 of tending on at last, towards the distant capital, by busier roads, and 
 sweeping round, by old cathedrals, and dashing through small towns and 
 villages, less thinly scattered on the road than formerly, and sitting 
 ■shrouded in his corner, with his cloak up to his face, as people passing by 
 looked at him. 
 
 ^Of rolling on and on, always postponing thought, and always racked 
 ■mth thinking ; of being unable to reckon up the hours he had been upon 
 the road, or to comprehend the points of time and place in his journey. 
 Of being parched and giddy, and half mad. Of pressing on, in spite of 
 all, as if he coidd not stop, and coming into Paris, where the turbid river 
 held its swift course undisturbed, between two brawling streams of life 
 ■and motion. 
 
 A troubled vision, then, of bridges, quays, interminable streets ; of 
 
550 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 wine-shops, water-carriers, great crowds of people, soldiers, coaches, 
 military drums, arcades. Of the monotony of beUs 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 restoration, as 
 he travelled on towards the sea-coast, of the monotony of bells, and wheels, 
 and horses' feet, and no rest. 
 
 Of sunset once again, and nightfall. Of long roads again, and dead of 
 night, and feeble lights in windows by the road-side ; and still the old 
 monotony of bells, and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of dawn, 
 and daybreak, and the rising of the sun. Of toiling slowly Tip a hill, and 
 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 full, and seeing fishing-boats float in, and glad women and 
 children waiting for them. Of nets and seaman'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 water, and the 
 universal sparkling. 
 
 Of receding from the coast, and looking back upon it from the deck 
 when it was a haze upon the water, with here and there a little opening of 
 bright land where the Sun struck. Of the swell, and flash, and murmur 
 of the calm sea. Of another grey line on the ocean, on the vessel's track, 
 fast growing clearer and higher. Of clifl^s, and buildings, and a windmill, 
 and a church, becoming more and more visible upon it. Of steaming 
 on at last into smooth water, and mooring to a pier whence groups of 
 people looked down, greeting friends on board. Of disembarking, passing 
 among them quickly, shunning every one ; and of being at last again in 
 England. 
 
 He had thought, in his dream, of going down into a remote Country- 
 place he knew, and lying quiet there, while he secretly informed himself of 
 what transpired, and determined how to act. StiU in the same stunned 
 condition, he remembered a certain station on the railway, where he would 
 have to branch off to his place of destination, and where there was a quiet 
 Inn. Here, he indistinctly resolved to tarry and rest. 
 
 With this purpose he slunk into a railway carriage as quickly as he 
 could, and lying there wrapped in his cloak as if he were asleep, was soon 
 borne far away from the sea, and deep into the inland green. Arrived at his 
 destination he looked out, and surveyed it carefully. He was not mistaken 
 in his impression of the place. It was a retired spot, on the borders of a 
 little wood. Only one house, newly-built or altered for the purpose, 
 stood there, surrounded by its neat garden ; the small town that was 
 nearest, was some miles away. Here he alighted then; and going 
 straight into the tavern, unobserved by any one, secured two rooms 
 up-stairs communicating with each other, and sufliciently retired. 
 
 His object was, to rest, and recover the command of himself, and the 
 balance of his mind. Imbecile discomfiture and rage — so that, as he 
 walked about his room, he ground his teeth— had complete possession of 
 him. His thoughts, not to be stopped or directed, still wandered where 
 they would, and dragged him after them. He was stupified, and he was 
 wearied to death. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 551 
 
 But, as if ttere were a curse upon liim that lie should never rest again, 
 his drowsy senses would not lose their consciousness. He had no more 
 influence with them, in this regard, than if they had been another man's. 
 It was not that they forced him to take note of present sounds and 
 objects, but that they would not be diverted from the whole huiried vision 
 of his journey. It was constantly before him aU at once. She stood 
 there, with her dark disdainful eyes again upon him ; and he was riding on 
 nevertheless, through town and country, light and darkness, wet weather 
 and dry, over road and pavement, hill and valley, height and hollow, jaded and 
 scared by the monotony of bells, and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. 
 
 " What day is this ?" he asked of the waiter, who was making prepara- 
 tions for his dinner. 
 
 "Day, Sir?" 
 
 "Is it Wednesday?" 
 
 " Wednesday, Sir ! No, Sir. Thursday, Sir." 
 
 " I forgot. How goes the time ? My watch is unwound." 
 
 " Wants a few minutes of five o'clock, Sir. Been travelling a long time, 
 Sir, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "By rail, Sir?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very confusing, Sir. Not much in the habit of travelling by rail 
 myself, Sir, but gentlemen frequently say so." 
 
 " Do many gentlemen come here ? " 
 
 " Pretty well, Sir, in general. Nobody here at present. Uather slack 
 just now. Sir. Everything is slack. Sir." 
 
 He made no answer ; but had risen into a sitting posture on the sofa 
 where he had been lying, and 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 would, but it never, for an 
 instant, lost itseK in sleep. 
 
 He drank a quantity of wine after dinner, in vain. No such artificial 
 means would bring sleep to his eyes. His thoughts, more incoherent, 
 dragged him more unmercifully after them — as if a wretch, condemned to 
 such expiation, were drawn at the heels of wild horses. No oblivion, and 
 no rest. 
 
 How long he sat, drinking and brooding, and being dragged in imagi- 
 nation hither and thither, no one could have told less correctly than he. 
 But he knew that he had been sitting a long time by candle-light, when he 
 started up and listened, in a sudden terror. 
 
 For now, indeed, it was no fancy. The ground shook, the house 
 rattled, the fierce impetuous rush was in the air ! He felt it come up, 
 and go darting by ; and even when he had hurried to the window, and saw 
 what it was, he stood, shrinking from it, as if it were not safe to look. 
 
 A curse upon the fiery devil, thundering along so smoothly, tracked 
 through the distant valley by a glare of light and lurid smoke, and gone ! 
 He felt as if he had been plucked out of its path, and saved from being 
 torn asunder. It made him shrink and shudder even now, when its 
 faintest hum was hushed, and when the lines of iron road he could trace in 
 the moonlight, running to a point, were as empty and as silent as a desert. 
 
553 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Unable to rest, and irresistibly attracted — or he thought so — ^to this road, 
 he went out, and lounged on the brink of it, marking the way the train 
 had gone, by the yet smoking cinders that were lying in its track. After 
 a lounge of some half-hour in the direction by which it had disappeared, 
 he turned and walked the other way — still keeping to the brink of the 
 road — past the inn garden, and a long way down ; looking curiously at the 
 bridges, signals, lamps, and wondering when another Devil would come by. 
 
 A trembling of the ground, and quick vibration in his ears ; a distant 
 shriek ; a dull light advancing, quickly changed to two red eyes, and a 
 fierce fire, dropping glowing coals ; an irresistible bearing on of a great 
 roaring and dilating mass ; a high wind, and a rattle — another come and 
 gone, and he holding to a gate, as if to save himself ! 
 
 He waited for another, and for another. He walked back to his former 
 point, and back again to that, and still, through the wearisome vision of 
 his journey, looked for these approaching monsters. He loitered about the 
 station, waiting until one should stay to call there ; and when one did, 
 and was detached for water, he stood parallel with it, watching its heavy 
 wheels and brazen front, and thinking what a cruel power and might it 
 had. Ugh ! To see the great wheels slowly turning, and to think of being 
 run down and crushed ! 
 
 Disordered with wine and want of rest — that want which nothing-, 
 although he Avas so weary, would appease — these ideas and objects 
 assumed a diseased importance in his thoughts. When he went back to 
 his room, which Avas not until near midnight, they still haunted him, and 
 he sat listening for the coming of another. 
 
 So in his bed, whither he repaired with no hope of sleep. He still lay 
 listening ; and when he felt the trembling and vibration, got up and went 
 to the window, to watch (as he could from its position) the dull light chang- 
 ing to the two red eyes, and the fierce fire dropping glowing coals, and the 
 rush of the giant as it fled past, and the track of glare and smoke along 
 the valley. Then he would glance in the direction by which he intended 
 to depart at sunrise, as there was no rest for him there ; and would lie 
 down again, to be troubled by the vision of his journey, and the old 
 monotony of bells and wheels and horses' feet, until another came. This 
 lasted all night. So far from resuming the mastery of himself, he seemed, 
 if possible, to lose it more and more, as the night crept on. When the 
 dawn appeared, he was still tormented with thinking, still postponing 
 thought untU he should be in a better state ; the past, present, and future 
 all floated confusedly before him, and 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 here, did you say ? " 
 
 " About a quarter after four, Sir. Express comes through at four. Sir. — 
 Don't stop." 
 
 He passed his hand across his throbbing head, and looked at his watch. 
 Nearly half-past three. 
 
 " Nobody going with you. Sir, probably," observed the man. " Two 
 gentlemen here, Sir, but they 're waiting for the train to London." 
 
 " I thought you said there was nobody here," said Carker, turning upon 
 him with the ghost of his old smile, when he was angry or suspicious. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 553 
 
 " Not then, Sir. Two gentlemen came in the night by the short train 
 that stops here, Sir. Warm water. Sir? " 
 
 " No ; and take away the candle. There 's day enough for me." 
 
 Having thrown liimself upon the bed, half-dressed, he was at the 
 window as the man left the room. The cold light of morning had 
 succeeded to night, and there was, already, in the sky, the 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 clothes, paid Avhat he 
 owed, and went out. 
 
 The air struck chill and comfortless as it breathed upon him. There was 
 a heavy dew ; and, hot as he was, it made him shiver. After a glance at 
 the place where he had walked last night, and at the signal-lights burning 
 feebly in the morning, and bereft of their significance, he turned to where 
 the sun was rising, and beheld it, in its glory, as it broke upon the scene. 
 
 So awful, so transcendent in its beauty, so divinely solemn. As he cast 
 his faded eyes upon it, where it rose, tranquil and serene, unmoved by ail 
 the wrong and wickedness on which its beams had shone since the begin- 
 ning of the world, who shall say that some weak sense of virtue upon 
 Earth, and its reward in Heaven, did not manifest itself, even to him ? 
 If ever he remembered sister or brother with a touch of tenderness and 
 remorse, who shall say it was not then ? 
 
 He needed some such touch then. Death was on him. He was marked 
 off from the living world, and 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 fro, alone, looking along the lines of iron, 
 across the valley in one direction, and towards a dark bridge near at hand 
 in the other ; when, turning in his walk, where it was bounded by one end 
 of the wooden stage on which he paced up and down, he saw the man 
 from Avhom he had fled, emerging from the door by which he liimself had 
 entered there. And their eyes met. 
 
 In the quick unsteadiness of the surprise, he staggered, and slipped on 
 to the road below him. But recovering his feet immediately, he stepped 
 back a pace or two upon that road, to interpose some wider space between 
 them, and looked at his pursuer, breathing 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 
 n moment that the rush was come — uttered a shriek — looked round — 
 saw the red eyes, bleared and dim, in the dayUght, close upon him 
 — was beaten down, caught up, and whirled away upon a jagged miU, 
 that spun him round and round, and struck him limb from limb, and 
 licked his stream of life up with its fieiy heat, and cast his mutilated 
 fragments in the air. 
 
 When the traveller who had been recognised, recovered from a swoon, he 
 saw them bringing from a distance something covered, that lay heavy and still, 
 upon a board, between four men, and saw that others drove some dogs away 
 that sniffed upon the road, and soaked his blood up, with a train of ashes. 
 
554 I>OMB£Y AND SON. 
 
 CHAPTER LYI. 
 
 SEVERAL PEOPLE DELIGHTED, AND THE GAME CHICKEN DISGUSTED. 
 
 The Midshipman was all alive. Mr. Toots and Susan had arrived at 
 last. Susan had run up stairs 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 woiddn't bust as it is busting now oh 
 dear oh dear ! " 
 
 Pouring out these words, without the faintest indication of a stop, of 
 any sort. Miss Nipper, on her knees beside her Mistress, hugged 
 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 ! " 
 
 " Susan, dear good Susan ! " said Florence, 
 
 " Oh bless her ! I that was her little maid when she was a little child ! 
 and is she really, really truly going to be married ! " exclaimed Susan, in 
 a burst of pain and pleasure, pride and grief, and 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 dear, because he took on so. 
 He 's the devotedest and innocentest infant 1 And is my darling," pursued 
 Susan, with another close embrace and burst of tears, " really, really going 
 to be married ! " 
 
 The mixture of compassion, pleasure, tenderness, protection, and regret 
 with which the Nipper constantly recurred to this subject, and at every 
 such recurrence, raised her head to look in the young face and kiss it, and 
 then laid her head again upon her mistress's shoulder, caressing her and 
 sobbing, was as womanly and good a thing, in its way, as ever was seen 
 in the world. 
 
 " There, there ! " said the soothing voice of Florence presently. " Now 
 you 're quite yourself, dear Susan ! " 
 
 Miss Nipper, sitting down upon the floor, at her mistress's feet, laugh- 
 ing and sobbing, holding her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes with one 
 hand, and patting Diogenes with the other as he licked her face, con- 
 fessed to being more composed, and 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. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 555 
 
 " And so comic 1 " Susan sobbed. " The way he 's been going on 
 inside with me, with that disrespectable Chicken on the box ! " 
 
 " About what Susan ? " inquired Florence, timidly. 
 
 " Oh about Lieutenant Walters, and Captain Gills, and you my dear 
 Miss Floy, and the silent tomb," said Susan. 
 
 " The silent tomb ! " repeated Florence. 
 
 " He says," here Susan burst into a violent hysterical laugh, " that 
 he 'U go down into it now, immediately and quite comfortable, but bless 
 your heart my dear Miss Floy he won't, he 's a great deal too happy in 
 seeing other people happy for that, he may not be a Solomon," pursued 
 the Nipper, with 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 hysterical, laughed immoderately after making 
 this energetic dedaration, and 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 moments, produced that young gentleman, still very much dishevelled 
 in appearance, and stammering exceedingly. 
 
 " Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots. " To be again permitted to — to — 
 gaze — at least, not to gaze, but — I don't exactly know what I was going 
 to say, but it 's of no consequence." 
 
 "I have to thank you so often," returned Florence, giving him both her 
 hands, with all her innocent gratitude beaming in her face, " that I have 
 no words left, and don't know how to do it." 
 
 " Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots, in an awful voice, " if it was possible 
 that you could, consistently with your angelic nature. Curse me, you would 
 — if I may be allowed to say so — floor me infinitely less, than by these 
 undeserved expressions of kindness. Their effect upon me — is — but," said 
 Mr. Toots, abruptly, " this is a digression, and 's of no consequence at all." 
 
 As there seemed to be no means of replying to this, but by thanking 
 him again, Florence thanked him again. 
 
 " I could wish," said Mr. Toots, " to take this opportunity, Miss Dombey, 
 if I might, of entering into a word of explanation. I should have had the 
 pleasure of — of returning with Susan at an earlier period ; but, in the 
 first place, we didn't know the name of the relation to whose house she 
 had gone, and, in the second, as she had left that relation's and gone to 
 another at a distance, I think that scarcely anything short of the sagacity 
 of the Chicken, would have found her out in the time." 
 
 Florence was sure of it. 
 
 " This, however," said Mr. Toots, " is not the point. The company of 
 Susan has been, I assure you, Miss Dombey, a consolation and satisfaction 
 to me, in my state of mind, more easily conceived, than described. The 
 journey has been its own reward. That, however, still, is not the point. 
 Miss Dombey, I 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 expression, I should say with the thickness of his own head — than 
 myself. But, Miss Dombey, I do, notwithstanding, perceive the state of 
 
556 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 — of things — with. Lieutenant Walters. Whatever agony that state of 
 things may have cansed me (which is of no consequence at all), I 
 am bound to say, that 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 long, and appreciate it, as a very different, and very. unworthy 
 individual, that it is of no consequence to name, would have done ! 
 That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, Captain Gills is a 
 friend of mine ; and during the interval that is now elapsing, I believe it 
 would afford Captain Gills pleasure to see me occasionally coming back- 
 wards and forwards here. It would afford me pleasure so to come. But 
 I cannot forget that I once committed myself, fatally, at the corner of the 
 Square at Brighton; and if my presence will be, in the least degree, 
 unpleasant to you, I only ask you to name it to me now, and assure you 
 that I shall perfectly understand you. I shall not consider it at all unkind, 
 and shall only be too delighted and happy to be honoured Avith your 
 confidence." 
 
 "Mr. Toots," returned Tlorence, "if you, who are so old and true 
 a friend of mine, were to stay away from this house now, you would 
 make me very unhappy. It can never, never, give me any feeling but 
 pleasure to see you." 
 
 " Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, 
 " if I shed a tear, it is a tear of joy. It is of no consequence, and I am 
 very much obliged to you. I may be allowed to remark, after what you 
 have so kindly said, that it is not my intention to neglect my person any 
 longer." 
 
 riorence received this intimation with the prettiest expression of per- 
 plexity possible. 
 
 " I mean," said Mr. Toots, " that I shall consider it my duty as a 
 feUow-creature generally, until I am claimed by the silent tomb, to make 
 the best of myself, and to — to have my boots as brightly polished, as — as 
 circumstances wiU admit of. This is the last time, JVIiss Dombey, of my 
 intruding any observation of a private and personal nature. I thank you 
 very much indeed. If I am not, in a general way, as sensible as my friends 
 could wish me to be, or as I could wish myself, I really am, upon my 
 word and honour, particularly sensible of what is considerate and kind. 
 I feel," said Mr. Toots, in an impassioned tone, " as if I could express 
 my feelings, at the present moment, in a most remarkable manner, if — 
 if — I could only get a start." 
 
 Appearing not to get it, after waiting a minute or two to see if it would 
 come, Mr. Toots took a hasty leave, and went below to seek the Captain, 
 whom he found in the shop. 
 
 " Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, " what is now to take place between 
 us, takes place under the sacred seal of confidence. It is the sequel, 
 Captain Gills, of what has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey, 
 upstairs." 
 
 " Alow and aloft, eh, my lad?" murmured the Captain. 
 
 " Exactly so, Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, whose fervour of acqui- 
 escence was greatly heightened by his entire ignorance of the Captain's 
 meaning. " Miss Dombey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be shortly 
 united to Lieutenant Walters ? " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 557 
 
 " Why, aye, my lad. We 're all shipmets here, — -Wal'r and sweetheart 
 will be jined together in the house of bondage, as soon as the askings is 
 over," whispered Captain Cuttle, in his ear. 
 
 " The askings. Captain Gills ! " repeated Mr. Toots. 
 
 " In the church, down yonder," said the Captain, pointing his thumb 
 oyer his shoulder. 
 
 " Oh ! Yes ! " returned Mr. Toots. 
 
 " And then," said the Captain, in his hoarse whisper, and tapping 
 Mr. Toots on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling from him with 
 a look of infinite admiration, " Avhat foUers ? That there pretty creetur, 
 as delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes away upon the roaring 
 main with Wal'r on a woyage to China ! " 
 
 " Lord, Captain Gills I " said Mr. Toots. 
 
 " Aye ! " nodded the Captain. " The ship as took him up, when he was 
 wrecked in the hurricane that had drove her clean out of her course, was 
 a China trader, and Wal'r made the woyage, and got into favour, aboard 
 and ashore — being as smart and good a lad as ever stepped — and so, the 
 supercargo dying at Canton, he got made (having acted as clerk afore), 
 and now he 's supercargo aboard another ship, same owners. And so, 
 you see," repeated the Captain, thoughtfully, " the pretty creetur goes 
 away upon the roaring main with Wal'r, on 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 fended of her, treated of her 
 like the beasts as perish. When she, cast out of home, come here to me, 
 and dropped upon them planks, her wownded heart was broke. I know 
 it ! I, Ed'ard Cuttle, see it. There 's nowt but true, kind, steady love, 
 as can ever piece it up again. If so be I didn't know that, and didn't 
 know as Wal'r was her true love, brother, and she his, I 'd have these 
 here blue arms and legs chopped off, afore I 'd let her go. But I do 
 know it, and what then ? Why, then, I say. Heaven go with 'em both, and 
 so it will ! Amen ! " 
 
 " Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, " let me have the pleasure of shaking 
 hands. You 've a way of saying things, that gives me an agreeable 
 warmth, all up my back. I say Amen. You are aware. Captain GiUs, 
 that I, too, have adored Miss Dombey." 
 
 " Cheer up ! " said the Captain, laying his hand on Mr. Toots's 
 shoulder. " Stand by, boy ! " 
 
 " It is my intention. Captain Gills," returned the spirited Mr. Toots, 
 " to cheer up. Also to stand by, as much as possible. When the silent 
 tomb shall yawn. Captain Gills, I shall be ready for burial ; not before. 
 But not being certain, just at present, of my power over myself, what I 
 wish to say to you, and what I shall take it as a particular favour if you 
 will mention to Lieutenant Walters, is as follows." 
 
 " Is as foUers," echoed the Captain. " Steady! " 
 
 "Miss Dombey being so inexpressibly kind," continued Mr. Toots 
 with watery eyes, " as to say that my presence is the reverse of dis- 
 agreeable to her, and you and everybody here being no less forbearing 
 and tolerant towards one who — who certainly" said Mr. Toots, with 
 momentary dejection, " would appear to have been born by mistake, I 
 
558 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 shall come backwards and forwards of an evening, during the short time 
 we can all be together. But what I ask is this. If, at any mom; tit, I 
 find that I cannot endure the contemplation of Lieutenant Walters's bliss, 
 and should rush out, I hope, Captain Gills, that you and he will both 
 consider it as my misfortune and not my fault, or the want of inward 
 conflict. That you '11 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 walk, or probably to see what o'clock 
 it is by the Eoyal Exchange. Captain Gills, if you could enter into this 
 arrangement, and could answer for Lieutenant Walters, it would be a 
 relief to my feelings that I should think cheap at the sacrifice of a consi- 
 derable portion of my property." 
 
 " My lad," retm-ned the Captain, " say no more. There ain't a colour 
 you can run up, as won't be made out, and answered to, by 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 well, upon my 
 honour, however badly I may show it. You know," said Mr. Toots, " it 's 
 exactly as if Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a customer with a most 
 extraordinary pair of trousers, and co^lld not cut out what they had in 
 their minds." 
 
 With this apposite illustration, of which he seemed a little proud, 
 ]\Ir. Toots gave Captain Cuttle his blessing and departed. 
 
 The honest Captain, with his Heart's Delight in the house, and Susan 
 tending her, was a beaming and a happy man. As the days flew by, he 
 grew more beaming and more happy, every day. After some conferences 
 with Susan (for whose wisdom the Captain had a profound respect, and 
 whose valiant precipitation of herself on Mrs. Mac Stinger he could never 
 forget), he proposed to Florence that the daughter of the elderly lady who 
 usually sat under the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, should, for 
 pnidential reasons and considerations of privacy, be superseded in the 
 temporary discharge of the household duties, by some one who was not 
 unknown to them, and in whom they could safely confide. Susan, being 
 present, then named, in furtherance of a suggestion she had previously 
 off'ered to the Captain, Mrs. Eichards. Florence brightened at the name. 
 And Susan, setting oft" that very afternoon to the Toodle domicile, to 
 sound Mrs. Richards, returned in triumph the same evening, accompanied 
 by the identical rosy-cheeked, apple-faced Polly, whose demonstrations, 
 when brought into Florence's presence, were hardly less afiectionate than 
 those of Susan Nipper herself. 
 
 This piece of generalship accomplished ; from which the Captain derived 
 uncommon satisfaction, as he did, indeed, from everything else that was 
 done, whatever it happened to be ; Florence had next to prepare Susan 
 for their approaching separation. This was a much more difficult task, as 
 Miss Nipper was of a resolute disposition, and had fully made up her m.ind 
 that she had come back never to be parted from her old mistress any more. 
 
 "As to wages dear Miss Floy" she said, "you would'nt hint and 
 wrong me so as think of naming them, for I 've put money by and 
 wouldn't sell my love and duty at a time like fhis even if the Savings' 
 Banks and me were total strangers or the Banks were broke to pieces, but 
 you 've never been without me darling from the time your poor dear Ma 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 559 
 
 was took away, and tkougli I 'm notliing 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 me, for it mustn't and can't be ! " 
 
 " Dear Susan, I am going on a long, long voyage." 
 
 " Well Miss Floy, and what of that ? the more you'll want me. Lengths 
 of voyages ain't an object in my eyes, thank God!" said the impetuous 
 Susan Nipper. 
 
 " But Susan, I am going with Walter, and I would go with Walter any- 
 where — everywhere ! Walter is poor, and I am very poor, and I must 
 learn, now, both to help myself, and help liim." 
 
 "Dear Miss Floy!" cried Susan, bursting out afresh, and shaking her 
 head violently, " it 's nothing new to you to help yourself and others too 
 and be the patientest and truest of noble hearts, but let me talk to 
 Mr. Walter Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away across 
 the world alone I cannot, and I won't." 
 
 "Alone, Susan?" returned Florence. "Alone? and Walter taking me 
 with him ! " Ah, what a bright, amazed, enraptured smile was on her face ! 
 — He shoidd have seen it. " I am sure you will not speak to Walter if I 
 ask you not," she added tenderly ; " and pray don't, dear." 
 
 Susan sobbed " why not. Miss Floy ? " 
 
 " Because," said Florence, " I am going to be his wife, to give him up 
 my whole heart, and to live with him and die with him. He might think, 
 if you said to him what you have said to me, that I am afraid of what is 
 before me, or that you have some cause to be afraid for me. Why, Susan 
 dear, I love him !" 
 
 Miss Nipper was so much affected by the quiet fervour of these words, 
 and the simple, heartfelt, all-pervading earnestness expressed in them, and 
 making the speaker's face more beautiful and pure than ever, that she 
 could only chng to her again, crying Was her little mistress really, really 
 going to be married, and pitying, caressing, and protecting her, as she had 
 done before. 
 
 But the Nipper, though susceptible of womanly weaknesses, was almost 
 as capable of putting constraint upon herself as of attacking the redoubt- 
 able Mac Stinger. From that time, she never returned to the subject, but 
 was always cheerful, active, bustling, and hopeful. She did, indeed, 
 inform Mr. Toots privately, that she was only " keeping up," for the time, 
 and that when it was all over, and Miss Dombey was gone, she might be 
 expected to become a spectacle distressful ; and Mr. Toots did also express 
 that it was his case too, and that they would mingle their tears together ; 
 but she never otherwise indulged her private feelings ia 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 ready, and Susan Nipper worked away at her 
 side, all day, with the concentrated zeal of fifty sempstresses. The won- 
 derful contributions Captain Cuttle would have made to this branch of 
 the outfit, if he had been permitted — as pink parasols, tinted silk stock- 
 ings, blue shoes, and other articles no less necessary on shipboard — would 
 occupy some space in the recital. He was induced, however, by various 
 fraudulent representations, to limit his contributions to a workbox and 
 
560 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 dressing-case, of each, of which he purchased the very largest specimen that 
 could be got for money. For ten days or a fortnight afterwards, he gene- 
 rally sat, during the greater part of the day, gazing at these boxes ; divided, 
 between extreme admiration of them, and dejected misgivings that they 
 were not gorgeous enough, and frequently diving out into the street to 
 purchase some wild article that he deemed necessary to their completeness. 
 But his master stroke was, the bearing of them both off, suddenly, one 
 morning, and getting the two words Flokence Gat engraved upon a brass 
 heart inlaid over the lid of each. After this, he smoked four pipes suc- 
 cessively in the little parlour by himself, and was discovered chuckling, at 
 the expiration of as many hours. 
 
 Walter was busy and away all day, but came there every morning early 
 to see Florence, and always passed the evening with her. Florence never 
 left her high rooms but to steal down stairs to wait for him when it was 
 his time to come, or, sheltered by his proud, encircling arm, to bear him 
 company to the door again, and sometimes peep into the street. In the 
 twilight they were always together. Oh blessed time ! Oh wandering 
 heart at rest ! Oh deep, exhaustless, mighty, well of love, in which so 
 much was sunk ! 
 
 The cruel mark was on her bosom yet. It rose against her father with 
 the breath, she di'cw, it lay between her and her lover when he pressed her 
 to his heart. But she forgot it. In the beating of that heart for her, and 
 in the beating of her own for him, all harsher music was unheard, all 
 stern unloving hearts forgotten. Fragile and delicate she was, but with 
 a might of love within her that could, and did, create a world to fly to, 
 and to rest in, out of his one image. 
 
 How often did the great house, and the old days, come before her in 
 the twilight time, when she was sheltered by the arm, so proud, so fond, 
 and, creeping closer to him, shrunk within it at the recollection ! How 
 often, from remembering the night when she went down to that room and 
 met the never to be forgotten look, did she raise her eyes to those that 
 watched her with such loving earnestness, and weep with happiness in 
 such a refuge ! The more she clung to it, the more the dear dead child 
 Avas in her thoughts : but as if the last time she had seen her father, had 
 been when he was sleeping and she kissed his face, she always left him so, 
 and never, in her fancy, passed that horn*. 
 
 " Walter, dear," said Florence one evening, when it was almost dark. 
 "Do you know what I have been thinking to-day? " 
 
 " Thinking how the time is flying on, and how soon we shall be upon 
 the sea, sweet Florence ? " 
 
 " I don't mean that, Walter, though I think of that too. I have been: 
 tMnking what a charge I am to you." 
 
 " A precious, sacred, charge, dear heart ! Why, / think that 
 sometimes." 
 
 " You are laughing, Walter. I know that 's much more in your 
 thoughts than mine. But I mean a cost." 
 
 " A cost, my own? " 
 
 " In money, dear. 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 you, Walter ! " 
 
DOMUEY AND SON. 561 
 
 " And liow much richer, Florence ! " 
 
 Florence laughed, and shook her head. 
 
 "Besides," said "Walter, "long ago — before I went to sea — I had a 
 little purse presented to me, dearest, which had money in it." 
 
 " Ah ! " returned Florence laughing sorrowfully, " very little ! Very 
 little, Walter ! But, you must not think," and here she laid her light 
 hand on his shoulder, and looked into his face, " that I regret to be this 
 burden on you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it, 
 I wouldn't have it otherwise, for all the world ! " 
 
 " Nor I, indeed, dear Florence." 
 
 " Aye ! But Walter, you. can never feel it as T 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 girl, who had taken 
 shelter here ; who had no other home, no other friends ; who had nothing 
 — nothing ! Oh Walter, if I could have brought you millions, I never 
 could have been so happy for your sake, as I am ! " 
 
 " And you dear Florence? are you nothing ? " he returned. 
 
 " No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife." The light hand stole 
 about his neck, and the voice came nearer — nearer. " I am nothing any 
 more, that is not you. I have no earthly hope any more, that is not you. 
 I have nothing dear to me any more, that is not you." 
 
 Oh ! well might Mr. Toots leave the little company that evening, and 
 twice go ovit to correct his watch by the Koyal Exchange, and once to 
 keep an appointment with a banker which he suddenly remembered, and 
 once to take a little turn to Aldgate Pump and back ! 
 
 But before he went upon these expeditions, or indeed before he came, 
 and before lights were brought, Walter said : 
 
 " Florence love, the lading of our ship is nearly finished, and probably 
 on the very day of our marriage she will drop down the river. Shall we 
 go away that moniiiig, and stay in Kent until we go on board at Gravesend 
 within a week ? " 
 
 " If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. But ." 
 
 " Yes, my 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 day, 'will you — will you take me somewhere that 
 morning Walter — early — before we go to church ? " 
 
 Walter seemed to understand her, as so true a lover so truly loved should, 
 and confirmed his ready promise with a kiss — with more than one perhaps, 
 or two or three, or five or six ; and in the grave, calm, peaceful evening, 
 Florence was very happy. 
 
 Then into the quiet room came Susan Nipper and the candles ; shortly 
 afterwards, the tea, the Captain, and the excursive Mr. Toots, who, as 
 above mentioned, was frequently on the move afterwards, and passed but 
 a restless evening. This, however, was not his habit : for he generally got 
 on very well, by dint of playing at cribbage with the Captain under the 
 advice and guidance of Miss Nipper, and 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 
 
 o o 
 
562 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 examples of combination and succession of expression ever observed. His 
 instinctive delicacy and Ms chivalrous feeling towards Florence, taught him 
 that it was not a time for any boisterous jollity, or violent display of satis- 
 faction. Certain floating reminiscences of Lovely Peg, on the other hand, 
 were constantly struggling for a vent, and urging the Captain to commit 
 himself by some irreparable demonstration. Anon, his admiration of Flo- 
 rence and Walter — well-matched truly, and full of grace and interest in 
 their youth, and love, and good looks, as they sat apart — would take such 
 complete possession of him, that he would lay down his cards, and beam 
 upon them, dabbing his head all over with his pocket-handkerchief; until 
 warned, perhaps, by the sudden rushing forth of Mr. Toots, that he had 
 unconsciously been very instrumental indeed, in making that gentleman 
 miserable. This reflection would make the Captain profoundly melan- 
 choly, until the return of Mr. Toots ; when he would fall to his cards 
 again, with many side winks and nods, and polite waves of his hook at Miss 
 Nipper, importing that he wasn't going to do so any more. The state that 
 ensued on this, was, perhaps, his best ; for then, endeavouring to discharge 
 all expression from his face, he would sit staring round the room, with all 
 these expressions conveyed into it at once, and each wrestling with 
 the other. Delighted admiration of Florence and Walter always over- 
 threw the rest, and remained victorious and undisguised, unless Mr. Toots 
 made another rush into the air, and then the Captain would sit, like 
 a remorseful culprit, until he came back again, occasionally calling upon 
 himself, in a low reproachful voice, to " Stand by ! " or growling some 
 remonstrance to " Ed'ard Cuttle my lad," on the want of caution 
 observable in his behaviour. 
 
 One of Mr. Toots's hardest trials, however, was 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 spoken, Mr. Toots thus stated his 
 feelings to Susan Nipper. 
 
 " Susan," said Mr. Toots, " I am draAvn towards the building. The 
 words which cut me off from Miss Dombey for ever, will strike upon my 
 ears like a knell you know, but upon my word and honour, I feel that I 
 must hear them. Therefore," said Mr. Toots, " will you accompany me 
 to-moiTow, to the sacred edifice?" 
 
 Miss Nipper expressed her readiness to do so, if that would be 
 any satisfaction to Mr. Toots, but besought him to abandon his idea of 
 going. 
 
 " Susan," returned Mr. Toots, with much solemnity, " before my 
 whiskers began to be observed by anybody but myself, I adored Miss 
 Dombey. While yet a victim to the thraldom of Blimber, I adored Miss 
 Dombey. When I could no longer be kept out of my property, in a legal 
 point of view, and — and accordingly came into it — I adored Miss Dombey. 
 The banns which consign her to Lieutenant Walters, and me to — to Gloom, 
 you know," said Mr. Toots, after hesitating for a strong expression, " may 
 be dreadful, will be dreadful ; but I feel that I should wish to hear them 
 spoken. I feel that I should wish to know that the ground was certainly 
 cut from under me, and that I had'nt a hope to cherish, or a — or a leg, 
 in short, to — to go upon." 
 
 Susan Nipper cculd only commiserate Mr. Toots's tmfortunate condition, 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 563 
 
 and agree, under these circumstances, to accompany him ; which she did 
 next morning. 
 
 The church Walter had chosen for the purpose, was a mouldy old church 
 in a yai'd, hemmed in by a labyrinth of back streets and courts, with a little 
 burying-ground round it, and itself buried in a kind of vault, formed by the 
 neighbouring houses, and paved with echoing stones. It was a great 
 dim, shabby pile, with 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 roUed 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 churches, that spires were clustered round it, as 
 the masts of shipping cluster on the rivei-. It would have been hard to 
 count them from its steeple-top, they were so many. In almost every 
 yard and blind-place near, there 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 together, 
 clamom'ing for people to come in. 
 
 The two stray sheep in question were penned by a beadle in a comiio- 
 dious pew, and, being early, sat for some time counting the congregation, 
 listening 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 same, 
 like the Bull in Cock Eobin, with his foot in a stirrup. Mr. Toots, after a 
 lengthened survey of the large books on the reading-desk, whispered 
 Miss Nipper that he wondered where the banns were kept, but that 
 young la<ly merely shook her head and frowned; repelling fotr the time all 
 approaches of a temporal nature. 
 
 Mr. Toots, however, appearing unable to keep his thoughts from the 
 banns, was evidently lookrog out for them duiing the whole preliminary 
 portion of the service. As the time for reading them approached, the poor 
 young gentleman manifested great anxiety and trepidation, which 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 clergyman, 
 Mr. Toots, being then seated, held 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 association, he was so entirely conquered 
 by his feelings as to rush from the church without his hat, followed by 
 the beadle and pew-opener, and two gentlemen of the medical profession, 
 who happened to be present ; of whom the first-named presently returned 
 for that article, informing Miss Nipper in a whisper that she was not 
 to make herself uneasy about the gentleman, as the gentleman said his 
 indisposition was of no consequence. 
 
 Miss Nipper, feeling that the eyes of that integral portion of Europe 
 which lost itself weekly among the high-backed pews, were upon her, would 
 have been sufficiently embarrassed by this incident, though it had ter- 
 minated here ; the more so, as the Captain in the front row of the gallery, 
 was in a state of unmitigated consciousness which could hardly fail to 
 express to the congregation that he had some mysterious connexion with it. 
 But the extreme restlessness of Mr. Toots painfully increased and protracted 
 the delicacy of her situation. That young gentleman, incapable, in his state 
 
 o o 2 
 
564 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 of mind, of remaining alone in the churchyard, a prey to solitary medita- 
 tion, and also desirous, no doubt, of testifying his respect for the offices he 
 had in some measure interrupted, suddenly returned — not coming back to 
 the pew, but 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 remained, greatly disturbing the congregation, who felt it impos- 
 sible to avoid looking at him, until his feelings overcame him again, when 
 he departed silently and suddenly. Not venturing to trust himself in the 
 church any more, and yet wishing to have some social participation in 
 what was going on there, ]\Ir. Toots was, after this, seen from time to 
 time, looking in, with a lorn aspect, at one or other of the windows ; and 
 as there were several windows accessible to him from without, and as his 
 restlessness was very great, it not only became difficult to conceive at 
 which window he would appear next, but likewise became necessary, as it 
 were, for the whole congregation to speculate upon the chances of the dif- 
 ferent windoAvs, during the comparative leisure afforded them by the 
 sermon. Mr. Toots's movements in the churchyard were so eccentric, 
 that he seemed generally to defeat all calculation, and to appear, like the 
 conjuror's figure, where he was least expected ; and the effect of these 
 mysterious presentations was much increased by its being difficult to him 
 to see in, and easy to everybody else to see out : which occasioned his 
 remaining, every time, longer than might have been expected, with his 
 face close to the glass, until he all at once became aware that all eyes were 
 upon him, and vanished. 
 
 These proceedings on the part of Mr. Toots, and the strong individual 
 consciousness of them that was exhibited by the Captain, rendered Miss 
 Nipper's position so responsible a one, that she was mightily relieved 
 by the conclusion of the service ; and was hardly so affable to Mr. Toots as 
 usual, when he informed her and the Captain, on the way back, that now 
 he was sure he had no hope, you know, he felt more comfortable — at 
 least not exactly more comfortable, but more comfortably and completely 
 miserable. 
 
 Swiftly now, indeed, the 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's, and had no fear of interruption ; for there were 
 no lodgers in the house now, and the Midshipman had it all to himself. 
 They were grave and quiet in the prospect of to-morrow, but moderately 
 cheerful too. Florence, with Walter close beside her, was 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 hand, of Susan Nipper. Miss Nipper was giving it, with all due 
 secrecy and circumspection. Diogenes was listening, and occasionally 
 breaking out into a gruff, half-smothered fragment of a bark, of which he 
 afterwards seemed half-ashamed, as if he doubted having any reason for it. 
 
 " Steady, steady !" said the Captain to Diogenes, " what's amiss with 
 you? You don 't seem easy in your mind to-night, my boy ! " 
 
 Diogenes wagged his tail, but pricked up his ears immediately afterwards, 
 and gave utterance to another fragment of a bark ; for which he apologised 
 to the Captain, by again wagging his tail. 
 
GW'/^. <iiyt-t^Z''ay^^ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 565 
 
 O 
 
 "It's my opinion, Di," said tlie Captain, looking thouglitfully at his 
 cards, and stroking his chin with his hook, " as you have your doubts 
 of Mrs. Eichards ; but if you 're the animal I take you to be, you '11 think 
 better o'that; for her looks is her commission. Now, Brother:" to Mr, 
 Toots : " if so be as you're ready, heave ahead." 
 
 The Captain spoke with all composure and attention to the game, but 
 suddenly his cards dropped out of his hand, his mouth and eyes opened 
 Avide, his 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 company, and seeing that none of them observed him or the cause of 
 his astonishment, the Captain recovered himself with a great gasp, struck 
 the table a tremendous blow, cried 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 moment, Walter was in the arms of the weather-beaten pea- 
 coat. In another moment, Florence was in the arms of the weather-beaten 
 pea-coat. In another moment, Captain Cuttle had embraced Mrs. Eichards 
 and Miss Nipper, and was violently shaking hands with Mr. Toots, 
 exclaiming, as he waived his hook above his head, " Hooroar, my lad, 
 hooroar ! " To which Mr. Toots, wholly at a loss to account for these 
 proceedings, replied with great poUteness, " Certainly, Captain Gills, 
 whatever you think proper ! " 
 
 The weather-beaten pea-coat, and a no less weather-beaten cap and 
 comforter belonging to it, turned from the Captain and from Florence 
 back to Walter, and sounds came from the weather-beaten pea-coat, cap, 
 and comforter, as of an old man sobbing underneath them ; while the 
 shaggy sleeves clasped Walter tight. During this pause, there was an 
 universal silence, and the Captain polished his nose with great diligence. 
 But when the pea-coat, cap, and comforter lifted themselves up again, 
 Florence gently moved towards them ; and she and Walter taking them 
 off, disclosed the old Instrument Maker, a little thinner and more care- 
 worn than of old, in his old Welsh wig and his old coffee-coloured coat and 
 basket buttons, with his old infallible chronometer ticking away in his pocket. 
 
 "Chock full o' science," said the radiant Captain, " as ever he was ! 
 Sol Gills, Sol Gills, what have you been up to, for this many a long day, 
 my ould boy?" 
 
 " I 'm half blind, Ned," said the old man, " and almost deaf and dumb 
 with joy." 
 
 " His wery woice," said the Captain, looking round with an exultation 
 to which even his face could hardly render justice — "his Avery woice as 
 chock full o' science as ever it was 1 Sol Gills, lay to, my lad, upon your 
 own wines and fig-trees, like a taut ould patriark as you are, and overhaul 
 them there adwentures o' yourn, in your own formilior woice. 'Tis tJie 
 woice," said the Captain, impressively, and announcing a quotation with 
 his hook, " of the sluggard, I heerd him com-plain, you have woke me too 
 soon, I must slumber again. Scatter his ene-mies, and make 'em fall !" 
 
 The Captain sat down Avith the air of a man who had happily expressed 
 the feeling of everybody present, and immediately rose again to present 
 Mr. Toots, who was much disconcerted by the arrival of anybody, 
 appearing to prefer a claim to the name of Gills. 
 
566 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Althoug-li," stammered Mr, Toots, " I had not the pleasure of your 
 acquaintance, Sir, before you were — you were — " 
 
 " Lost to sight, to memory dear," suggested the Captain, in a low voice. 
 
 " Exactly so, Captain Gills ! " assented Mr. Toots. " Although I had 
 not the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr.— Mr. Sols," said Toots, 
 hitting on that name in the inspiration of a bright idea, " before that 
 happened, I have the greatest pleasure, I assure you, in — you know, in 
 knowing you. I hope," said Mr. Toots, " that you 're as well as can be 
 expected." 
 
 With these courteous words. Mi-. Toots sat down blushing and chuckling. 
 
 The old Instrument Maker, seated in a corner between Walter and 
 Florence, and nodding at Polly, who was looking on, all smiles and 
 delight, answered the Captain thus : 
 
 " ISTed Cuttle, my dear boy, although I have heard something of the 
 changes of events here, from my pleasant friend there — what a pleasant 
 face she has to be sure, to welcome a wanderer home ! " said the old man, 
 breaking off, and 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 '11 overhaul your Adam 
 and Eve, brother." 
 
 " I shall make a point of doing so. Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots. 
 
 " Although I have heard something of the changes of events, from her," 
 resumed the Instrument Maker, taking his old spectacles from his pocket, 
 and putting them on his forehead in his old manner, " they are so great 
 and unexpected, and I am so overpowered by the sight of my dear boy, 
 and by the " — glancing at the downcast eyes of Florence, and not attempt- 
 ing to finish the sentence — " that I — I can't say much to-night. But my 
 dear Ned Cuttle, why didn't you write ? " ' 
 
 The astonishment depicted in the Captain's features positively frightened 
 Mr. Toots, whose eyes were quite fixed by it, so that he could not with- 
 draw them from his face. 
 
 " Write ! " echoed the Captain. " Write, Sol Gills ! " 
 
 " Aye," said the old man, " either to Barbados, or Jamaica, or 
 Demerara. That was what I asked." 
 
 " What you asked, Sol Gills ! " repeated the Captain. 
 
 " Aye," said the old man. " Don't you know, Ned ? Sure you have 
 not forgotten ? Every time I wrote to you." 
 
 The Captain took off his glazed hat, hung it on his hook, and smooth- 
 ing his hail- from behind with his hand, sat gazing at the groupe around 
 him : a perfect image of wondering resignation. 
 
 " You don't appear to understand me, Ned ! " observed old Sol. 
 
 " Sol Gills," returned the Captain, after staring at him and the rest for 
 a long time, without speaking, " I 'm gone about and adrift. Pay out a 
 word or two respecting them adwenturs, will you ! Can't I bring up, 
 nohows? nohows ? " said the Captain ruminating, and staring all round. 
 
 " You know, Ned," said Sol Gills, " why I left here. Did you open 
 my packet, Ned ? " 
 
 " Why, aye, aye," said the Captain. " To be sure, I opened the 
 packet." 
 
 " And read it ? " said the old man. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 567 
 
 " And read it," answered the Captain, eyeing him attentively, and 
 proceeding to quote it from memory. " ' My dear Ned Cuttle, when I left 
 home for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear — ' 
 There he sits ! There 's Wal'r 1 " said the Captain, as if he were relieved 
 by getting hold of anything that was real and indisputable. 
 
 " Well, Ned. 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 out, I should be glad if you 
 would open the packet, as it explained the reason of my going away. 
 Very good, Ned. When I wrote the second, third, and perhaps the 
 fourth times — that was from Jamaica — I said I was in just the same 
 state, couldn't rest, and could'nt come away from that part of the world, 
 without knowing that my boy was lost or saved. When I wrote next — 
 that, I think, was from Demerara, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " That he thinks was from Demerara, warn't it ! " said the Captain, 
 looking hopelessly round. 
 
 " — I said," proceeded old Sol, " that still there was no certain infor- 
 mation got yet. That I found many captains and others, in that part of 
 the world, who had known me for years, and who assisted me with 
 a passage here and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, to do a 
 little in return, in my own craft. That every one was sorry for me, and 
 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 boy, 
 until I died." 
 
 " Began to think as how he was a scientific flying Dutchman !" said the 
 Captain, as before, and with great seriousness. 
 
 " But when the news came one day, Ned, — that was to Barbados, after 
 I got back there, — that a China trader home'ard bound had been spoke, 
 that had my boy aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and 
 came home ; and arrived at home to-night to find it true, thank God !" 
 said the old man, devoutly. 
 
 The Captain, after bowing his head with great reverence, stared all 
 round the circle, beginning Avith ]\Ir. Toots, and ending with the Instru- 
 ment 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 carry, clean out of the bolt-ropes, 
 and bring you on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one of them letters 
 Avas ever delivered to Ed'ard Cuttle. Not one o' them letters," repeated 
 the Captain, to make his declaration the more solemn and impressive, 
 " was ever delivered unto Ed'ard Cuttle, Mariner, of England, as lives at 
 home at ease, and doth improve each shining hour !" 
 
 " And posted by my own hand ! And directed by my own hand, 
 Number 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 mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Number nine Brig 
 Place ? " inquired the Captain. 
 
 " Mean? Your lodgings, Ned," retunied the old man. " Mrs. what 's- 
 her-name ! I shall forget my own name next, but I am behind the present 
 time — I always was, you recollect — and very much confused. Mrs. — " 
 
568 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " Sol Gills ! " said the Captain, as if he were putting the most impro- 
 bable case in the world, " it ain't the name of Mac Stinger as you 're a 
 trying to remember? " 
 
 " Of course it is ! " exclaimed the Instrument Maker. " To be sure 
 Ned. Mrs. Mac Stinger ! " 
 
 Captain Cuttle, whose eyes were now as wide open as they could be, 
 and the knobs upon whose face were perfectly luminous, gave a long shrill 
 whistle of a most melancholy sound, and stood gazing at everybody in a 
 state of speechlessness. 
 
 " Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so kind ? " he said 
 at last. 
 
 " All these letters," returned Uncle Sol, beating time with the fore- 
 finger of his right hand upon the palm of his left, with a steadiness and dis- 
 tinctness that might have done honour, even to the infallible chronometer 
 in his pocket, " I posted with my own hand, and directed with my own 
 hand, to Captain Cuttle, at Mrs. Mac Stinger's, Number nine Brig Place." 
 
 The Captain took his glazed hat off his hook, looked into it, put it on, 
 and sat down. 
 
 " Why, friends all," said the Captain, staring round in the last state of 
 discomfiture, "I cut and run from there!" 
 
 "And no one knew where you were gone, Captain Cuttle?" cried 
 Walter, hastily. 
 
 "Bless your heart, Wal'r," said the Captain, shaking 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 Nipper, softly. 
 
 " Would you, do you think, my dear ? " returned the Captain, with 
 feeble admiration. " Well, my dear, it 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 letter, bless 
 you," said the Captain, " under them circumstarnces ! Why, you could 
 hardly make it Avorth a man's while to be the postman !" 
 
 " Then it 's pretty clear, Captain Cu.ttle, that all of us, and you and 
 Uncle Sol especially," said Walter, " may thank Mrs. Mac Stinger for no 
 small anxiety." 
 
 The general obligation in this wise to the determined relict of the late 
 Mr. Mac Stinger, was so apparent, that the Captain did not contest the 
 point; but being in some measure ashamed of his position, though nobody 
 dwelt upon the subject, and Walter especially avoided it, remembering the 
 last conversation he and the Captain had held together respecting it, he 
 remained under a cloud for nearly five minutes — an extraordinary period 
 for him — when that sun, his face, broke out once more, shining on all 
 beholders with extraordinary brilliancy ; and he fell into a fit of shaking 
 hands with everybody over and over again. 
 
 An an early hour, but not before Uncle Sol and Walter had questioned 
 each other at some length about their voyages and dangers, they all» 
 except Walter, vacated Florence's room, and went down to the parlour. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 569 
 
 Here they were soon afterwards joined by Walter, who told them Florence 
 was a little sorrowful and heavy-hearted, and had gone to bed. Though 
 they could not have disturbed her with their voices down there, they all 
 spoke in a whisper after this : and each, in his different way, felt very lovingly 
 and gently towards Walter's fair young bride ; and a long explanation 
 there Avas of everything relating to her, for the satisfaction of Uncle Sol ; 
 and very sensible Mr. Toots was of the delicacy with which Walter made his 
 name and services important, and his presence necessary to their little council. 
 
 "IVIi-. Toots," said Walter, on parting with him at the house door. 
 " We shall see each other to-moiTow morning ? " 
 
 " Lieutenant Walters," returned ]VIr. Toots, gi-asping his hand fervently, 
 " I shaU 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 
 feel, I think, when another heart is bound to it. I hope you know that I 
 am very grateful to you ? " 
 
 " Walters," replied Mr. Toots, quite touched, " I should be glad to feci 
 that you had reason to be so." 
 
 " Florence," said Walter, " on this last night of her bearing her own 
 name, has made me promise — it was only just now, when you left us toge- 
 ther — that I would tell you, with her dear love — " 
 
 Mr. Toots laid his hand upon the doorpost, and 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 always, can never be forgotten by her. That 
 she remembers you in her prayers to-night, and hopes that you will think 
 of her when she is far away. ShaU I say anything for you ? " 
 
 " Say, Walters," replied Mr. Toots indistinctly, " that I shall think of 
 her eveiyday, but never without feeling happy to know that she is married 
 to the man she loves, and who loves her. Say, if 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 words, and raising 
 his eyes from the doorpost said 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 Chicken, whom he had of late 
 brought with him every evening, and left in the shop, with an idea that 
 unforeseen circumstances might arise from without, in 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 treacherous, or he cocked his eye in a 
 hideous manner, and likewise distorted his nose, when Mr. Toots, crossing 
 the road, looked back over his shoulder at the room where Florence slept. 
 On the road home, he was more demonstrative of aggressive intentions 
 against the other foot passengers, than comported with a professor of the 
 peaceful art of self-defence. Arrived at home, instead of leaving Mr. 
 Toots in liis apartments when he had escorted him thither, he remained 
 before him weighing his white hat in both hands by the brim, and twitch- 
 ing his head and nose (both of which had been many times broken, and 
 but indifferently repaired), with an air of decided disrespect. 
 
570 DOilBEY AND SON. 
 
 His patron being mnch engaged with liis own tliouglits, did not observe 
 tins for some time, nor indeed until the Chicken, determined not to be 
 overlooked, had made divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth, to 
 attract attention. 
 
 " Now Master," said the Chicken, doggedly, when he, at length, caught 
 Mr. Toots's eye, " I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish 
 it, or whether you 're a going in to win ? " 
 
 " Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, " explain yourself." 
 
 " Why, then, here 's all about it, Master," 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 hat, made a dodge 
 and a feint with his left hand, hit a supposed enemy a violent blow with 
 his right, shook his head smartly, and recovered himself. 
 
 "Come, Master," said the Chicken. " Is it to be gammon or pluck? 
 Which ? " 
 
 " Chicken," retui'ned Mr. Toots, " your expressions are coarse, and 
 yom* meaning is obscure." 
 
 " Why, then, I tell you what. Master," said the Chicken. " This is 
 where it is. It's mean." 
 
 " What is mean, Chicken ?" asked Mr. Toots. 
 
 " It is," said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken 
 nose. " There ! Now, Master ! Wot ! Wen 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 time, are you going to give in ? To (jive in ? " said the Chicken, 
 with contemptuous emphasis. "Wy, its mean!" 
 
 " Chicken," said Mr. Toots, severely, " you 're a perfect Vulture ! 
 Your sentiments are atrocious." 
 
 " My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master," returned the Chicken. 
 " That 's wot my sentiments is. I can't abear a meaimess. I'm afore the 
 public, I 'm to be heerd on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no 
 Gov'ner o' mine mustn't go and do wot 's mean. Wy, it 's mean," said 
 the Chicken, with increased expression. " That 's where it is. It 's mean." 
 
 " Chicken!" said Mr. Toots, "you disgust me." 
 
 " Master," returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, " there 's a pair 
 on us, then. 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-morrow, and let me go." 
 
 " Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "after the odious sentiments you have 
 expressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms." 
 
 " Done, then ! " said the Chicken. " It 's a bargain. This here con- 
 duct o' yourn, won't suit my book, Master. Wy, it 's mean," said the 
 Chicken ; who seemed equally unable to get beyond that point, and 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 sleep, dreamed happily of 
 Florence, who had thought of him as her friend upon the last night of her 
 maiden life, and sent him her dear love. 
 
l>OMBEY AND SON. 571 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 ANOTHEK WEDDING. 
 
 Mr. Sownds the Beadle, and Mrs. Miff the pew-opener, are early at 
 their posts in the fine church where Mr. Dombey was married. A yellow- 
 faced old gentleman from India, is going to take unto himself a young 
 wife this morning, and six carriages full of company are expected, and 
 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 one, proceeding from a very reverend, 
 a dean, and the lady is to be given away, as an extraordinary present, 
 by somebody who comes express from the Horse Guards. 
 
 !Mrs. Miff is more intolerant of common people this morning, than she 
 generally is ; and she has always strong opinions on that subject, for 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 Wesleyans, or 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 done, Ma'am," he says. "We must 
 many 'em. We must have our national schools to walk at the head of, 
 and we must have our standing armies. We must marry 'em, Ma'am," 
 says Mr. Sownds, " and keep the country going."' 
 
 Mr. Sownds is sitting on the steps and Mrs. Miff is dusting in the 
 church, when a young couple, plainly dressed, come in. The mortified 
 bonnet of Mrs. Miff is sharply turned towards them, for 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. Miff, her 
 vinegary face relaxes, and her mortified bonnet and her spare dry figure 
 dip and crackle. 
 
 Mrs. Mitt" resumes her dusting and plumps up her cushions — for the 
 yellow-faced old gentleman is reported to have tender knees — but keeps 
 her glazed, pew-opening eye on the young couple who are walking round 
 the church. " Ahem," coughs Mrs. Mitt", whose cough is dryer than the 
 hay in any hassock in her charge, " you '11 come to us one of these 
 mornings, my dears, unless I 'm much mistaken ! " 
 
 They are looking at a tablet on the wall, erected to the memory of 
 some one dead. They are a long way off from Mrs. Miff", but Mrs. Miff 
 can see with half an eye how she is leaning on his arm, and how his 
 head is bent down over her. "Well, well," 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. 
 
572 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 She is siicli a spare, straight, dry old lady — such a pew of a woman — that 
 you should find as many individual sympathies in a chip. Mr. Sownds,. 
 now, who is fleshy, and has scarlet in his coat, is of a difl"erent tempera- 
 ment. He says, as they stand upon the steps watching the young couple 
 away, that she has a pretty figure, hasn't she, and as well as he could see 
 (for she held her head down coming out), an uncommon pretty face. 
 " Altogether, Mrs. Miff," says Mr. Sownds with a relish, " she is v;hat 
 you may call a rosebud." 
 
 . Mrs. Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified bonnet ; but approves 
 of this so little, that she inwardly resolves she wouldn't be the wife of 
 Mr. Sownds for any money he could give her, Beadle as he is. 
 
 And what are the young couple saying as they leave the church, and go 
 out at the gate ? 
 
 " Dear Walter, thank you ! I can go away now, happy." 
 
 " And when we come back, Florence, we will come and see his grave 
 again." 
 
 Florence lifts her eyes, so bright with tears, to his kind face ; and clasps 
 her disengaged hand on that other modest little hand which clasps his arm. 
 
 "It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost empty yet. Let us 
 walk." 
 
 " But you wUl be so tii-ed, my love." 
 
 " Oh no ! I was very tired the first time that we ever walked together, 
 but I shall not be so to-day." 
 
 And thus — not much changed — she, as innocent and earnest-hearted — 
 he, as frank, as hopeful, and more proud of her — Florence and Walter, on 
 their bridal morning, walk through the streets together. 
 
 Not even in that childish walk of long ago, were they so fiir removed 
 from all the world about them as to-day. The childish feet of long ago, 
 did not tread such enchanted ground as theirs do now. The confidence 
 and love of children may be given many times, and will spring up in many 
 places; but the woman's heart of Florence, with its undivided treasure, can 
 be yielded only once, and under slight or change, can only droop and die. 
 
 They take the streets that are the quietest, and do not go near that in 
 which her old home stands. It is a fair, warm summer morning, and the 
 sun shines on them, as they walk towards the darkening mist that over- 
 spreads the city. Eiches are uncovering in shops ; jewels, gold, and 
 silver, flash in the goldsmith's sunny windows ; and great houses cast a 
 stately shade upon them as they pass. But through the light, and 
 through the shade, they go on lovingly together, lost to everything 
 around ; thinking of no other riches, and no prouder home, than they have 
 now in one another. 
 
 Gradually they come into the darker, narrower streets, where the sun, 
 now yellow, and now red, is seen through the mist, only at street corners, and 
 in small open spaces where there is a tree, or one of the innumerable 
 churches, or a paved way and a flight of steps, or a cmious little patch of 
 garden, or a burying-ground, where the few tombs and tomb-stones 
 are almost black. Lovingly and trustfully, through all the narrow yards 
 and alleys and the shady streets, Florence goes, clinging to his arm, to be 
 his wife. 
 
 Her heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that their church is 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 573 
 
 very near. They pass a few great stacks of warehouses, with waggons at 
 the doors, and busy carmen stopping up the way — but Florence does not 
 see or hear them — and then the air is quiet, and the day is darkened, and 
 she is trembling in a church which has a strange smell like a cellar. 
 
 The shabby little old man, ringer of the disappointed beU, is standing in 
 the porch, and has put his hat in the font — for he is quite at home there, 
 being sexton. He ushers them into an old, brown, panelled, dusty vestry, 
 like a corner-cupboard with the shelves taken out; where the wormy 
 registers diffuse a smeU like faded snuff, which has set the tearful Nipper 
 sneezing. 
 
 Youthful, and how beautiful, the young bride looks, in this old dusty 
 place, with no kindred object near her but her husband. There is a dusty 
 old clerk, who keeps a sort of evaporated news shop underneath an archway 
 opposite, behind a perfect fortification of posts. There is a dusty old pew- 
 opener who only keeps herself, and finds that quite enough to do. There is a 
 dustyold 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 yard, with a stained glass window in it that no mortal ever saw. 
 There are dusty wooden ledges and cornices poked in and out over the 
 altar, and over the screen and round the gallery, and 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-desk, looking 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 dust, except in the church- 
 yard, where the facilities in that respect are very limited. 
 
 The Captain, Uncle Sol, and Mr. Toots, are come ; the clergyman is 
 putting on his surplice in the vestry, while the clerk walks round him, 
 blowing the dust off it ; and the bride and bridegroom stand before the 
 altar. There is no bridesmaid, unless Susan Nipper is one ; and no 
 better father than Captain Cuttle. A man with a wooden leg, chewing a 
 faint apple and carrying a blue bag in his hand, looks in to see what is 
 going on ; but finding it nothing entertaining, stumps off again, and pegs 
 his way among the echoes out of doors. 
 
 No gracious ray of light is seen to fall on Florence, kneeling at the 
 altar with her timid head bowed down. The morning luminary is built out, 
 and 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 garret, over against the window, who whistles loudly 
 whilst the service is performing ; and there is the man v/ith the wooden 
 leg stumping away. The amens of the dusty clerk appear, like Macbeth's, 
 to stick in his throat a little ; but Captain Cuttle helps him out, and 
 does it with so much good-will that he interpolates three entirely new 
 responses of that word, never introduced into the service before. 
 
 They are married, and have signed their names in one of the old sneezy 
 registers, and the clergyman's surplice is restored to the dust, and the 
 clergyman is gone home. In a dark corner of the dark church, Florence 
 has turned to Susan Nipper, and 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 forehead, and walked out to the door. 
 
574 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " God bless you, Susan ; clearest Susan ! If you ever can bear witness 
 to the love I have for Walter, and tlie 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 Midshipman, but to 
 part so ; a coach is waiting for them, near at hand. 
 
 Miss Nipper cannot speak ; she only sobs and chokes, and hugs her 
 mistress. Mr. Toots advances, urges her to cheer up, and takes charge of 
 her. riorence gives him her hand — gives him, in the fulness of her 
 heart, her lips — kisses Uncle Sol, and Captain Cuttle, and is borne away 
 by her young husband. 
 
 But Susan canuot bear that Tlorence should go away with a mournful 
 recollection of her. She had meant to be so different, that she reproaches 
 herself bitterly. Intent on making one last effort to redeem her cha- 
 racter, she breaks from Mr. Toots and runs away to find the coach, 
 and show a parting smde. The Captain, divining her object, sets oft' 
 after her ; for he feels it his duty also, to dismiss them with a cheer, if 
 possible. Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots are left behind together, outside the 
 chui'ch, to wait for them. 
 
 The coach is gone, but the street is steep, and narrow, and blocked up, 
 and Susan can see it at a stand-stiU in the distance, she is sui'c. Captain 
 Cuttle follows her as she flies down the hill, and waves his glazed hat as a 
 general signal, which may attract the right coach and may noL 
 
 Susan outstrips the Captain, and comes up with it. She looks in at 
 the window, sees Walter, with the gentle face beside him, and claps her 
 hands and screams : 
 
 " Miss Floy, my darling ! look at me ! We are aII so happy now, 
 dear ! One more good bye, my precious, one more ! " 
 
 How Susan does it, she don't know, but she reaches to the window, 
 kisses her, and has her arms about her neck, in a moment. 
 
 " Vv''e are all so — so happy now^ my dear Miss Floy ! " says Susan, with 
 a suspicious catching in her breath. " You, you won't be angry with me, 
 now. Now will you ? " 
 
 " Angry, Susaa ! " 
 
 " No, no ; I am sure you won't. I say you won't my pet, my dearest ! " 
 exclaims Susan ; " and here 's the Captain, too — yonr Mend the Captain, 
 you know — to say good bye once more ! " 
 
 " Hooroar, my Heai-t's Delight ! " vociferates the Captain, with a 
 countenance of strong emotion. " Hooroar, Wal'r my lad ! Hooroar ! 
 Hooroar ! " 
 
 What with the young husband at one window, and the young wife at 
 the other ; the Captain hanging on at this door, and Susan Nipper holdiiig 
 fast by that ; the coach obliged to go on whether it will or no, and 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 mistress, smiling through her 
 tears, until the last. Even when she is left behind, the Captain continues to 
 appear and disappear at the door crying " Hooroar my lad ! Hooroai- my 
 Heart's Delight ! " with his shirt collar in a violent state of agitation, 
 until it is hopeless to attempt to keep up with the coach any longer. 
 Pinally, when the coach is gone, Susan Nipper, being rejoined by the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 575 
 
 Captain, falls into a state of insensibility, and is taken into a baker's shop 
 to recover. 
 
 Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots wait patiently in the cburchyard, sitting on 
 tlie coping-stone of tbe railings, until Captain Cuttle and Susan come 
 back. Neither being at all desirous to speak, or to be spoken to, they are 
 excellent company, and quite satisfied. When they all arrive again at the 
 little Midshipman, and sit down to breakfast, nobody can touch a morsel. 
 Captain Cuttle makes a feint of being voracious about toast, but gives it 
 up as a swindle. Mr. Toots says, after breakfast, he wdl 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 house, and in the room, in which they 
 have been used to be together, and out of which so much is gone. It 
 aggTavates, and yet it soothes, the sorrow of the separation. Mr. Toots 
 tells Susan Nipper when he comes at night, that he hasn't been so wretched 
 all day long, and yet he likes it. He confides in Susan Nipper, being 
 alone with her, and tells her what his feelings were when she gave him 
 that candid opinion as to the probabiUty of Miss Dombey's ever loving 
 him. In the vein of confidence engendered by these common recollections, 
 and their tears, Mr. Toots proposes that they shall go out together, and 
 buy something for supper. Miss Nipper assenting, they buy a good 
 many little things ; and, with the aid of Mrs. Eichards, set the supper out 
 quite showily before the Captain and Old Sol came home. 
 
 The Captain and Old Sol have been on board the sliip, and have estab- 
 lished Di there, and have seen the chests put aboard. They have much 
 to teU about the popularity of Walter, and tixe comforts he will have about 
 him, and the qu.iet Avay in which it seems he has been working early and 
 late, to make his cabin what the Ca])tain calls " a pictei*," to sm-prise liis 
 little wife. "A admiral's cabin, mind you," says the Captain, "ain't 
 more trim." 
 
 But one of the Captain's chief delights is, that he knows the big watch, 
 and the sugar-tongs, and tea-spoons, are on board ; and again and 
 again he murmurs to himself, " Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped 
 a better course in your Ufe, than when you made that there little property 
 over jintly. Fou see how the land bore, Ed'ard," says the Captain, " and 
 it does you credit, my lad." 
 
 The old Instrument Maker is more distraught and misty than he used 
 to be, and takes the marriage and the parting very much to heart. But 
 he is greatly comforted by having liis old ally, Ned Cuttle, at 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 Captain, who has not yet taken his seat at the table, but who has 
 been fidgetting about for some time, and now stands hesitating in Ids 
 place, looks doubtfully at Mr. Gills, and says : 
 
 " Sol ! There 's the last bottle of the old Madeira down below. Would 
 you wish to have it up to-night, my boy, and drink to Wal'r and his wife ? " 
 
 The Instrument Maker, looking wistfully at the Captain, puts his hand 
 into the breast-pocket of his coffee- coloured coat, brings forth his pocket- 
 book, and^akes a letter out. 
 
576 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " To Mr. Dombey," says the old man. " From Walter. To be sent 
 in three weeks' time. I '11 read it." 
 
 " ' Sir. I am married to yom- daughter. She is gone with me upon a 
 distant voyage. To be devoted to her is to have no claim on her or you, 
 but God knows that I am. 
 
 " ' Why, loving her beyond all earthly things, I have yet, without 
 remorse, united her to the uncertainties and dangers of my life, I will not 
 say to you. You know why, and 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 some one ever near her, the great charge 
 of whose life is to cancel her remembrance of past sorrow, I solemnly 
 assure you, you may, in that hour, rest in that belief.' " 
 
 Solomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket-book, and puts back 
 his pocket-book in his coat. 
 
 " We won't drink the last bottle of the old Madeira yet, Ned," 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 supper, and drink to the young husband and wife in some- 
 thing else ; and the last bottle of the old Madeira still remains among its 
 dust and cobwebs, undisturbed. 
 
 A few days have elapsed, and a stately ship is out at sea, spreading its 
 white wings to the favouring wind. 
 
 Upon the deck, image to the roughest man on board of something 
 that is graceful, beautiful, and harmless — something that it is good and 
 pleasant to have there, and that should make the voyage prosperous — is 
 Florence. It is night, and she and Walter sit alone, watching the solemn 
 path of light upon the sea between them and the moon. 
 
 At length she cannot see it plainly, for the tears that fill her eyes ; and 
 then she lays her head down on his breast, and puts her arms around his 
 neck, saying, " Oh Walter, dearest love, I am so happy ! " 
 
 Her husband holds her to his heart, and they are very quiet, and the 
 stately ship goes on serenely. 
 
 " As I hear the sea," says Florence, " and sit watching it, it brings so 
 many days into my mind. It makes me think so much ." 
 
 " Of Paul, my love. I know it does." 
 
 Of Paul and Walter. And the voices in the waves are always whisper- 
 ing to Florence, in their ceaseless munnuring, of love — of love, eternal and 
 illimitable, not bounded by the con^jies of this world, or by the end of 
 time, but ranging still, beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible 
 country far away ! 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 577 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 AFTER A LAPSE. 
 
 The sea had ebbed and flowed, through a whole year. Through a 
 whole year, the winds and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless 
 work of Time had been performed, in storm and sunshine. Through a 
 whole year the tides of human chance and change had set in their allotted 
 courses. Through a whole year, the famous House of Dombey and Son 
 had fought a fight for life, against cross accidents, doubtful rumours, 
 unsuccessful ventures, unpropitious times, and most of all, against 
 the infatuation of its head, who would not contract its enterprises by 
 a hair's breadth, and would not listen to a word of warning that the 
 ship he strained so hard against the storm, was weak, and could not 
 bear it. 
 
 The year was out, and the great House was down. 
 
 One summer afternoon; a year, wanting some odd days, after the 
 marriage in the City church ; there was a buzz and whisper upon 'Change 
 of a great failure. A certain cold proud man, well known there, was not 
 there, nor was he represented there. Next day it was noised abroad that 
 Dombey and Son had stopped, and next night there was a List of Bank- 
 rupts published, headed by that name. 
 
 The world was very busy now, in sooth, and 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 it, trading far and wide on rotten banks 
 of religion, patriotism, virtue, honour. There was no amount worth 
 mentioning of mere paper in circulation, on which anybody lived pretty 
 handsomely, promising to pay great sums of goodness with no effects. 
 There were no short-comings anywhere, in anything but money. The 
 world was very angry indeed ; and the people especially, who, in a worse 
 world, might have been supposed to be bankrupt traders themselves in 
 shows and pretences, were observed to be mightily indignant. 
 
 Here was a new inducement to dissipation, presented to that sport of 
 circumstances, Mr. Perch the messenger ! It was apparently the fate of 
 Mr. Perch to be always waking up, and finding himself famous. He had 
 but yesterday, as one might say, subsided 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 ever, by the bankruptcy. Gliding from his 
 bracket in the outer office where he now sat, watching the strange faces of 
 accountants and others, who quickly superseded nearly aU the old clerks, 
 Mr. Perch had but to show himself in the court outside, or, at farthest, in 
 the bar of the King's Arms, to be asked a multitude of questions, almost 
 certain to include that interesting question, what w^ould he take to drink ? 
 Then would Mr. Perch descant upon the hours of acute uneasiness he and 
 Mrs. Perch had suffered out at Ball's Pond, when they first suspected 
 " things was going wrong." Then would Mr. Perch relate to gaping 
 
 p p 
 
578 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 listeners, in a low voice, as if the corpse of the deceased House were lying 
 unburied in the next room, how Mrs. Perch had first come to surmise 
 that things teas going wrong, by hearing him (Perch) moaning in his 
 sleep, " twelve and ninepence in the pound, twelve 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 ask. Sir, are you unhappy in your mind ? " and how Mr. Dombey 
 had replied, " My faithful Perch — but no, it cannot be ! " and with 
 that had struck his hand upon his forehead, and said, " Leave me, Perch ! " 
 Then, in short, would Mr. Perch, a victim to his position, tell all manner 
 of lies ; aifecting himself to tears by those that were of a moving nature, 
 and really believing that the inventions of yesterday, had, on repetition, a 
 sort of truth about them to-day. 
 
 Mr. Perch always closed these conferences by meekly remarking, That, 
 of course, whatever his suspicions might have been (as if he had ever had 
 any!), it wasn't for Mm to betray his trust — was it ? Which sentiment (there 
 never being any creditors present), was received as doing great honour to 
 his feelings. Thus, he generally brought away a soothed conscience and 
 left an agreeable impression behind him, when he returned to his bracket : 
 again to sit watching the strange faces of the accountants and others, 
 making so free with the great mysteries, the Books ; or now and then to 
 go on tiptoe into Mr. Dombey's empty room, and stir the fire ; or to 
 take an airing at the door, and have a little more doleful chat with any 
 straggler whom he knew ; or to propitiate, with various small attentions, 
 the head accountant : from whom Mr. Perch had expectations of a messen- 
 gership in a Fire-Office, when the affairs of the House should be wound up. 
 
 To Major Bagstock, the 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 phy- 
 sical 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 general, and so put them down by continual assertion of his riches ; 
 that the club, being but human, was delighted to retort upon the Major, 
 by asking him, with a show of great concern, whether this tremendous 
 smash had been at all expected, and how his friend Dombey bore it. 
 To such questions, the Major, waxing very purple, would reply that 
 it was a bad world. Sir, altogether; that Joey knew a thing or two, 
 but had been done. Sir, done like an infant ; that if you had foretold this, 
 Sir, to J. Bagstock, when he went abroad with Dombey and was chasing 
 that vagabond up and down Prance, J. Bagstock would have pooh-pooh'd 
 you — ^would have pooh-pooh'd you, Sir, by the Lord ! That Joe had 
 been deceived. Sir, taken in, hoodwinked, blindfolded, but was broad 
 awake again and staring; insomuch, Sir, that if Joe's father were to 
 rise up from the grave to-morrow, he wouldn't trust the old blade with a 
 penny piece, but would tell him that his son Josh was too old a soldier to 
 be done again, Sir. That he was a suspicious, crabbed, cranky, used-up, 
 J. B. infidel, Sir; and that if it were consistent with the dignity of a rough 
 and tough old Major, of the old school, who had had the honour of being 
 personally known to, and commended by, their late Koyal Highnesses the 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 579 
 
 Dukes of Kent and York, to retire to a tub and live in it, by Gad ! Sir, 
 he 'd have a tub in Pall Mall to-morrow, to show his contempt for 
 mankind ! 
 
 Of all this, and many variations of the same tune, the Major would 
 deliver himself with so many apoplectic symptoms, such rollings of his head, 
 and such violent growls of ill usage and resentment, that the younger 
 members of the club surmised he had invested money in his friend 
 Dombey's House, and lost it ; though the older soldiers and deeper dogs, 
 who knew Joe better, would'nt hear of such a thing. The imfortunate 
 Native, expressing no opinion, suffered dreadfully; not merely in his 
 moral feelings, which were regularly fusilladed by the Major every hour in 
 the day, and riddled through and through, but in his sensitiveness to bodily 
 knocks and bumps, which was kept continually on the stretch. Por 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 second, that her 
 brother had not made an eifort. The third, that if she had been invited 
 to dinner on the day of that first party, it never would have happened ; 
 and that she had said so, at the time. 
 
 Nobody's opinion stayed the misfortune, lightened it, or 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 every- 
 thing he had, and asked for no favour from any one. That any resumption 
 of the business was out of the question, as he would listen to no friendly 
 negotiation having that compromise in view ; that he had relinquished 
 every post of trust or distinction he had held, as a man respected among 
 merchants ; that he was dying, according to some ; that he was going 
 melancholy mad, according to others ; that he was a broken man, 
 according to all. 
 
 The clerks dispersed after holding a little dinner of condolence among 
 themselves, which was enlivened by comic singing, and went off" admirably. 
 Some took places abroad, and some engaged in other Houses at home ; 
 some looked up relations in the country, for whom they suddenly 
 remembered they had a particular aff"ection, and some advertised for employ- 
 ment in the newspapers : Mr. Perch alone remained of all the late 
 establishment, sitting on his bracket looking at the accountants, or starting 
 off it, to propitiate the head accountant, who was to get him into the 
 Pire Office. The Counting House soon got to be dirty and neglected. The 
 principal slipper and dogs' collar seller, at the corner of the court, would 
 have doubted the propriety of throwing up his forefinger to the brim of 
 his hat, any more, if Mr, Dombey had appeared there now; and the 
 ticket porter, with his hands under his white apron, moralised good sound 
 morality about ambition, which (he observed) was not, in his opinion, 
 made to rhyme to perdition, for nothing, 
 
 Mr, Morfin the hazel-eyed bachelor, with the hair and whiskers 
 sprinkled with grey, was perhaps the only person within the atmosphere 
 of the House — its head, of course, excepted — who was heartily and 
 deeply aff'ected by the disaster that had befallen it. He had treated Mr. 
 Dombey with due respect and deference through many years, but he had 
 
 p p g 
 
580 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 never disguised his natural cliaracter, or meanly truckled to him, or 
 pampered his master passion for the advancement of his own purposes. 
 He had, therefore, no 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 expla- 
 nation ; sat in his old room sometimes very late at night, studying points 
 by his mastery of which he could spare Mr. Dombey the pain of being 
 personally refen-ed to ; and then would go home to Islington, and calm his 
 mind by producing the most dismal and forlorn sounds out of liis violon- 
 cello before going to bed. 
 
 He was solacing himself with this melodious grumbler one evening, and, 
 having been much dispirited by the proceedings of the day, was scraping 
 consolation out of its deepest notes, when his landlady (who was fortu- 
 nately deaf, and 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 performer, laying it on a 
 sofa with great tenderness and care, made a sign that the lady was to come 
 in. He followed directly, and met Harriet Carker on the stair. 
 
 "Alone ! " he said, "and John here, this morning ! Is there anything 
 the matter, my dear ? But no," he added, " your face tells quite another 
 story." 
 
 " I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you see there, then," she 
 answered. 
 
 " It is a very pleasant one," said he ; " and, if selfish, a novelty too, worth 
 seeing in you. But I don't believe that." 
 
 He had placed a chair for her by this time, and sat down opposite ; the 
 violoncello lying snugly on the sofa between them. 
 
 " You will not be surprised at my coming alone, or at John's not having 
 told you I was coming," said Harriet ; " and you will believe that, when 
 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 sofa, and said, " I have been, 
 all 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 Harriet, earnestly. 
 
 " 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 been, all along, 
 impossible to convince him ; impossible to reason with him ; sometimes, 
 impossible even to approach him. The worst has happened ; and the 
 House has fallen, never to be built up any more." 
 
 " And Mr. Dombey, is he personally ruined ? " 
 
 " Kuined." 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 581 
 
 " Will he have no private fortune left ? Nothing ? " 
 
 A certain eagerness in her voice, and something that was almost joyful 
 in her look, seemed to surprise him more and more ; to disappoint him 
 too, and jar discordantly against his own emotions. He drummed with 
 the fingers of one hand on the table, looking wistfully at her, and shaking 
 his head, said, after a pause : 
 
 " The extent of Mr. Dombey's resources is not accurately within my 
 knowledge ; but though they are doubtless very large, his obligations are 
 enormous. He is a gentleman of high honour and integrity. Any man 
 in his position could, and many a man in his position would, have saved 
 himself, by making terms which woidd have very slightly, almost insen- 
 sibly, increased the losses of those who had had dealings with him, and 
 left him a remnant to live upon. But he is resolved on payment to the 
 last farthing of his means. His own words are, that they wiU clear, or 
 nearly clear, the House, and that no one can lose much. Ah Miss Harriet, 
 it would do us no harm to remember oftener than we do, that vices are 
 sometimes only virtues carried to excess ! His pride shows well in this." 
 
 She heard him with little or no change in her expression, and with a 
 divided attention that showed her to be busy with something in her own 
 mind. When he was silent, she 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 house, he comes out for the occasion, and again 
 goes home, and shuts himself up, and wiU see no one. He has written me 
 a letter, acknowledging our past connexion in higher terms than it deserved, 
 and parting from me. I am delicate of obtruding myself upon him now, 
 never having had much intercourse with him in better times ; but I have 
 tried to do so. I have written, gone there, entreated. Quite in vain." 
 
 He watched her, as in the hope that she would testify some greater 
 concern than she had yet shown ; and spoke gravely and feelingly, as if to 
 impress her the more ; but there was no change in her. 
 
 " Well, well. Miss Harriet," he said, with 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 mine, too, and we 
 shall talk upon more equal terms. Come ! " 
 
 " No, it is the same theme," returned Harriet, with 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 ? IVIr. Dombey, whom he served so many years — you know 
 upon what terms — reduced, as you describe ; and we quite rich ! " 
 
 Good, true face, as that face of her's was, and pleasant as it had been to 
 him. Ml'. Morfin, the hazel-eyed bachelor, since the first time he had ever 
 looked upon it, it pleased him less at that moment, lighted with a ray of 
 exultation, than it had ever pleased him before. 
 
 " I need not remind you," said Harriet, casting down her eyes upon her 
 black dress, " through what means our circumstances changed. You have 
 not forgotten that our brother James, upon that dreadful day, left no will, 
 no relations but ourselves." 
 
 The face was pleasanter to him now, though it was pale and melancholy, 
 than it had been a moment since. He seemed to breathe more cheerily. 
 
582 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " You know," she said, " our history, the history of both my brothers, 
 in connexion with the unfortunate, unhappy gentleman, of whom you have 
 spoken so truly. You know how few our wants are — John's and mine — 
 and what little use we have for money, after the life we have led together 
 for so many years ; and now that he is earning an income that is ample for 
 us, through yom- kindness. You are not unprepared to hear what favour 
 I have come to ask of you ? " 
 
 " I hardly know. I was, a minute ago. Now, I think, I 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 more, than that this act of duty, in which I have come to 
 ask your indispensable assistance, is his own, and that he cannot rest until 
 it is performed ! " 
 
 She raised her eyes again ; and the light of exultation in her face began 
 to appear beautiful, in 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 may, perhaps, be led to believe that it is something 
 saved, unexpectedly, from the wreck of his fortunes ; or that it is a volun- 
 tary tribute to his honourable and upright character, from 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 wlU choose 
 the best. The favour I have come to ask is, that you wiU do it for us in 
 your own kind, generous, considerate manner. That you will never speak 
 of it to John, whose chief happiness in this act of restitution is to do it 
 secretly, unknown, and unapproved of; that only a very small part of the 
 inheritance may be reserved to us, until Mr. Dombey shall have possessed 
 the interest of the rest for the remainder of his life ; that you will keep 
 our secret, faithfully — bixt that I am sure you will ; and that, from this 
 time, it may seldom be whispered, even between you and me, but may 
 live in my thoughts only as a new reason for thankftdness to Heaven, and 
 joy and pride in my brother." 
 
 Such a look of exultation there may be on Angels' faces, when the one 
 repentant sinner enters Heaven, among ninety-nine just men. It was not 
 dimmed or tarnished by the joyful tears that filled her eyes, but was the 
 brighter for them. 
 
 " My dear Harriet," said Mr. Morfin, after a silence, " I was not pre- 
 pared for this. Do I understand you that you wish to make your own 
 part in the inheritance available for your good purpose, as well as 
 John's ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," she returned. " When we have shai-ed everything together 
 for so long a time, and have had no cai-e, hope, or 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 am, or would willingly 
 believe myself, if I could not give you that assurance from my heart and 
 soul. You may, implicitly. Upon my honour, I will keep your secret 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 583 
 
 And if it should be found that Mr. Dombey is so reduced as I fear he 
 will be, acting on a determination that there seem to be no means of 
 influencing, I will assist you to accomplish the design, on which you and 
 John are jointly resolved." 
 
 She gave him her hand, and thanked him with a cordial, happy face. 
 
 " Harriet," he said, detaining it in his. " To speak to you of the worth 
 of any sacrifice that you can make now — above all, of 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 it, would be, 
 I feel, not less so. I have no right to mar the great end of a great history, 
 by any obtrusion of my own weak self. I have every right to bend my 
 head before what you confide to me, satisfied 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 so, and 
 your chosen friend, than I woidd be anybody in the world, except 
 yourself." 
 
 She thanked him again, cordially, and 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 ?" 
 
 "Well, well," said he, "I'll come to-morrow. In the meantime, I'll 
 think of this, and how we can best proceed. And perhaps you'll think of 
 it, dear Harriet, and — 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 deaf, she would have heard him muttering as 
 he went back up stairs, when the coach had driven oif, that we were crea- 
 tures of habit, and it was a sorrowful habit to be an old bachelor. 
 
 The violoncello lying on the sofa between the two chairs, he took it up, 
 without putting away the vacant chair, and sat droning on it, and slowly 
 shaking his head at the vacant chair, for a long, long time. The expres- 
 sion he communicated to the instrument at first, though monstrously 
 pathetic and bland, was nothing to the expression he communicated to his 
 own face, and bestowed upon the empty chair : which was so sincere, that 
 he was obliged to have recourse to Captain Cuttle's remedy more than 
 once, and to rub his face with his sleeve. By degrees, however, the violon- 
 cello, in unison with his own frame of mind, glided melodiously into the 
 Harmonious Blacksmith, which he played over and over again, until his 
 ruddy and serene face gleamed like true metal on the anvd of a veritable 
 blacksmith. In fine, the violoncello and the empty chau" were the compa- 
 nions of his bachelorhood until nearly midnight ; and when he took his 
 supper, the violoncello set up on end in the sofa corner, big with the latent 
 harmony of a whole foundry full of harmonious blacksmiths, seemed to 
 ogle the empty chaii' out of its crooked eyes, with unutterable intelligence. 
 
 When Harriet left the house, the driver of her hired coach, taking a 
 course that was evidently no new one to him, went in and out by bye- 
 ways, through that part of the suburbs, until he arrived at some open 
 ground, where there were a few quiet little old houses standing among 
 gardens. At the garden-gate of one of these he stopped, and Harriet 
 alighted. 
 
 Her gentle ringing at the bell was responded to by a dolorous-looking 
 
584 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 woman, of liglit complexion, with raised eyebrows, and head drooping 
 on one side, who curtseyed at sight of her, and conducted her across the 
 garden to the house. 
 
 •' How is your patient, nurse, to-night ? " said Harriet. 
 
 " In a poor way, Miss, I am afraid. Oh how she do remind me, 
 sometimes, of my uncle's Betsey Jane ! " returned the woman of the light 
 complexion, in a sort of doleful rapture. 
 
 " In what respect ? " asked Harriet. 
 
 " Miss, in all respects," replied the other, " except that^ she 's grown 
 up, and Betsey Jane, when at death's door, was but a child." 
 
 " But you have told me she recovered," observed Harriet mildly ; " so 
 there is the more reason for hope, Mrs. Wickam." 
 
 " Ah, Miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits to bear 
 it ! " said Mrs. Wickam, shaking her head. " My own spirits is not 
 equal to it, but I don't owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so blest ! " 
 
 " You should try to be more cheerful," remarked Harriet. 
 
 " Thank you, Miss, I 'm sure," said Mrs. Wickam grimly. " If I was 
 so inclined, the loneliness of this situation — ^you '11 excuse my speaking so 
 free — would put it out of my power, in four and twenty hours ; but I an't 
 at all. I 'd rather not. The little spirits that I ever had, I was bereaved 
 of at Brighton some few years ago, and I think I feel myself the better 
 for it." 
 
 In truth, this was the very Mrs. Wickam who had superseded Mrs. 
 Richards as the nurse of little Paul, and who considered herself to have 
 gained the loss in question, under the roof of the amiable Pipchin. The 
 excellent and thoughtful old system, hallowed by long prescription, which 
 has usually picked out from the rest of mankind the most dreary and 
 uncomfortable people that could possibly be laid hold of, to act as instructors 
 of youth, finger-posts to the virtues, matrons, monitors, attendants on 
 sick beds, and the like, had established Mrs. Wickam in very good busi- 
 ness as a nurse, and had led to her serious qualities being particulaiiy 
 commended by an admiring and numerous connexion. 
 
 Mrs. Wickam, with her eyebrows elevated, and her head on one side, 
 lighted the way up-stairs to a clean, neat, chamber, opening on another 
 chamber dimly lighted, where there was a bed. In the first room, an old 
 woman sat mechanically staring out at the open window, on the darkness. 
 In the second, stretched upon the bed, lay the shadow of a figure that had 
 spurned the wind and rain, one wintry night ; hardly to be recognised 
 now, but by the long black hair that showed so very black against the 
 colourless face, and all the white things about it. 
 
 Oh, the strong eyes, and the weak frame ! The eyes that turned so 
 eagerly and brightly to the door Avhen Harriet came in ; the feeble head 
 that could not raise itself, and moved so slowly round upon its pillow ! 
 
 " Alice ! " said the visitor's mild voice, " am I late to-night ? " 
 
 " You always seem late, but are always early/' 
 
 Harriet had sat down by the bedside now, and put her hand upon the 
 thin hand lying there. 
 
 " You are better ? " 
 
 Mrs. Wickam, standing at the foot of the bed, like a disconsolate 
 spectre, most decidedly and forcibly shook her head to negative this position. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 585 
 
 " It matters very little ! " said Alice, with a faint smile. " Better or 
 worse to-day, is but a day's difference — perliaps not so much," 
 
 Mrs. Wickam, as a serious character, expressed her approval with a 
 groan ; and having made some cold dabs at the bottom of the bed-clothes, 
 as feeling for the patient's feet and expecting to find them stoney, went 
 clinking among the medicine bottles on the table, as who should say, 
 " while we are here, let us repeat the mixture as before." 
 
 " No," said Alice, whispering to her visitor, " evil coui'ses, and remorse, 
 travel, want, and weather, storm within and storm without, have worn 
 my life away. It will not last much longer." 
 
 She drew the hand up as she spoke, and laid her face against it. 
 
 " I lie here, sometimes, thinking I should like to live until I had had a 
 little time to show you how grateful I could be ! It is a weakness, and 
 soon passes. Better for you as it is. Better for me ! " 
 
 How different her hold upon the hand, to what it had been when she 
 took it by the fireside on the bleak winter evening ! Scorn, rage, 
 defiance, recklessness, look here ! This is the end. 
 
 Mrs. Wickam having clinked sufficiently among the bottles, now pro- 
 duced the mixture. Mrs. Wickam looked hard at her patient in the act of 
 drinking, screwed her mouth up tight, her eyebrows also, and shook her 
 head, expressing that tortures shouldn't make her say it was a hopeless case. 
 Mrs. Wickam then sprinkled a little cooling-stuff about the room, with 
 the air of a female grave-digger, who was strewing ashes on ashes, dust 
 on dust — for she was a serious character — and withdi-ew to partake of 
 certain funeral baked meats down stairs. 
 
 " How long is it," asked Alice, " since I went to you and told you what 
 I had done, and when you were advised it was too late for any one to 
 foUow ? " 
 
 " It is a year and more," said Harriet. 
 
 " A year and more," said Alice, thoughtfully intent upon her face. 
 " Months upon months since you brought me here ! " 
 
 Harriet answered " Yes." 
 
 " Brought me here, by force of gentleness and kindness. Me ! " said 
 Alice, shrinking with her face behind the hand, " and made me human 
 by woman's looks and words, and angel's deeds ! " 
 
 Harriet bending over her, composed and soothed her. Bye and bye, 
 Alice lying as before, with the hand against her face, asked to have her 
 mother called. 
 
 Han-iet called to her more than once ; but the old woman was so 
 absorbed looking out at the open window on the darkness, that she did 
 not hear. It was not until Harriet went to her and touched her, that she 
 rose up, and came. 
 
 " Mother," said Alice, taking the hand again, and fixing her lustrous 
 eyes lovingly upon her visitor, while she merely addressed a motion of her 
 finger to the old woman, " tell her what you know." 
 
 " To-night, my deary ? " 
 
 " Aye, mother," answered Alice, faintly and solemnly, "to-night ! " 
 
 The old woman, whose wits appeared disordered by alarm, remorse, or 
 grief, came creeping along the side of the bed, opposite to that on which 
 Harriet sat ; and kneeling down, so as to bring her withered face upon a 
 
586 DOMBEY ANJD SON. 
 
 level with the coverlet, and stretching out her hand, so as touch her 
 daughter's arm, began : 
 
 " My handsome gal — " 
 
 Heaven what a cry was that, with which she stopped there, gazing at 
 the poor form lying on the bed ! 
 
 " Changed, long ago, mother ! Withered, long ago," said Alice, without 
 looking at her. " Don't grieve for that now." 
 
 — "My daughter," faltered the old woman, "my gal who '11 soon get 
 better, and shame 'em all with her good looks." 
 
 Alice smiled mournfully at Harriet, and fondled her hand a little closer, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 '* Who '11 soon get better, I say," repeated the old woman, menacing the 
 vacant air with her shrivelled fist, " and who '11 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 bedside, who con- 
 tradicted her — " my daughter has been turned away from, and cast out, but 
 she could boast relationship to proud folks too, if she chose. Ah ! To 
 proud folks ! There 's relationship without your clergy and your wedding 
 rings — they may make it, but they can 't break it — and my daughter 's 
 well related. Show me Mrs. Dombey, and I '11 show you my Alice's first 
 cousin." 
 
 Harriet glanced from the old woman to the lustrous eyes intent upon 
 her face, and derived corroboration from them. 
 
 " What ! " cried the old woman, her 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 yo\mg as any. Ah ! as pretty too, as 
 many ! I Avas a fresh country wench in my time, darling," stretching 
 out her arm to Harriet, across the bed, " and looked it, too. Down in my 
 country, Mrs. Dombey's father and his brother were the gayest gentlemen 
 and the best-liked that come a visiting from London — they have long been 
 dead, though ! Lord, Lord, this long while ! The brother, who was my 
 Ally's father, longest of the two." 
 
 She raised her head a little, and peered at her daughter's face ; as if from 
 the remembrance of her own youth, she had flown to the remembrance of 
 her child's. Then, suddenly, she laid her face down on the bed, and 
 shut her head up in her hands and arms. 
 
 " They were as like," said the old woman, without looking up, " as you 
 could see two brothers, so near an age — there wasn 't much more than a 
 year between them, as I recollect — and if you could have seen my gal, as I 
 have seen her once, side by side with the other's daughter, you 'd have 
 seen, for aU the difference of dress and life, that they were like each other. 
 Oh ! is the likeness gone, and is it my gal — only my gal — that 's to 
 change so ! " 
 
 " We shall all change, mother, in our turn," said AHce. 
 
 "Turn!" cried the old woman, "but why not her's as soon as my 
 gal's ! The mother must have changed — she looked as old as me, and 
 full as wrinkled through her paint— but she was handsome. What have 
 / done, I, what have / done worse than her, that only my gol is to 
 lie there fading ! " 
 
 With another of those wild cries, she went running out into the room 
 
dombeY and son. 587 
 
 from which she had come ; but immediately, in her uncertain mood, 
 returned, and creeping up to Harriet, said : 
 
 *' That 's what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That 's aU. I found it 
 out when I began to ask who she was, and all about her, away in War- 
 wickshire there, one summer time. Such relations was no good to me, 
 then. They wouldn 't have owned me, and had nothing to give me. I 
 should have asked 'em, maybe, for a little money, afterwards, if it hadn't 
 been for my Alice ; she 'd a'most have killed me, if I had, I think. She was 
 as proud as t' other in her way," said the old woman, touching the face 
 of her daughter fearfully, and withdrawing her hand, " for all she 's so 
 quiet now ; but she '11 shame 'em with her good looks, yet. Ha, ha ! 
 She 'II shame 'em, will my handsome daughter ! " 
 
 Her laugh, as she retreated, was 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 seat, and stared out at the darkness. 
 
 The eyes of Alice had all this time been fixed on Harriet, whose hand 
 she had never released. She said now : 
 
 " I have felt, lying here, that I should bke you to know this. It might 
 explain, I have thought, something that used to help to harden me. I 
 had heard so much, in my wrong-doing, of my neglected duty, that I took 
 up with the belief that duty had not been done to me, and that as the 
 seed was sown, the harvest grew. I somehow made it out that when 
 ladies had bad homes and mothers, they went wrong in their way, too ; 
 but that their way was not so foul a one as mine, and they had need to 
 bless God for it. That is all past. It is like a dream, now, which I 
 cannot quite remember or understand. It has been more and more like a 
 dream, every day, since you began to sit here, and to read to me. I only 
 tell it you, as I can recollect it. Will you read to me a little more ? " 
 
 Harriet was withdrawing her hand to open the book, when Alice 
 detained it for a moment. 
 
 " You will not forget my mother ? I forgive her, if I have any cause. 
 I know that she forgives me, and is sorry in her heart. You will not 
 forget her ? " 
 
 " Never, Alice ! " 
 
 " A moment yet. Lay my head so, dear, that as you read, I may see 
 the words in your kind face," 
 
 Harriet complied and read — read the eternal book for all the weary, 
 and the heavy-laden ; for all the wretched, fallen, and neglected of this 
 earth — read the blessed history, in which the blind, lame, palsied beggar, 
 the criminal, the woman stained with shame, the shunned of all our 
 dainty clay, has each a portion, that no human pride, indifference, or 
 sophistry through all the ages that tliis world shall last, can take away, or 
 by the thousandth atom of a grain reduce— read the ministry of Him, who, 
 through the round of human life, and all its hopes and griefs, from birth 
 to death, from infancy to age, had sweet compassion for, and interest in, 
 its every scene and stage, its every suffering and sorrow. 
 
 " I shall come," said Harriet, when she shut the book, " very early in 
 the morning." 
 
 The lustrous eyes, yet fixed upon her face, closed for a moment, then 
 opened ; and Alice kissed, and blest her. 
 
588 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 The same eyes followed her to the door ; and in their light, and on the 
 tranquil face, there was a smile when it was closed. 
 
 They never turned away. She laid her hand upon her breast, mur- 
 mm-ing the sacred name that had been read to her ; and life passed from 
 her face, like light removed. 
 
 Nothing lay there, any longer, but the ruin of the mortal house on 
 which the rain had beaten, and the black hah- that had fluttered in the 
 wintry wind. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Changes have come again upon the great house in the long dull street, 
 once the scene of Florence's childhood and loneliness. It is a great house 
 still, proof against wind and weather, without breaches in the roof, or 
 shattered windows, or dilapidated walls ; but it is a ruin none the less, 
 and the rats fly from it. 
 
 Mr. Towluison and company are, at first, incredulous in respect of the 
 shapeless rumours that they hear. Cook says our people's credit ain't so 
 easy shook as that comes to, thank God ; and Mi-. Towlinson expects to 
 hear it reported next, that the Bank of England's a going to break, or the 
 jewels in the Tower to be sold up. But, next come the Gazette, and Mr. 
 Perch ; and Mr. Perch brings Mrs, Perch to talk it over in the kitchen, 
 and to spend a pleasant evening. 
 
 As soon as there is no doubt about it, Mr. Towlinson's main anxiety is 
 that the failure should be a good round one — not less than a hvmdred 
 thousand pound. Mr. Perch don't think himself that a hundred thousand 
 pound will nearly cover it. The women, led by IVIi-s. Perch and Cook, often 
 repeat " a hun-dred thou-sand pound !" with awful satisfaction — as if 
 handling the words were like handling the money ; and the housemaid, 
 who has her eye on Mr. Towhnson, wishes she had only a hundredth part 
 of the sum to bestow on the man of her choice. Mr. Towlinson, still 
 mindful of his old wrong, opines that a foreigner would hardly know 
 what to do with so much money, unless he spent it on his whiskers ; which 
 bitter sarcasm causes the housemaid to Avithdraw in tears. 
 
 But not to remain long absent ; for Cook, who has the reputation of 
 being extremely good-hearted, says, whatever they do, let 'em stand by 
 one another now, Towlinson, for there 's no telling how soon they may be 
 divided. They have been in that house (says Cook) through a funeral, a 
 wedding, and 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 afi'ected by this moving address, and openly remarks that Cook 
 is an angel. Mr. Towlinson replies to Cook, far be it from him to stand 
 in the way of that good feeling which he could wash to see ; and adjourn- 
 ing in quest of the housemaid, and presently returning with that young 
 lady on his arm, informs the kitchen that foreigners is only his fun, and 
 that him and Anne have now resolved to take one another for better for 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 589 
 
 worse, and to settle in Oxford Market in tlie general green grocery and 
 herb and leech line, where your kind favours is particular requested. 
 This announcement is received with acclamation ; and Mrs. Perch, 
 projecting her soul into futurity, says, " girls," in Cook's ear, in a solemn 
 whisper. 
 
 Misfortune in the family without feasting, in 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. Pipchin, agitated by the occasion, rings 
 her bell, and sends down word that she requests to have that little bit of 
 sweetbread that was left, warmed iip for her supper, and 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, Dombey, but 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 time, bless you I Take your oath of that." 
 And reference being made to Mr. Perch, he confirms her view of the case. 
 Somebody wonders what he '11 do, and whether he '11 go out in any situa- 
 tion, Mr. Towlinson thinks not, and hints at a refuge in one of them 
 gen-teel almshouses of the better kind. " Ah ! Where he'll have his little 
 garden, you 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. 
 Perch, in a pause of her drink. " Except the sisters," says Mr. Perch. 
 " How are the mighty fallen ! " remarks Cook. " Pride shall have a fall, 
 and it always was and will be so ! " observes the housemaid. 
 
 It is wonderful how good they feel, in making these reflections ; and 
 what a Christian unanimity they are sensible of, in bearing the common 
 shock with resignation. There is only one interruption to this excellent 
 state of mind, which is occasioned by a young kitchenmaid of inferior 
 rank — in black stockings — who, having sat with her mouth open for a long 
 time, unexpectedly discharges from it words to this effect, " Suppose the 
 wages shouldn't be paid! " The company sit for a moment speechless ; but 
 Cook, recovering first, turns upon the young woman, and requests to know 
 how she dares insult the family, whose bread she eats, by such a dishonest 
 supposition, and whether she thinks that anybody, with a scrap of honour 
 left, could deprive poor servants of their pittance? "Because if that is jouv 
 religious feelings, Mary 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- 
 maid, appearing not to know exactly, herself, and scouted by the general 
 voice, is covered with confusion, as with a garment. 
 
 After a few days, strange people begin to call at the house, and to 
 make appointments with one another in the dining-room, as if they lived 
 there. Especially, there is a gentleman, of a Mosaic Arabian cast of 
 countenance, with a very massive watch-guard, who whistles in the 
 drawing-room, and, while he is waiting for the other gentleman, who 
 always has pen and ink in his pocket, asks 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 been, when new bought. The 
 
590 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 callers and appointments in tlie dining-room become more numerous 
 every day, and every gentleman seems to have pen and ink in his pocket, 
 and to have some occasion to use it. At last it is said that there is going 
 to be a Sale ; and then more people arrive, with pen and ink in their 
 pockets, commanding a detachment of men with carpet caps, who imme- 
 diately begin to pull up the carpets, and knock the furniture about, and to 
 print off thousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall and staircase. 
 
 The council down stairs are in full conclave all this time, and, having 
 nothing to do, perform perfect feats of eating. At length they are one 
 day summoned in a body to Mrs. Pipchin's room, and thus addressed by 
 the fair Peruvian : 
 
 "Your master's in difficulties," says Mrs. Pipchin, tartly. "You 
 know that, I suppose ? " 
 
 Mr. Towlinson, as spokesman, admits a general knowledge of the fact. 
 
 "And you 're all on the look-out for yourselves, I warrant you," says 
 Mrs. Pipcliin, shaking her head at them. 
 
 A shrill voice from the rear exclaims "No more than yourself! " 
 
 " That 's your opinion, Mrs. Impudence, is it ? " says the ireful Pipchin, 
 looking with a fiery eye over the intermediate heads. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Pipchin, it is," replies Cook, advancing. " And what then, 
 pray?" 
 
 "Why, then 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 canvass bag ; and tells her 
 wages out to that day, and a month beyond it ; and clutches the money 
 tight, until a receipt for the same is duly signed, to the last up-stroke ; 
 when she grudgingly lets it go. This form of proceeding Mrs. Pipchin 
 repeats with every member of the household, until all are paid. 
 
 " Now those that choose, can go about their business," says Mrs. Pip- 
 chin, " and those that choose can stay here on board wages for a week or 
 so, and make themselves useful. Except," says the inflammable Pipchin, 
 " that slut of a cook, who '11 go immediately." 
 
 " That," says Cook, " she certainly will ! I wish you good-day, Mrs. 
 Pipchin, and sincerely wish I could compliment you on the sweetness of 
 your appearance ! " 
 
 " Get along with you," says Mrs. Pipchin, stamping her foot. 
 
 Cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly exasperating to 
 Mrs. Pipchin, and is shortly joined below stairs by the rest of the con- 
 federation. 
 
 Mr. Towlinson then says, that, in the first place, he 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 produced, and very heartily 
 partaken of, Mr. Towlinson's suggestion is, in eftect, that Cook is going, 
 and that if we are not true to ourselves, nobody will be true to us. That 
 they have lived in that house a long time, and exerted themselves very much 
 to be sociable together. (At this. Cook says, with emotion, " Hear, hear ! " 
 and Mrs. Perch, who is there again, and full to the throat, sheds tears.) And 
 that he thinks, at the present time, the feeling ought to be ' Go one, go all ! ' 
 The housemaid is much affected by this generous sentiment, and warmly 
 
DOMB£Y AND SON. 591 
 
 seconds it. Cook says she feels it 's right, and only hopes it 's not done as 
 a compliment to her, but from a sense of duty. Mr, Towlinson replies, 
 from a sense of duty ; and that now he is driven to express his opinions, 
 he will openly say, that 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 relates, in confirmation, that a strange man, in a carpet 
 cap, offered, this very morning, to kiss her on the stairs. Hereupon, Mr. 
 Towlinson is starting from his chair, to seek and ' smash ' the offender ; 
 when he is laid hold on by the ladies, who beseech him to calm himself, 
 and to reflect that it is easier and wiser to leave the scene of such inde- 
 cencies at once. Mrs. Perch, presenting the case in a new light, even 
 shows that delicacy towards Mr. Dombey, shut up in his own rooms, 
 imperatively demands precipitate retreat. " For what," says the good 
 woman, " must his feelings be, if 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 consideration, that Mrs. Perch improves it with 
 several pious axioms, original and selected. It becomes a clear case that 
 they must all go. Boxes are packed, cabs fetched, and at dusk that 
 evening there is not one member of the party left. 
 
 The house stands, large and weatherproof, in the long dull street ; but 
 it is a ruin, and 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 it, and sit 
 upon pieces of furniture never made to be sat upon, and eat bread and 
 cheese from the public-house on other pieces of furniture never made to be 
 eaten on, and seem to have a delight in appropriating precious articles 
 to strange uses. Chaotic combinations of furniture also take place. 
 Mattrasses 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-wires, made into 
 fasces, decorate the marble chimney-pieces. Finally, a rug, with a printed 
 bill upon it, is hung out from the balcony ; and a similar appendage graces 
 either side of the hall door. 
 
 Then, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs and chaise-carts in 
 the street ; and herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian, over-run the 
 house, sounding the plate-glass mirrors with their knuckles, striking discor- 
 dant octaves on the Grand Piano, drawing wet forefingers over the pictures, 
 breathing on the blades of the best dinner-knives, punching the squabs of 
 chairs and sofas with their dirty fists, touzling the feather-beds, opening 
 and shutting all the drawers, balancing the silver spoons and forks, looking 
 into the very threads of the drapery and linen, and disparaging everything. 
 There is not a secret place in the whole house. Plufiy and snuffy strangers 
 stare into the kitchen-range as curiously as into the attic clothes-press. 
 Stout men with napless hats on, look out of the bed-room windows, and 
 cut jokes with friends in the street. Quiet, calculating spirits, withdraw 
 into the dressing-rooms with catalogues, and make marginal notes thereon, 
 with stumps of pencils. Two brokers invade the very fire-escape, and 
 take a panoramic survey of the neighbourhood from the top of the house. 
 The swarm and buzz, and going up and down, endure for days. The 
 Capital Modeiii Household Fiu-niture, &c., is on view. 
 
592 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Then there is a palisade of tables made in the best drawing-room ; and 
 on the capital, french-polished, extending, telescopic range of Spanish 
 mahogany dining tables with turned legs, the pulpit of the Auctioneer is 
 erected ; and the herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian, the strangers 
 flufty and snuffy, and the stout men with the napless hats, congregate about 
 it and sit upon everything within reach, mantel-pieces included, and begin 
 to bid. Hot, humming, and dusty, are the rooms all day; and — high above 
 the heat, hum, and dust — the head and shoulders, voice and hammer, of 
 the Auctioneer, are ever at work. The men in the carpet caps get flustered 
 and vicious with tumbling the Lots about, and still the Lots are going, 
 going, gone ; still coming on. Sometimes there is joking and a general 
 roar. This lasts aU 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 waggons, and an army of porters with knots. All day 
 long, the men with carpet-caps are screwing at screw-drivers and bed- 
 winches, or staggering by the dozen together on the staircase under heavy 
 burdens, or upheaving perfect rocks of Spanish mahogany, best rosewood, 
 or plate-glass, into the gigs and chaise-carts, vans and waggons. AU sorts 
 of vehicles of burden are in attendance, from a tilted waggon to a wheel- 
 barrow. Poor Paul's little bedstead is carried off in a donkey-tandem. 
 For nearly a whole week, the 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 catalogues, littered scraps of straw and hay, and a battery of 
 peM^ter pots behind the hall-door. The men with the carpet-caps gather 
 up their screw-drivers and bed-winches into bags, shoulder them, and 
 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 mansion, and shutting the shutters. At length he follows 
 the men with the carpet-caps. None of the invaders remain. The house 
 is a ruin, and the rats fly from it. 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin's apartments, together with those locked rooms on the 
 ground-floor where the window-blinds are drawn down close, have been 
 spared the general devastation. Mrs. Pipchin has remained austere and 
 stoney during the proceedings, in her own room; or has occasionally looked 
 in at the sale to see what the goods are fetching, and to bid for one parti- 
 cular easy chair. Mrs. Pipchin has been the highest bidder for the easy 
 chair and sits upon her property when Mrs. Chick comes to see her. 
 
 " How is ray brother, Mrs. 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 takes, he 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 effort, Mrs. Pipchin, Avhat 
 is to becoiiie of him? I am sure I should have thought he had seen 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 593 
 
 enough of the consequences of not making an effort, by this time, to be 
 warned against that fatal error." 
 
 " Hoity toity ! " says Mrs. Pipchin, rubbing her nose. " There 's a great 
 fuss, I think, about it. It an't so wonderful a case. People have had 
 misfortunes before now, and been obliged to part with their furniture. 
 I 'm sure / have ! " 
 
 " My brother," pursues Mrs. Chick profoundly, " is so peculiar — so 
 strange a man. He is the most peculiar man / ever saw. Would any 
 one believe that when he received news of the marriage and emigration of 
 that unnatural child — it 's a comfort to me, now, to remember that I 
 always said there was something extraordinary about that child : but 
 nobody minds me — ^would anybody believe, I say, that he should then 
 turn round upon me and say he had supposed, from my manner, that she 
 had come to my house ? Wliy, my gracious ! And would anybody believe 
 that when I merely say to him ' Paul, 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 me, and request that I will come 
 to see him no more until he asks me ! Why, my 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. Chick, quite 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 go, I 
 suppose, having been a man of business all his life. Very good. Then 
 why not go there ? " 
 
 Mrs. Chick, after forging this powerful chain of reasoning, remains 
 silent for a minute to admire it. 
 
 " Besides," says the discreet lady, with 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 there, I suppose ? Mr. Chick has perfectly bored about it, and I 
 said vsdth my own lips,' Why surely, Paul, you don't imagine that because 
 your afi'airs 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. Why, good 
 gracious me, suppose the house was to be let ! what would he do then ? He 
 couldn't remain here, then. If he attempted to do so, there would be an 
 ejectment, an 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 it, as far as I am concerned," replies 
 Mrs. Pipchin, " and that 's enough for me. I 'm going to take wyself off 
 in a jiffy." 
 
 " In a which, Mrs. Pipchin," says Mrs. Chick. 
 
 " In a jiffy," retorts Mrs. Pipchin sharply. 
 
 " Ah, well ! really I can't blame you, Mrs. Pipchin," says Mrs. Chick 
 vdth frankness. 
 
 a a 
 
594 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " It would be pretty mucli the same to me, if 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 yesterday, and I 'm 
 not used to it. My constitution will be giving way next. Besides I 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 niece, and she expects me by this time." 
 
 " Have you spoken to my brother ? " inquires Mrs. Chick. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it 's very easy to say speak to him," retorts Mrs. Pipchin, 
 "How is it done! I called out to him, yesterday, that I was no use 
 here, and that he had better let me send for Mrs. Kichards. He grunted 
 something or other that meant yes, and I sent. Grunt indeed ! If he 
 had been Mr. Pipchin, he 'd have had some reason to grunt. Yah ! I 've 
 no patience with it ! " 
 
 Here this exemplary female, who has pumped up so much fortitude and 
 virtue from the depths of the Peruvian mines, rises from her cushioned 
 property to see Mrs. Chick to the door. Mrs. Chick, deploring to the 
 last the peculiar character of her brother, noiselessly retires, much occupied 
 with her own sagacity and clearness of head. 
 
 In the dusk of the evening Mr. Toodle, being off duty, arrives with Polly 
 and a box, and leaves them, with a sounding kiss, in the hall of the empty 
 house, the retired character of which affects Mr. Toodle's spirits strongly. 
 
 " I tell you what, PoUy my dear," says Mr. Toodle, " Being now, an 
 ingein-driver and well to do in the world, I shouldn't allow of your coming 
 here, to be made dull-like, if it warn't for favours past. But favours past, 
 Polly, is never to be forgot. To them which is in adversity, besides, 
 your face is a cord'l. So let 's have another kiss on it, my dear. You wish 
 no better than to do a right act, I know ; aad my views is, that it 's right 
 and dutiful to do this. Good night, Polly ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin by this time looms dark in her black bombazeen skirts, 
 black bonnet, and shawl ; and has her personal property packed up ; and 
 has her chaii" (late a favourite chau- of Mr. Dombey's, and the dead bar- 
 gain of the sale) ready near the street door ; and is only waiting for a fly 
 van, going to-night to Brighton on private service, which is to call for 
 her, by private contract, and convey her home. 
 
 Presently it comes. Mrs. Pipchin's wardrobe being handed in and 
 stowed away, Mrs. Pipchin's chair is next handed in, and placed in a con- 
 venient 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 in, and grimly takes her seat. There is a snaky 
 gleam in her hard grey eye, as of anticipated rounds of buttered toast, 
 relays of hot chops, worryings and quellings of young children, sharp 
 snappings at poor BeiTy, and all the other delights of her Ogress's castle. 
 Mrs. Pipchin almost laughs as the Fly Van drives off, and she composes 
 her black bombazeen skirts, and settles herself among the cushions of her 
 -easy chair. 
 
 The house is such a ruin that the rats have fled, and there is not one left. 
 
 But PoUy, though alone in the deserted mansion — for there is no com- 
 panionship 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 house- 
 
:-U 
 
■ ^&»?yyl^e<>:>^^fi^>;^^^>t' y6^ ^^^ /^^/^ ^-^f^T^y, ■^^O'tf^ t^ Oi^/Kie^/ 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 595 
 
 keeper's room, trying to forget what a lonely house it is, and what a 
 history belongs to it ; when there is a knock at the hall door, as loud sound- 
 ing as any knock can be, striking into such an empty place. Opening it, 
 she returns across the echoing haU, accompanied by a female figure in a 
 close black bonnet. It is Miss Tox, and Miss Tox's eyes are red. 
 
 " Oh, Polly," says Miss Tox, " when I looked in to have a little lesson 
 with the children just now, I got the message that you left for me ; and 
 as soon as I could recover my spirits at all, I 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 teU me he never leaves his room." 
 
 " Is he said to be ill? " inquires Miss Tox. 
 
 " No ma'am, not that I know of," returns PoUy, "except in his mind. 
 He must be very bad there, poor gentleman ! " 
 
 Miss Tox's sympathy is such that she can scarcely speak. She is no 
 chicken, but she has not grown tough with age and celibacy. Her heart 
 is very tender, her compassion very genuine, her homage very real. 
 Beneath the locket with the fishy-eye in it, Miss Tox bears better qualities 
 than many a less whimsical outside ; such qualities as will outlive, by many 
 courses of the sun, the best outsides and brightest husks that fall in the 
 harvest of the great reaper. 
 
 It is long before Miss Tox goes away, and before Polly, with a candle 
 flaring on the blank stairs, looks after her, for company, down the street, 
 and feels unwilling to go back into the dreary house, and jar its emptiness 
 with the heavy fastenings of the door, and glide away to bed. But aUthis 
 Polly does ; and in the morning sets in one of those darkened rooms such 
 matters as she has been advised to prepare, and then retires and enters 
 them no more until next morning at the same hour. There are bells there, 
 but they never ring ; and though she can sometimes hear a foot -fall going 
 to and fro, it never comes out. 
 
 Miss Tox retm-ns early in the day. It then begins to be Miss Tox's occu- 
 pation 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 pursuit, that she enters on it regularly from that time ; and bringsdaily 
 in her little basket, various choice condiments selected from the scanty 
 stores of the deceased owner of the powdered head and pigtail. She like- 
 wise brings, in sheets of curl paper, morsels of cold meats, tongues of 
 sheep, halves of fowls, for her own dinner ; and sharing these collations 
 with Polly, passes the greater part of her time in the ruined house that the 
 rats have fled from : hiding, in a fright at every sound, stealing in and out 
 like a criminal ; only desiring to be true to the fallen object of her admi- 
 ration, unknown to him, imknown to all the world but one poor simple 
 woman. 
 
 The Major knows it ; but no one is the wiser for that, though the Major 
 is much the merrier. The Major, in a fit of curiosity, has charged the 
 Native to watch the house sometimes, and find out what becomes of 
 Dombey. The Native has reported Miss Tox's fidelity, and the Major 
 has nearly choked himself dead with laughter. He is permanently bluer 
 
596 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 from that hour, and constantly wheezes to himself, his lobster eyes starting 
 out of his head, " Damme, Sir, the woman 's a born idiot ! " 
 
 And the ruined man. How does he pass the hours, alone ? 
 
 " Let him remember it in that room, years to come ! " He did remember 
 it. It was heavy on his mind now ; heavier than all the rest. 
 
 " Let him remember it in that room, years to come. The rain that falls 
 upon the roof, the wind that mourns outside the door, may have fore- 
 knowledge in their melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, 
 years to come ! " 
 
 He did remember it. In the miserable night he thought of it ; in the 
 dreary day, the wretched dawn, the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight. 
 He did remember it. In agony, in sorrow, in remorse, in despair ! "Papa! 
 papa! Speak to me, dear papa! " He heard the words again, and saw 
 the face. He saw it fall upon the trembling hands, and heard the one 
 prolonged low cry go upward. 
 
 He was fallen, never 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 ; nothing, thank Heaven, could 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 different, 
 though this he hardly thought of now — that which was his own work, 
 that which he could so easily have wrought into a blessing, and had set 
 himself so steadily for years to form into a curse : that was the sharp 
 grief of his soul. 
 
 Oh I He did remember it I The rain that fell upon the roof, the 
 wind that mourned outside the door that night, had had foreknowledge in 
 their melancholy sound. He knew, now, what he had done. He knew now, 
 that he had called down that upon his head, which bowed it lower than the 
 heaviest stroke of fortune. He knew, now, what it was to be rejected 
 and deserted ; now, when every loving blossom he had withered in his 
 innocent daughter's heart was snowing down in ashes on him. 
 
 He thought of her, as she had been that night when he and his bride 
 came home. He thought of her as she had been, in all the home-events 
 of the abandoned House. He thought, now, that of all around him, she 
 alone had never changed. His boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had 
 sunk into a polluted creature, his flatterer and friend had been transformed 
 into the worst of villains, his 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. Yes, to the latest and the last. She had 
 never changed to him — nor had he ever changed to her — and she was lost. 
 
 As, one by one, they fell away before his mind — his baby-hope, his wife, 
 his friend, his fortune — oh how the mist, through which he had seen 
 her, cleared, and showed him her true self ! Oh, how much better than 
 this that he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he had his 
 boy, and 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 away, he shook it off. Whether he imagined its face 
 as expressing pity for him, or indifference to him, he shunned it ahke. 
 It was in the same degree to be avoided, in either aspect. He 
 had no idea of any one companion in his misery, but the one he had 
 
DOMBKY AND SON. 597 
 
 driven away. What he would have said to her, or what consolation 
 submitted to receive from her, he never pictured to himself. But he 
 always knew she would have been true to him, if he had suffered her. , 
 He always knew she would have loved him better now, than at any other 
 time ; he was as certain that it was in her nature, as he was that there 
 was a sky above him ; and he sat thinking so, in his loneliness, from 
 hour to hour. Day after day uttered this speech ; night after night showed 
 him this knowledge. 
 
 It began, beyond all doubt (however slowly it advanced for some time), 
 in the receipt of her young husband's letter, and the certainty that she 
 was gone. And yet — so proud he was in his ruin, or so reminiscent of 
 her only as something that might have been his, but was lost beyond 
 redemption — that if he could have heard her voice in an adjoining room, 
 he would not have gone to her. If he could have seen her in the street, 
 ^ind she had done no more than look at him as she had been used to look, 
 he would have passed on with his old cold unforgiving face, and not 
 addressed her, or relaxed it, though his heart should have broken soon 
 afterwards. However turbulent his thoughts, or harsh his anger had 
 been, at first, concerning her marriage, or her husband, that was all past 
 now. He chiefly thought of what might have been, and what was not. 
 What was, was all summed up in this : that she was lost, and he bowed 
 •down with sorrow and remorse. 
 
 And now he felt that he had had two children born to him in that 
 house, and that between him and the bare wide empty walls there was 
 a tie, mournful, but hard to rend asunder, connected with a double 
 childhood, and a double loss. He had thought to leave the house — 
 knowing he must go, not knowing whither — ^upon the evening of the 
 •day on which this feeling first struck root in his breast ; but he resolved 
 to stay another night, and in the night to ramble through the rooms 
 once more. 
 
 He came out of his solitude when it was the dead of night, and with a 
 ■candle in his hand went softly up the stairs. Of all the footmarks there, 
 making them as common as the common street, there was not one, he 
 thought, but had seemed at the time to set itself upon his brain while he 
 had kept close, listening. He looked at their number, and their hurry, 
 and contention — foot treading foot out, and upward track and downward 
 jostling one another — and thought, with absolute dread and wonder, how 
 much he must have suffered during that trial, and what a changed man 
 he had cause to be. He thought, besides, oh was there, somewhere in 
 the world, a light footstep that might have worn out in a moment half 
 ■those marks ! — and bent his head, and wept, as he went up. 
 
 He almost saw it, going on before. He stopped, looking up towards 
 the skylight ; and a figure, childish itself, but carrying a child, and singing 
 as it went, seemed to be there again. Anon, it was the same figure, 
 alone, stopping for an instant, with 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 changed, apparently, even in their shape and size. The 
 press of footsteps was as thick here ; and the sajne consideration of the 
 suffering he had had, perplexed and terrified him. He began to fear that 
 •all this intricacy in his brain would drive him mad ; and that his thoughts 
 
598 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 already lost coherence as the footprints did, and were pieced on to one 
 another, with 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 them, and go wandering higher up. 
 Abundance of associations were here, connected with his false wife, his 
 false friend and servant, his false grounds of pride ; but he put them aU 
 by now, and only recalled miserably, weakly, fondly, his two children. 
 
 Everywhere, the footsteps ! They had had no respect for the old room 
 high up, where the little bed had been ; he could hardly find a clear space 
 there, to throw himself down, on the floor, against the wall, poor broken 
 man, and let his tears flow as they would. He had shed so many tears here, 
 long ago, that he was less ashamed of his weakness in this place than in 
 any other — perhaps, with that consciousness, had made excuses to hiraseK" 
 for coming here. Here, with stooping shoulders and his chin dropped on 
 his breast, he had come. Here, thrown upon the bare boards, in the 
 dead of night, he wept, alone — a proud man, even then ; who, if a kind 
 hand could have been stretched out, or a kind face could have looked in^ 
 would have risen up, and turned away, and gone down to his cell. 
 
 When the day broke he Avas shut up in his rooms again. He had 
 meant to go away to-day, but 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 night, within the knowledge of no 
 human creature, he came forth, and wandered through the despoiled house 
 like a ghost. Many a morning when the day broke, his altered face,, 
 drooping behind the closed blind in his window, imperfectly transparent 
 to the light as yet, pondered on the loss of his two children. It was one 
 child no more. He re-united them in liis thoughts, and they were never 
 asunder. Oh, that he could have united them in his past love, and in 
 death, and that one had not been so much worse than dead ! 
 
 Strong mental agitation and disturbance was no novelty to him, even 
 before his late sufferings. It never is, to obstinate and snUen natures ;. 
 for they struggle hard to be such. Gi'ound long undermined, will often 
 fall down in a moment; what was undermined here in so many ways, 
 weakened, and crumbled, little by little, more and more, as the hand moved 
 on the dial. 
 
 At last he began to think he need not go at aU. He might yet give up 
 what his creditors had spared him (that they had not spared him more,, 
 was his own act), and only sever the tie between him and the ruined 
 house, by severing that other link 
 
 It was then that his footfall was audible in the late housekeeper's room, 
 as he walked to and fro ; but not audible in its trae meaning, or it would 
 have had an appalling sound. 
 
 The world was veiy 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 footsteps, harassed 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 of, well, to-morrow. 
 
 He thought of it to-morrow ; and sitting thinking in his chair, saw, ia 
 the glass, from time to time, this picture : 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 599 
 
 A spectral, haggard, wasted likeness of himself, brooded and brooded over 
 the empty fireplace. Now it lifted up its head, examining the lines and 
 hollows in its face ; now hung it down again, and 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. Now, it was looking 
 at the bottom of the door, and thinking. 
 
 — Hush ! what ? 
 
 It was thinking that if blood were to trickle that way, and to leak out 
 into the hall, it must be a long time going so far. It would move so 
 stealthily and slowly, creeping on, with here a lazy little pool, and there a 
 start, and then another little pool, that a desperately wounded man could 
 only be discovered tlu'ough its means, either dead or dying. When it had 
 thought of this a long while, it got up again, and walked to and fro with 
 its hand in its breast. He glanced at it occasionally, very curious to 
 watch its motions, and he marked how wicked and mm'derous that hand 
 looked. 
 
 Now it was thinking again ! What was it thinking ? 
 
 Whether they would tread in the blood when it crept so far, and carry 
 it about the house among those many prints of feet, or even out into 
 the street. 
 
 It sat down, with its eyes upon the empty fii-eplace, and as it lost 
 itself in thought there shone into the room a gleam of light ; a ray of 
 sun. It was quite unmindful, and sat thinking. Suddenly it rose, with 
 a terrible face, and that guilty hand grasping what was in its breast. Then 
 it was arrested by a cry — a wild, loud, piercing, loving, rapturous cry — and 
 he only saw his own reflection in the glass, and at his knees, his daughter ! 
 
 Yes. His daughter ! Look at her ! Look here ! Down upon the 
 ground, clinging to him, calling to him, folding her hands, praying to him. 
 
 " Papa ! Dearest papa ! Pardon me, forgive me ! I have come back 
 to ask forgiveness on my knees. I never can be happy more, without it ! " 
 
 Unchanged still. Of all the world, unchanged. Eaising the same face 
 to his, as on that miserable night. Asking Ids forgiveness ! 
 
 '' Dear papa, oh don't look strangely on me ! I never meant to leave 
 you, I never thought of it, before or afterwards. I was frightened when 
 I went away, and could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am 
 penitent. I know my fault. I know my duty better now. Papa, don't 
 cast me off, or 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 — oh, how deeply ! — all that 
 he had done. 
 
 Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he had 
 almost broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said, 
 sobbing : 
 
 " Papa, love, I am a mother. I have a child who will soon call Walter 
 by the name by which I call you. When it was born, and when I knew 
 how much I loved it, I knew what I had done in leaving you. Forgive 
 me, dear Papa ! oh say God bless me, and my little child ! " 
 
 He would have said it, if he could. He would have raised his hand& 
 and besought her for pardon, but she caught them im her own, and put 
 them down, hurriedly. 
 
600 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " My little child was born at sea, Papa. I prayed to God (and so did 
 Walter for me) to spare me, that I might come home. The moment 
 I could land, I came back to you. Never let us be parted any more. Papa. 
 Never let us be parted any more ! " 
 
 His head, now grey, was encircled by her arm ; and he groaned to think 
 that never, never, had it rested so before. 
 
 " You will come home with me. Papa, and see my baby. A boy, Papa. 
 His name is Paul. I think — I hope — he 's like — " 
 
 Her tears stopped her. 
 
 " Dear Papa, for the sake of my child, for the sake of the name we have 
 given him, for my sake, pardon 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 him, more endearing and more earnest. 
 
 " He is the darling of my heart, Papa. I would die for him. He will 
 love and honour you as I will. We wiU teach our little child to love and 
 honour you ; and we will tell him, when he can understand, that you had 
 a son of that name once, and that he died, and you were very sorry ; but 
 that he is gone to Heaven, where we all hope to see him when our time 
 for resting comes. Kiss me. Papa, as a promise that you wiU be recon- 
 ciled to Walter — to my dearest husband — to the father of the little child 
 who taught me to come back, Papa. Who taught me to come back ! " 
 
 As she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, he kissed her on 
 her lips, and, lifting up his eyes, said, " Oh my God, forgive me, for I 
 need it very much ! " 
 
 With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over and caressing 
 her, and there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long time ; they 
 remaining clasped in one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine that had 
 crept in with Florence. 
 
 He dressed himself for going out, with a docile submission to her 
 •entreaty ; and walking with a feeble gait, and looking back, with a tremble, 
 at the room in which he had been so long shut up, and where he had seen 
 the picture in the glass, passed out with her into the haU. Florence, 
 hardly glancing round her, lest 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 vipon his face, and 
 his arm about her, led him out to a coach that was waiting at the door, 
 and carried him away. 
 
 Then, Miss Tox and Polly came out of their concealment, and exulted 
 tearfully. And then they packed his clothes, and books, and so forth, 
 with great care ; and consigned them in due course to certain persons sent 
 by Florence, in the evening, to fetch them. And then they took a last cup 
 of tea in the lonely house. 
 
 " And so Dombey and Son, as I observed upon a certain sad occasion," 
 said Miss Tox, winding up a host of recollections, " is indeed a daughter, 
 Polly, after all." 
 
 " And a good one ! " exclaimed Polly. 
 
 " You are right," said Miss Tox ; " and it 's a credit to you, Polly, that 
 you were always her friend when she was a little child. You were her 
 friend long before I was, Polly," said Miss Tox ; " and you 're a good 
 creature. Eobin ! " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 601 
 
 Miss Tox addressed herself to a bullet-headed young man, who appeared 
 to be in but indifferent circumstances, and in depressed spirits, and who 
 was sitting in a remote corner. Kising, he disclosed to view the form and 
 features of the Grinder. 
 
 " Kobin," said Miss Tox, " I have just observed to your mother, as 
 you may have heard, that she is a good creature." 
 
 " And so she is, Miss," quoth the Grinder, with some feeling. 
 
 " Very w^ell, Eobin," said Miss Tox, " I am glad to hear you say so. 
 Now, Robin, as I am going to give you a trial, at your urgent request, as 
 my domestic, with a view to your restoration to respectability, I will take 
 this impressive occasion of remarking that I hope you will never forget 
 that you have, and have always had, a good mother, and that you will 
 endeavour so to conduct yourself as to be a comfort to her." 
 
 " Upon my soul I wUl, Miss," returned the Grinder. " I have come 
 through a good deal, and my intentions is now as straight for'ard, Miss, 
 as a cove's — " 
 
 " I must get you to break yourself of that word, Robin, if you please," 
 interposed Miss Tox, politely. 
 
 " If you please. Miss, as a chap's — " 
 
 " Thankee, Eobin, no," returned Miss Tox, " I should prefer 
 individual." 
 
 " As a indiwiddle's," said the Grinder. 
 
 " Much better," remarked Miss Tox, complacently ; " infinitely more 
 expressive ! " 
 
 " — can be," pursued Eob. " If I hadn't been and got made a Grinder 
 on, Miss and mother, which was a most unfortimate circumstance for a 
 young CO — indiwiddle." 
 
 " Very good indeed," observed Miss Tox, approvingly. 
 
 " — and if I hadn't been led away by birds, and 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 mend, Miss, 
 with your kind trial ; and wishing, mother, my love to father, and brothers 
 «nd sisters, and saying of it." 
 
 " I am very glad indeed to hear it," observed Miss Tox. " Will you 
 take a little bread and butter, and a cup of tea, before we go, Eobin? " 
 
 " Thankee, Miss," returned the Grinder ; who immediately began to use 
 his own personal grinders in a most remarkable manner, as if he had been on 
 very short allowance for a considerable period, 
 
 Mss Tox being, in good time, bonneted and shawled, and Polly too, 
 Eob hugged his mother, and followed his new mistress away ; so much to 
 the hopeful admii'ation of Polly, that something in her eyes made luminous 
 rings round the gas-lamps as she looked after him. Polly then put out 
 her light, locked the house-door, delivered the key at an agent's hard by, 
 and went home as fast as she could go ; rejoicing in the shrill delight that 
 her unexpected arrival would occasion there. The great house, dumb as 
 to all that had been suffered in it, and the changes it had witnessed, stood 
 downing like a dark mute on the street ; baulking any nearer inquiries 
 with the staring announcement that the lease of this desirable Family 
 JNtansion was to be disposed of. 
 
602 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 CHIEFLY MATRIMONIAL, 
 
 The grand half-yearly festival holden by Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, on 
 which occasion they requested the pleasure of the company of every young 
 gentleman pursuing his studies in that genteel establishment, at an early 
 party, when the hour was half-past seven o'clock, and when the object 
 was quadrilles, had duly taken place, about this time ; and the young 
 gentlemen, with no unbecoming demonstrations of levity, had betaken 
 themselves, in a state of scholastic repletion, to their own homes. Mr. 
 Skettles had repaired abroad, permanently to grace the establishment of 
 his father Sir Barnet Skettles, whose popidar manners had obtained him 
 a diplomatic appointment, the honours of which were discharged by 
 himself and Lady Skettles, to the satisfaction even of tlieu- own country- 
 men and countrywomen : which was considered almost miraculous. Mr. 
 Tozer, now a young man of lofty stature, in Wellington boots, was 
 so extremely full of antiquity, as to be nearly on a par with a genuine 
 ancient Eoman in his knowledge of English : a triumph that aflFected his 
 good parents with the tenderest emotions, and caused the father and 
 mother of Mr. Briggs (whose learning, hke ill-arranged luggage, was 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 know- 
 ledge by this latter young gentleman, in fact, had been subjected to so 
 much pressure, that it had become a kind of intellectual Norfolk Biffin, 
 and had nothing of its original form or flavour remaining. Master Bither- 
 stone, now, on whom the forcing system had the happier and not uncommon 
 effect of leaving no impression whatever, when the forcing apparatus ceased 
 to work, was in a much more comfortable plight ; and being then on ship- 
 board, bound for Bengal, found himself forgetting, with such admirable 
 rapidity, that it was doubtful whether his declensions of noun-substantives 
 would hold out to the end of the voyage. 
 
 When Doctor Blimber, in pursuance of the usual course, would have 
 said to the young gentlemen, on the morning of the party, " Gentlemen, 
 we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month," he 
 departed from the usual course, and said, " Gentlemen, when our friend 
 Cincinnatus retired to his farm, he did not present to the senate any 
 Eoman whom he sought to nominate as his successor. But there is a 
 Eoman here," said Doctor Blimber, laying his hand on the shoulder of 
 Mr. Feeder, B.A., " adolescem imprimis gravis et doctus, gentlemen, whom 
 I, a retiring Cincinnatus, wish to present to my little senate, as their 
 future Dictator. Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty- 
 fifth of next month, under the auspices of Mr. Feeder, B.A." At this 
 (which Doctor Blimber had previously called upon all the parents, and 
 urbanely explained), the young gentlemen cheered; and Mr. Tozer, on 
 behalf of the rest, instantly presented the Doctor with a silver inkstand, 
 in a speech containing very little of the mother-tongue, but fifteen quota- 
 tions from the Latin, and seven from the Greek, which moved the younger 
 of the young gentlemen to discontent and envy : they remarking, " Oh, 
 ah ! It was all very well for old Tozer, but they didn't subscribe money 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 603 
 
 for old Tozer to show off with, they supposed ; did they P 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 dissatisfaction, which seemed to find a greater relief 
 in calling him old Tozer, than in any other available vent. 
 
 Not a word had been said to the young gentlemen, nor a hint dropped, 
 of anything like a contemplated marriage between Mr. Feeder, B.A., 
 and the fair Cornelia Blimber. Doctor Bhmber, especially, seemed 
 to take pains to look as if nothing would surprise him more; but 
 it was perfectly weU known to aU the young gentlemen nevertheless, and 
 when they departed for the society of their relations and friends, they took 
 leave of Mr. Feeder with awe. 
 
 Mr. Feeder's most romantic visions were fulfilled. The Doctor had 
 determined to paint the house outside, and put it in thorough repair; and 
 to give up the business, and 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 come, and Cornelia, in a new 
 pair of spectacles, was waiting to be led to the hymeneal altar. 
 
 The Doctor with his learned legs, and Mrs. Blimber in a Klac bonnet, 
 and Mr. Feeder, B.A., with his long knuckles and his bristly head of hair, 
 and !Mr. Feeder's brother, the Reverend Alfred Feeder, M.A, who was 
 to perform the ceremony, were all assembled in the drawing-room, and 
 Cornelia with her orange-flowers and bridesmaids had just come down, 
 and looked, as of old, a little squeezed in appearance but very charming, 
 when the door opened, and the weak-eyed young man, in a loud voice, 
 made the following proclamation : 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Toots ! " 
 
 Upon which there entered Mr. Toots, grown extremely stout, and on 
 his arm a lady very handsomely and becomingly dressed, with very bright 
 black eyes. 
 
 " Mrs. Blimber," said Mr. Toots, " aUow me to present my wife." 
 
 Mrs. Blimber was delighted to receive her. Mrs. Blimber was a little 
 condescending, but extremely kind. 
 
 " And as you 've known me for a long time, you 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 IMr. Toots. " I — I assure 
 you, Iklrs. Blimber, she 's a most extraordinary woman." 
 
 Mrs. Toots laughed merrily, and Mrs. Blimber led her to Cornelia. 
 Mr. Toots having paid his respects in that direction, and having saluted 
 his old preceptor, who said, in allusion to his conjugal state, " WeU Toots, 
 well Toots ! So you are one of us, are you Toots ? " — retired with Mr. 
 Feeder, B.A., into a window. 
 
 Mr. Feeder, B.A., being in great spirits, made a spar at Mr. Toots, and 
 tapped him skillfully with the back of his hand on the breast-bone. 
 
 " Well, old Buck ! " said Mr. Feeder with a laugh. " WeU ! Here 
 we are ! Taken in and done for. Eh ? " 
 
 " Feeder," returned Mr. Toots. " I give you joy. If you 're as — as — 
 as perfectly bUssful in a matrimonial Ufe, as I am myself, you 'U have 
 nothing to desire." 
 
604 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 " I don't forget my old friends, you see," said Mr. Feeder, " I ask 
 'em to my wedding, Toots," 
 
 "Feeder," replied Mr, Toots gravely, "the fact is, that there were 
 several circumstances which prevented me from communicating with 
 you untU after my marriage had been solemnised. In the first place 
 I had made a perfect Brute of myself to you, on the subject of Miss 
 ])ombey ; and I felt that if you were asked to any wedding of mine, you 
 would naturally expect that it was with Miss Dombey, which involved 
 explanations, that upon my word and honour, at that crisis, would have 
 knocked me completely over. In the second place, our wedding was 
 strictly private ; there being nobody present but one friend of myself and 
 Mrs. Toots's, who is a Captain in — I don't exactly know in what," said 
 Mr. Toots, " but it 's of no consequence. I hope, Feeder, that in writing a 
 statement of what had occurred before Mrs. Toots and myself went abroad 
 upon our foreign tour, I fully discharged the offices of friendship." 
 
 "Toots, my boy," said Mr. Feeder, shaking hands, " I was joking." 
 
 " And now Feeder," said Mi*. Toots, " I should be glad to know what 
 jou think of my union." 
 
 " Capital ! " returned Mr. Feeder. 
 
 "You think it's capital, do you. Feeder?" 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 
 lis head, and wouldn't hear of that being possible. 
 
 " I'ou see," said Mr. Toots, " what / wanted in a wife was — in short, 
 was sense. Money, Feeder, I had. Sense I — I had not, particularly." 
 
 Mr. Feeder murmured, " Oh yes, you had. Toots ! " But Mr. Toots said : 
 
 " No, Feeder, I had not. Why should I disguise it ? I had not. I 
 Icnew that sense was There," said Mr. Toots, stretching out his hand 
 towards his wife, " in perfect heaps. I had no relation to object or be 
 offended, on the score of station ; for I had no relation. I have never had 
 aaybody belonging to me but my guardian, and him, Feeder, I have always 
 considered as a Pirate and a Corsair. Therefore, you know it was not 
 likely," said Mr. Toots, " that I should take his opinion." 
 
 " No," said IVIr. 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 Eights of Women, and 
 all that kind of thing, are properly attended to, it will be through her 
 powerful intellect. — Susan, my dear!" said Mr. Toots, looking abruptly 
 •out of the window-curtains, "pray do not exert yourself!" 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Toots, " I was only talking." 
 
 "But my love," said Mr. Toots, "pray do not exert yourself. You 
 really must be careful. Do not, my dear Susan, exert yourself. She's so 
 •easily excited," said Mr. Toots, apart to Mrs, Blimber, " and then she 
 forgets the medical man altogether." 
 
 Mrs. Blimber was impressing on Mrs. Toots the necessity of caution, 
 when Mr. Feeder, B.A., offered her his arm, and led her down to the 
 -carriages that were in waiting to go to church. Doctor Blimber escorted 
 Jirs. Toots. Mr. Toots escorted the fair bride, around whose lambent 
 rspectacles two gauzy little bridesmaids fluttered like moths. Mr. Feeder's 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 605 
 
 brother, Mr. Alfred Feeder, M.A., had already gone on, in advance, to 
 assume his official functions. 
 
 The ceremony was performed in an admirable manner. Cornelia, with 
 her crisp little curls, "went in," as the Chicken might have said, with great 
 composure ; and Doctor Blimber gave her away, like a man who had quite 
 made up his mind to it. The gauzy little bridesmaids appeared to suffer 
 most. Mrs. Blimber was affected, but gently so ; and told The Eeverend 
 Mr. Alfred Feeder, M.A., on the way home, that if she could only have 
 seen Cicero in his retirement at Tusculum, she would not have had a wish, 
 now, ungratified. 
 
 fc There was a breakfast afterwards, limited to the same small party ; at 
 which the spirits of Mr. Feeder, B.A., were tremendous, and so communi- 
 cated themselves to Mrs. Toots, that Mr. Toots was several times heard to 
 observe, across the table, " My dear Susan, dorit exert yourself !" The best 
 of it was, that Mr. Toots felt it incumbent on him to make a speech ; and in 
 spite of a whole code of telegraphic dissuasions from Mrs. Toots, appeared 
 on his legs for the first time in his life. 
 
 " I really," said Mr. Toots, " in this house, where 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 family, and 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 inappropiate to the occasion, or altogether uninteresting," 
 said Mr. Toots with a delighted face, " to observe that my wife is a most 
 extraordinary woman, and would do this much better than myself — allow 
 my friend Feeder to be married — especially to — " 
 
 Mrs. Toots suggested, "to Miss Blimber." 
 
 " To Mrs. Feeder, my love ! " said Mr. Toots, in 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. Toots, fixing his eyes on his wife, as if for inspiration in a 
 high flight, " may the torch of Hymen be the beacon of joy, and may the 
 flowers we have this day strewed in their path, be the — the banishers of — 
 of gloom ! " 
 
 Doctor Blimber, who had a taste for metaphor, was pleased with 
 this, and said, " Very good, Toots ! Very well said, indeed, Toots ! " 
 and nodded his head and patted his hands. Mr. Feeder made in 
 reply, a comic speech chequered with sentiment. Mr. Alfred Feeder, 
 M.A., was afterwards very happy on Doctor and Mrs. Blimber; Mr. 
 Feeder, B.A., scarcely less so, on the gauzy little bridesmaids. Doctor 
 Blimber then, in a sonorous voice, delivered a few thoughts in the pastoral 
 style, relative to the rushes among which it was the intention of himself 
 and Mrs. Blimber to dwell, and the bee that woidd hum around their cot. 
 Shortly after which, as the Doctor's eyes were twinkling in a remarkable 
 manner, and his son-in-law had already observed that time was made for 
 slaves, and had inquired whether Mrs. Toots sang, the discreet Mrs. Blimber 
 dissolved the sitting, and sent Corneha away, very cool and comfortable, 
 in a post-chaise, with the man of her heart. 
 
6U6 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Toots withdrew to the Bedford (Mrs. Toots had been 
 there before in old times, under her maiden name of Nipper), and there 
 found a letter, which it took Mr. Toots such an enormous time to read, 
 that 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. 
 
 "Why, my love," said Mr. Toots, "it 's from Captain Gills. Do not 
 excite yourself. Walters and Miss Dombey are expected home ! " 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Toots, raising herself quickly from the sofa, very 
 pak, " don't try to deceive me, for it 's no use, they 're come home — I see 
 it plainly in your face ! " 
 
 " She 's a most extraordinary woman ! " exclaimed Mr. Toots, in raptu- 
 rous admiration. " You 're perfectly right, my love, they have come home. 
 Miss Dombey has seen her father, and they are reconciled ! " 
 
 " Reconciled ! " cried Mrs. Toots, clapping 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 say, but I 
 imagine, from what I can make out, he means — that Miss Dombey has 
 brought her unfortunate father away from his old house, to 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, " do, do, if you possibly can, 
 remember the medical man ! If you can't, it 's of no consequence — ^but do 
 endeavour to ! " 
 
 His wife, with her old manner suddenly restored, so pathetically entreated 
 him to take her to her precious pet, her little mistress, her own darling, 
 and the like, that Mr. Toots, whose sympathy and admiration were of the 
 strongest kind, consented from his very heart of hearts ; and they agreed to 
 depart immediately, and present themselves in answer to the Captain's 
 letter. 
 
 Now some hidden sympathies of things, or some coincidences, had that 
 day brought the Captain himself (toward whom Mr. and Mrs. Toots were 
 soon journeying), into the flowery train of wedlock ; not as a principal, 
 but as an accessory. It happened accidentally, and thus : 
 
 The Captain, having seen Florence and her baby for a moment, to 
 his unbounded content, and having had a long talk with Walter, turned 
 out for a walk ; feeling it necessary to have some solitary meditation on 
 the changes of human affairs, and to shake his glazed hat profoundly over 
 the fall of Mr. Dombey, for whom the generosity and simplicity of his 
 nature were awakened in a lively manner. The Captain would have been 
 very low, indeed, on the unhappy gentleman's account, but for the 
 recollection of the baby ; which afforded him such intense satisfaction 
 whenever it arose, that he laughed aloud as he went along the street, and 
 indeed, more than once, in a sudden impulse of joy, threw 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 sub- 
 jects of reflection exposed the Captain, were so very trying to his spirits, 
 that he felt a long walk necessary to his composure ; and as there is a 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. * 607 
 
 great deal in the influence of harmonious associations, he chose, for the 
 scene of this walk, his old neighbourhood, down among the mast, oar, and 
 block makers, ship-biscuit bakers, coal-whippers, pitch-kettles, sailors, 
 canals, docks, swing-bridges, and other soothing objects. 
 
 These peaceful scenes, and particularly the region of Limehouse-Hole 
 and thereabouts, were so influential in calming the Captain, that he 
 walked on with restored tranquillity, and was, in fact, regaling himself, 
 under his breath, with the ballad of Lovely Peg, when, on turning a 
 corner, he was suddenly transfixed and rendered speechless by a tri- 
 umphant procession that he beheld advancing towards him. 
 
 This awful demonstration was headed by that determined woman Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger, who, preserving a countenance of inexorable resolution, and 
 wearing conspicuously attached to her obdurate bosom a stupendous 
 watch and appendages, which the Captain recognised at a glance as the 
 property of Bunsby, conducted under her arm no other than that 
 sagacious mariner ; he, with the distraught and melancholy visage of a 
 captive borne into a foreign land, meekly resigning himself to her will. 
 Behind them appeared the young Mac Stingers, in a body, exulting. 
 Behind them, two ladies of a terrible and stedfast aspect, leading between 
 them a short gentleman in a tail hat, who likewise exvdted. In the wake, 
 appeared Bunsby's boy, bearing 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 wanting, that it was a procession of sacrifice, and that the victim 
 was Bunsby. 
 
 The first impulse of the Captain was to run away. This also appeared 
 to be the first impidse of Bunsby, hopeless as its execution must have 
 proved. But a cry of recognition proceeding from the party, and 
 Alexander Mac Stinger running up to the Captain with open arms, the 
 Captain struck. 
 
 "WeU, Cap'en Cuttle!" said Mrs. Mac Stinger. "This is indeed a 
 meeting ! I bear no malice now, Cap'en Cuttle — you needn't fear that 
 I 'm a going to cast any reflexions. I hope to go to the altar in another 
 spirit." Here Mrs. Mac Stinger paused, and drawing herself up, and 
 inflating her bosom with a long breath, said, in allusion to the victim, 
 " My usband, Cap'en Cuttle !" 
 
 The abject Bunsby looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor at 
 liis bride, nor at his friend, but straight before him at nothing. The 
 Captain putting out his hand, Bunsby put out his ; but, in answer to the 
 Captain's greeting, spake no word. 
 
 " Cap'en Cuttle," said Mrs. Mac Stinger, " if you would wish to heal 
 up past animosities, and to see the last of your friend, my usband, as a 
 single person, we should be appy of your company to chapel. Here is a 
 lady here," said Mrs. Mac Stinger, turning round to the more intrepid 
 of the two, " my bridesmaid, that wiU be glad of your protection, Cap'en 
 Cuttle." 
 
 The short gentleman in the tall hat, who it appeared was the husband 
 of the other lady, and who evidently exulted at the reduction of a 
 fellow-creature to his own condition, gave place at this, and resigned 
 the lady to Captain Cuttle. The lady immediately seized him, and. 
 
608 '#^ DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 observing that ttere was no time to lose, gave the word, in a strong voice, 
 to advance. 
 
 The Captain's concern for his friend, not unmingled, at first, with some 
 concern for himself — for a shadowy terror that he might be married by 
 violence, possessed him, until his knowledge of the service came to his 
 relief, and remembering the legal obligation of saying " I will," he felt 
 himself personally safe so long as he resolved, if asked any question, 
 distinctly to reply " I won't " — threw him into a profuse perspiration ; 
 and rendered him, for a time, insensible to the movements of the pro- 
 cession, of which he now formed a feature, and to the conversation of 
 his fair companion. But as he became less agitated, he learnt from this 
 lady that she was the widow of a Mr. Bokum, who had held an employ- 
 ment in the Custom House ; that she was the dearest friend of Mrs. 
 Mac Stinger, whom she considered a pattern for her sex ; that she had 
 often heard of the Captain, and now hoped he had repented of his past 
 life ; that she trusted Mr. Bunsby knew what a blessing he had gained, 
 but that she feared men seldom did know what such blessings were, until 
 they had lost them ; with more to the same purpose. 
 
 All this time, the Captain could not but observe that Mrs. Bokum kept 
 her eyes steadily on the bridegroom, and that whenever they came near a 
 court or other narrow turning which appeared favourable for flight, she 
 was on the alert to cut him off if he attempted escape. The other lady 
 too, as well as her husband, the short gentleman with the tall hat, were 
 plainly on guard, according to a preconcerted plan ; and the wretched man 
 was so secured by Mrs. Mac Stinger, that any effort at self-preservation by 
 flight was rendered futile. This, indeed, was apparent to the mere populace, 
 who expressed their perception of the fact by jeers and cries ; to all of 
 which, the dread Mac Stinger was inflexibly indifferent, while Bunsby 
 liimself appeared in a state of unconsciousness. 
 
 The Captain made many attempts to accost the philosopher, if only in 
 a monosyllable or a signal; but always failed, in consequence of the vigilance 
 of the guard, and the difficulty, at all times peculiar to Bunsby's con- 
 stitution, of having his attention aroused by any outward and visible sign 
 whatever. Thus they approached the chapel, a neat whitewashed edifice, 
 recently engaged by the Keverend Melchisedech Howler, who had con- 
 sented, on very urgent solicitation, to give the world another two years of 
 existence, but had informed his followers that, then, it must positively go. 
 
 While the B^verend Melcliisedech was offering up some extemporary 
 orisons, the Captain found an opportunity of growling in the bride- 
 groom's ear : 
 
 " What cheer, my lad, what cheer ? " 
 
 To which Bunsby replied, with a forgetfulness of the Eeverend 
 Melchisedech, which nothing but his desperate circumstances could have 
 excused : 
 
 " D— d bad." 
 
 " Jack Bunsby," whispered the Captain, " do you do this here, o' your 
 own free wiU? " 
 
 Mr. Bunsby answered " No." 
 
 " Why do you do it, then, my lad ? " inquired the Captain, not 
 unnaturally. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. ^ 609 
 
 Bunsby, still looking, and always looking with an immovable counte- 
 nance, at the opposite side of the world, made no reply. 
 
 " Why not sheer off? " said the Captain. 
 
 " Eh? " whispered Bunsby, with a momentary gleam of hope. 
 
 " Sheer oJBF," 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 off. Jack Bunsby ! " 
 
 Jack Bunsby, however, instead of profiting by the advice, said in a 
 doleful whisper : 
 
 " It all began in that there chest o' your'n. 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 Captain, nudging him with his elbow, " now 's 
 your time ! Sheer off ! I '11 cover your retreat. The time 's a flying. 
 Bunsby ! It 'a 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 then, and didn't ever ; for Mrs. Mac Stinger immediately 
 afterwards married him. 
 
 One of the most frightful circumstances of the ceremony to the Captain, 
 was the deadly interest exhibited therein by Juliana Mac Stinger; and the 
 fatal concentration of her faculties, with which that promising child, already 
 the image of her parent, observed the whole proceedings. The Captain 
 saw in this a succession of man-traps stretching out infinitely ; a series 
 of ages of oppression and coercion, through which the seafaring line was 
 doomed. It was a more memorable sight than the unflinching steadiness 
 of Mrs. Bokum and the other lady, the exultation of the short gentleman 
 in the tall hat, or even the fell inflexibiUty of Mrs. Mac Stinger. The 
 Master Mac Stingers understood little of what was going on, and cared 
 less; being chiefly engaged, during the ceremony, in treading on one 
 anothers' half-boots ; but the contrast afforded by those wretched infants 
 only set off and adorned the precocious woman in Juliana. Another year 
 or two, the Captain thought, and to lodge where that child was, would be 
 destruction. 
 
 The ceremony was concluded by a general spring of the young family 
 on Mr. Bunsby, whom they hailed by the endearing name of father, and 
 from whom they solicited halfpence. These gushes of affection over, the 
 procession was about to issue forth again, when it was delayed for some 
 little time by an unexpected transport on the part of Alexander Mac 
 Stinger, That dear child, it seemed, connecting a chapel with tombstones, 
 when it was entered for any purpose apart from the ordinary religious 
 exercises, could not be persuaded but that his mother was now to be decently 
 
 R u 
 
610 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 interred, and lost to him for ever. In tke anguish of this conviction he 
 screamed with astonishing force, and turned black in the face. How- 
 ever touching these marks of a tender disposition were to his mother, it was 
 not in the character of that remarkable Avoman to permit her recognition 
 of them to degenerate into weakness. Therefore, after vainly endeavour- 
 ing to convince his reason by shakes, pokes, bawlings-out, and similar 
 applications to his head, she led him into the ail*, and tried another 
 method ; which was manifested to the marriage party by a quick succes- 
 sion of sharp sounds, resembling applause, and, subsequently, by their 
 seeing Alexander in contact with the coolest paving-stone in the com-t, 
 greatly flushed, and loudly lamenting. 
 
 The procession being then in a condition to form itself once more, and 
 repair to Brig Place, where a marriage feast was in readiness, returned as 
 it had come ; not without the receipt, by Bunsby, of many humorous con- 
 gratulations from the populace on his recently-acquired happiness. 
 The Captain accompanied it as far as the house-door, but, being made 
 xmcasy by the gentler manner of Mrs. Bokum, who, now that she ^Aas 
 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 behalf, there left it and the 
 captive ; faintly pleading an appointment, and promising to return 
 presently. The Captain had another cause for uneasiness, in remorsefully 
 reflecting that he had been the first means of Bunsby's entrapment, though 
 certainly without intending it, and through his unbounded faith in the 
 resources of that philosopher. 
 
 To go back to old Sol Gills at the Wooden Midshipman's, and not first 
 go round to ask how Mr. Dombey was — albeit the house where he lay was 
 out of London, and 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 down, and the house so quiet, that the 
 Captain was almost afraid to knock ; but listening at the door, he heard 
 low voices within, very near it, and, knocking softly, was admitted by 
 Mr. Toots. Mr. Toots and his wife had, in fact, just arrived there ; having 
 been at the Midshipman's to seek him, and having there obtained the 
 address. 
 
 They were not so recently arrived, but that Mrs. Toots had caught 
 tlie baby from somebody, taken it in her arms, and sat down on tlie 
 stairs, hugging and fondling it. Florence was stooping down beside 
 her; and no one could have said which Mrs. Toots was hugging and 
 fondling most, the mother or the child, or which was the tenderer, Florence 
 of Mrs. Toots, or Mrs. Toots of her, or both of the baby; it was such a 
 little group of love and agitation. 
 
 " And is your Pa very ill, my darling dear Miss Ploy ? " asked Susan. 
 
 " He is very, very ill," said Florence. " But, Susan dear, you must not 
 speak to me aa you used to speak. And what 's this ? " said Florence, 
 touching her clothes, in amazement. " Your old dress, dear ? Your old 
 cap, curls, and all ? " 
 
 Susan burst into tears, and showered kisses on the little hand that had 
 touched her so wonderingly. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 611 
 
 " My dear Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots, stepping forward, " I '11 
 explain. She 's the most extraordinary woman. There are not many to 
 equal her ! She has always said — she said before we were married, and 
 has said to this day — ^that whenever you came home, she 'd come to you 
 in no dress but the dress she used to serve you in, for fear she might seem 
 strange to you, and you might like her less, I admire the dress myself," 
 said Mr. Toots, " of all things. I adore her in it 1 My dear Miss Dombey, 
 she 'U be your maid again, your nurse, all that she ever was, and more. 
 There 's no change in her. But Susan, my dear," said Mr. Toots, who had 
 spoken with great feeling and high admiration, " all I ask is, that you 'lb 
 remember the medical man, and not exert yourself too much ! " 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 RELENTING. 
 
 Florence had need of help. Her father's need of it was sore, and 
 made the aid of her old friend invaluable. Death stood at his piUow. A 
 shade, already, of what he had been, shattered in mind, and perilously sick 
 in body, he laid his weai-y head down on the bed his daughter's hands 
 prepared for him, and had never raised it since. 
 
 She was always with him. He knew her, generally; though, in the wander- 
 ing of liis brain, he often confused the cu'cumstances under which he spoke 
 to her. Thus he would address her, sometimes, as if his boy were newly 
 dead; and would tell her, that although he had said nothing of her minis- 
 tering at the little bedside, yet he had seen it — he had seen it ; and then 
 would hide his face and sob, and put out his worn hand. Sometimes he 
 would ask her for herself. " Where is Florence ? " — " I am here. Papa, 
 1 am here." " I doa't know her ! " he would cry. " We have been 
 parted so long, that I don't know her ! " and then a staring dread would 
 be upon him, until she could soothe his perturbation; and recal the tears 
 she tried so hard, at other times, to dry. 
 
 lie rambled through the scenes of his old pursuits — through many 
 where Florence lost Ixim as she listened — sometimes for hours. He would 
 repeat that childish question, " What is money ? " and ponder on it, and 
 think about it, and reason with himself, more or less connectedly, for 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 times, and, at every one of them, would tm-n his head 
 upon his pillow. He would count his children — one — two — stop, and go 
 back, and 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 illness, and in those to which it was most constant, 
 it always turned on Florence. What he would oftenest do was this : he 
 would recal that night he had so recently remembered, the night on which 
 she came down to his room, and would imagine that his heart smote him, 
 
 R R 2 
 
612 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 and that he went out after her, and up the stairs to seek her. Then, 
 confounding that time with the later days of the many footsteps, he would 
 be amazed at their number, and begin to count them as he followed her. 
 Here, of a sudden, was a bloody footstep going on among the others ; and 
 after it there began to be, at intervals, doors standing open, through which 
 certain terrible pictures were seen, in mirrors, of haggard men, concealing 
 something in their breasts. Still, among the many footsteps and the 
 bloody footsteps here and there, was the step of Florence. Still she was 
 going on before. Still the restless mind went, following and counting, 
 ever farther, ever 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 " Yes, dear Papa ;" and asked him would he like to see her? 
 
 He said " very much." And Susan, Avith no little trepidation, showed 
 herself at his bedside. 
 
 It seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not to go ; to under- 
 stand that he forgave her what she had said ; and that she was to stay. 
 Florence and he were very different now, he said, and very happy. Let 
 her look at this ! He meant his drawing the gentle head down to his 
 pillow, and laying it beside him. 
 
 He remained like this for days and weeks. At length, lying, the faint 
 feeble semblance of a man, upon his bed, and speaking in a voice so low 
 that they could only hear him by listening very near to his lips, he became 
 quiet. It was dimly pleasant to him now, to lie there, with the window 
 open, looking out at the summer sky and the trees : and, in the evening, at 
 the sunset. To watch the shadows of the clouds and leaves, and seem to 
 feel a sympathy with shadows. It was natural that he should. To him, 
 life and the world were nothing else. 
 
 He began to show now that he thought of Florence's fatigue; and often 
 iaxed his weakness to wliisper to her, " go and walk my dearest, in the 
 sweet air. Go to your good husband ! " One time when Walter was in his 
 room, he beckoned him to come near, and to stoop down ; and pressing his 
 hand, whispered an assurance to him that he knew he could trust him with 
 his child when he was dead. 
 
 It chanced one evening, towards sunset, when Florence and Walter were 
 sitting in his room together, as he liked to see them, that Florence, having 
 her baby in her arms, began in a low voice to sing to the little fellow, and 
 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 hand, imploring her to stop ; 
 but next day he asked her to repeat it, and to do so often of an evening : 
 which she did. He listening, with his face turned away, 
 
 Florence was sitting on a certain time by his window, with her work- 
 basket between her and her old attendant, who was still her faithful com- 
 panion. He had fallen into a dose. It was a beautiful evening, with two 
 hours of light to come yet ; and the tranquillity and quiet made Florence 
 very thoughtful. She was lost to everything for the moment, but 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 
 chair, made her start. 
 
DOMBEY AND SON, 613 
 
 " My dear," said Walter ; " there is some one down stairs who wishes 
 to speak to you." 
 
 She fancied Walter looked grave, and asked him if anything had 
 happened. 
 
 " No, no, my love ! " said Walter. " I have seen the gentleman myself, 
 and spoken with him. Nothing has happened. WiU you come ? " 
 
 Florence put her arm through his ; and confiding her father to the black- 
 eyed Mrs. Toots, who sat as brisk and smart at her work as black-eyed 
 woman could, accompanied her husband down stairs. In the pleasant 
 little parlour opening on the garden, sat a gentleman, who rose to advance 
 towards her when she came in, but turned off, by reason of some peculi- 
 arity in his legs, and was only stopped by the table. 
 
 Florence then remembered Cousin Feenix, whom she had not at first 
 recognised in the shade of the leaves. Cousin Feenix took her hand, and 
 congi-atulated her upon her marriage. 
 
 " I could have wished, I am sure," said Cousin Feenix, sitting down as 
 Florence sat, " to have had an earlier opportunity of offering my congratu- 
 lations ; but, in point of fact, so many painful occurrences have happened, 
 treading, as a man may say, on one another's heels, that I have been in a 
 devil of a state myself, and perfectly unfit for every description of society. 
 The only description of society I have kept, has been my own ; and it 
 certainly is anything but flattering to a man's good opinion of his own 
 resources, to know that, in point of fact, he has the capacity of boring 
 himself to a perfectly unlimited extent." 
 
 Florence divined, from some indefinable constraint and anxiety in this 
 gentleman's manner — which was always a gentleman's, in spite of the 
 harmless little eccentricities that attached to it — and from Walter's manner 
 no less, that something more immediately tending to some object was to 
 follow this. 
 
 " I have been mentioning to my friend IVIr. Gay, if 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 upon, 
 by 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 fact, 
 any great amount of fortune to lose. But as much as I could lose, I 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 much, to know, that this is the universal 
 sentiment. Even Tommy Screwzer, — man of an extremely bUious habit, 
 with whom my friend Gay is probably acquainted — cannot say a syllable in 
 disputation of the fact." 
 
 Florence felt, more than ever, that there was something to come; and 
 looked earnestly for it. So earnestly, that Cousin Feenix answered, as 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 manner, for 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 
 
614 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 virging ; but I am happy to know, that I am supported by my friend Gay's 
 influence and approval. As in my parliamentary time, when a man had a 
 motion to make of any sort — ^which happened seldom in those days, for 
 we were kept very tight in hand, the leaders on both sides being regular 
 Martinets, which was a devilish good thing for the rank and fde, like 
 myself, and prevented om* exposing ourselves continually, as a great many 
 of us had a feverish anxiety to do — as, in my parliamentary time, I was 
 about to say, when a man had leave to let off any little private popgun, it 
 was always considered a great point for him to say that he had the happi- 
 ness of believing that his sentiments were not without an echo in the breast 
 of Mr. Pitt ; the pilot, in point of fact, who had weathered the storm. 
 Upon Avhich, a devihsh large number of fellows immediately cheered, and 
 put him in spirits. Though the fact is that these fellows, being imder 
 orders to cheer most excessively whenever ]\Ir. Pitt's name was mentioned, 
 became so proficient that it always woke 'era. And they were so entirely 
 innocent of what was going on, otherwise, that it used to be commonly 
 said by Conversation Brown — four bottle man at the Treasm-y Board, with 
 whom the father of my friend Gay was probably acquainted, for it was 
 before my friend Gay's time — that if a man had risen in his place, and said 
 that he regretted to inform the house that there was an Honourable Member 
 in the last stage of conYulsions in the Lobby, and that the Honourable 
 Member's name was Pitt, the approbation would have been vociferous." 
 
 This postponement of the point, put Plorenee in a flutter ; and she 
 looked from Cousin Feenix to Walter, in increasing agitation. 
 
 " My love," said Walter, " there is nothing the matter." 
 
 " There is nothing the matter, upon my honour," said Cousin Peenix ; 
 "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 is, simply — but it really does seem so exceed- 
 ing singular, that I should be in the last degree obliged to my friend Gay 
 if he would have the goodness to break the — in point of fact, the ice," 
 said Cousin Peenix. 
 
 Walter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in the look that 
 Plorence turned towards him, said : 
 
 " My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will ride to London 
 with this gentleman, whom you know." 
 
 " And my friend Gay, also — I beg your pardon ! " interrupted Cousin 
 ■Peenix. 
 
 " — And with me — and make a visit somewhere." 
 
 " To whom ? " asked Plorence, looking from one to the other. 
 
 •" if I might entreat," said Cousin Peenix, " that you would not press 
 for an answer to that question, I would venture to take the liberty of 
 making the request." 
 
 " Do yon know, Walter? " said Plorence. 
 
 " Tes." 
 
 " And think it right ? " 
 
 " Yes. Only because I am sure that you would, too. Though there 
 may be reasons I very well understand, which make it better that nothing 
 more should be said beforehand." 
 
 "If Papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is awake, I will go 
 immediately," said Plorence. And rising quietly, and glancing at them 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 615 
 
 with a look that was a little alarmed but perfectly confiding, left the 
 room. 
 
 When she came back, ready to bear them company, they were talking 
 together, gravely, at the window ; and Florence could not but wonder what 
 the topic was, that 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 him, but that rested on her. 
 
 " I wiH 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 ray friend Dombey will do me the favour to 
 consider me a man who has a deviUsh warm admiration of his character, 
 as, in point of fact, a British merchant and a devilish upright gentle- 
 man. My place in the country is in a most confounded state of dilapi- 
 dation, but if my friend Dombey should require a change of air, and would 
 take up his quarters there, he would find it a remarkably healthy spot — 
 as it need be, for it's amazingly duU. If my friend Dombey sufters from 
 bodily weakness, and would allow me to recommend what has frequently 
 done myself good, as a man who has been extremely queer at times, 
 and who lived pretty freely in the days when men lived very freely, I 
 should say, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an egg, beat up with 
 sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and taken in the moraing with a 
 slice of dry toast. Jackson, who 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 
 case, on account of my friend Dombey being in an invalided condition ; 
 which might occasion rum to fly— in point of fact to his headland throw 
 him into a devil of a state." 
 
 Of aU this. Cousin Feenix delivered himself with an obviously nervous 
 and discomposed air. Then, giving his arm to Florence, and putting the 
 strongest possible constraint upon his wilful legs which seemed deter- 
 mined to go out into the garden, he led her to the door, and handed her 
 into a carriage that was ready for her reception. 
 
 Walter entered after him, and they drove away. 
 
 Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they drove through 
 ■certain dull and stately streets, lying westward in London, it Avas growing 
 dusk. Florence had, by this time, put her hand in Walter's ; and was 
 looking very earnestly, and with increasing agitation, into every new street 
 into which they turned. 
 
 When the carriage stopped, at last, before that house in Brook-street, 
 where her father's unhappy marriage had been celebrated, Florence said, 
 *' Walter, what is this ? Who is here ? " Walter cheering her, and not 
 replying, she glanced up at the house -front, and saw that all the windows 
 were shut, as if it were uninhabited. Cousin Feenix had by this time 
 alighted, and was offering his hand. 
 
 " Are you not coming, Walter ? " 
 
 " No, I will remain here. Don 't tremble ! there is nothing to fear, 
 •dearest Florence," 
 
 " I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure of that, but " 
 
 The door was softly opened, without any knock, and cousin Feenix led 
 tier out of the summer evening air into the close dull house. More sombre 
 
616 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 and brown than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the wedding- 
 day, and to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever since. 
 
 Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling ; and stopped, with her 
 conductor, at the drawing-room door. He opened it, Avithout speaking, 
 and signed an entreaty to her to advance into the inner room, while he 
 remained there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, complied. 
 
 Sitting by the window at a table, where she seemed to have been writing 
 or drawing, was a lady, whose head, turned away towards the dying light, 
 was resting on her hand. Florence advancing, doubtfully, all at once stood 
 still, as if she had lost the power of motion. The lady turned her head. 
 
 " Great Heaven ! " she said, "what is this ? " 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Florence, shrinking 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 Edith, and beautiful and stately yet. It was the face of 
 Florence, and through aU the terrified avoidance it expressed, there was 
 pity in it, sorrow, a grateful tender memory. On each face, wonder and 
 fear were painted vividly ; each, so still and silent, looking at the othev 
 over the black gulf of the irrevocable past. 
 
 Florence Avas the first to change. Bursting into tears, she said, from 
 her full heart, " Oh Mama, Mama ! why do we meet like this ? Why 
 were you ever kind to me when there was no one else, that we should 
 meet like this ! " 
 
 Edith stood before her, dumb 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 pardon, I wiU do it. Mama. I am almost sure 
 he will grant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven gi'ant it to you, too, and 
 comfort you ! " 
 
 She answered not a word. 
 
 *' Walter — I am married to him, and we have a son " — said Florence, 
 timidly, " is at the door, and has brought me here. I will tell him that you 
 are repentant ; that you are changed," said Florence, looking mournfully 
 upon her ; " and he wiU speak to Papa with me, I know. Is there anything 
 but this that I can do ? " 
 
 Edith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or limb, answered slowly r 
 
 " The stain upon your name, upon your husband's, on your child's. 
 W^ill that ever be forgiven, Florence ? " 
 
 " WiU it ever be. Mama ? It is ! Freely, freely, both by Walter and 
 by me. If that is any consolation to you, there 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 you, if you wUl let me ; and 
 then, perhaps, we may take leave of each other, more like what we used 
 to be to one another. I have not," said Florence very gently, and 
 drawing nearer to her, "I have not shrunk back from you. Mama, 
 because I fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only 
 wish to do my duty to Papa. I am very dear to him, and he is very deair 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 617 
 
 to me. But I never can forget that you were very good to me. Oh, 
 pray to Heaven," cried Florence, falling on her bosom, " pray to Heaven, 
 Mama, to forgive you all this sin and shame, and to forgive me if I cannot 
 help doing this (if it is wrong), when I remember what you used to be ! " 
 
 Edith, as if she fell beneath her touch, sunk 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 dumb, believe 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 me, through the whole remainder 
 of my life, from purity and innocence — from you, of all the earth. Guilty 
 of a blind and passionate resentment, of which I do not, cannot, will not, 
 even now, repent ; but not guilty with that dead man. Before God ! " 
 
 Upon her knees upon the ground, she held up both her hands, and 
 swore it. 
 
 " Florence !" she said, "purest and best of natures, — whom Hove — who 
 might have changed me long ago, and did for a time work some change 
 even in the woman that I am, — believe me, I am innocent of that ; and once 
 more, on my desolate heart, let 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 
 wTung denial from me. No love, no hatred, no hope, no tlu-eat. I said 
 that I would die, and make no sign. I could have done so, and I would, 
 if we had never met, Florence." 
 
 " I trust," said cousin Feenix, ambling in at the door, and speaking, 
 half in the room, and half out of it, " that my lovely and accomplished 
 relative will excuse my having, by a little stratagem, effected this meeting. 
 I cannot say that I was, at first, wholly incredidous as to the possibility 
 of my lovely and accomplished relative having, very unfortunately, com- 
 mitted herself with the deceased person with white teeth; because, in 
 point of fact, one does see, in this world — which is remarkable for devilish 
 strange arrangements, and 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 Dombey, I could not admit the 
 criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative until it was perfectly 
 established. And feeling, when the deceased person, was, in point of fact, 
 destroyed in a devilish horrible manner, that 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 her, and that we are a careless family — and also 
 that my aunt, though a deviUsh lively woman, had perhaps not been the 
 very best of mothers — I took the liberty of seeking her in France, and 
 offering her such protection as a man very much out at elbows could offer. 
 Upon which occasion, my lovely and accompUshed relative did me the 
 honour to express that she believed I was, in my way, a 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 relative, as I am getting extremely shakey, and 
 have derived great comfort from her solicitude." 
 
618 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand 
 as if she would have begged him to say no more. 
 
 " My lovely and accomplished relative," resumed Cousin Eeenix, still 
 ambling about at the door, " will excuse me if, for her satisfaction, and 
 my own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished 
 daughter we so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations. 
 She will remember that, from the first, she and I have never alluded to 
 the subject of her elopement. My impression, certainly, has always l^een, 
 that there was a mystery in the affair which she could explain if so 
 inclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative being a devilish reso- 
 lute woman, I knew that she was not, in point of fact, to be trifletl with, 
 and therefore did not involve myself in any discussions. But, observing 
 lately, that her accessible point did appear to be a very strong description 
 of tenderness for the daughter of my friend Dombey, it occm-red to me 
 that if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on both sides, it might 
 lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we being in London, in the present 
 private way, before going to the South of Italy, there to establish our- 
 selves, in point of fact, until we go to our long homes, which is a devilish 
 disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied myself to the discovery of the 
 residence of my friend Gay — handsome man of an uncommonly frank dispo- 
 sition, who is probably known to my lovely and accomplished relative — 
 and had the happmess of bringing his amiable vnie to the present place. 
 And now," said Cousin Feenix, with a real and genuine earnestness shining 
 through the levity of his manner and his shpshod speech, " I do conjure 
 my relative, not to stop half way, but to set right, as far as she can, 
 whatever she has done wrong — not for the honour of her family, not 
 for her own fame, not for any of those considerations which unfor- 
 tunate circumstances have induced her to regard, as hollow, and in point of 
 fact, as approaching to humbug — but because it is wrong, and not right." 
 
 Cousin Feenix's legs consented to take him away after this ; and leaving 
 them alone together, he shut the door. 
 
 Edith remained silent for some minutes, with 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 all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and feeling 
 the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and how to 
 destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it." 
 
 " Is it for Papa ? " asked Florence. 
 
 " It is for whom you will," she answered. " It is given to you, and is 
 obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise." 
 
 Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness. 
 
 " Mama," said Florence, " he has lost his fortune ; he has been at the 
 point of death ; he may not recover, even 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 Florence, in a thrilling voice. 
 
 " TeE him I am sorry that we ever met." 
 
 " No more ?" said Florence after a pause. 
 
 " Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done — not 
 yet — for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is a 
 changed man — " 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 619 
 
 She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence's 
 hand that stopped her. 
 
 " — But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it 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 himself, one day, if they harve 
 brought that lesson, Florence." 
 
 " You wish weU to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you 
 would ! " said Florence. " Oh ! let me be able, if I have the occasion at 
 ■gome future time, to say so ? " 
 
 Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing stedfastly before her, and did not 
 reply until Florence had repeated her entreaty ; when she drew her hand 
 within her arm, and said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night 
 outside : 
 
 " TeU him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to com- 
 passionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him that 
 if, in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I 
 asked him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one another, never 
 more to meet on this side of eternity, he knows there is one fieeling in 
 common between us now, that there never was before." 
 
 Her sternness seemed to yield, and 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 most, he wiU hate me least. 
 When he is most proud and happy in her and her children, he will be 
 most repentant of his own part in the dark vision of our married life. At 
 that time, I 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 was, 
 I needed to have allowed more for the causes that had made him what he 
 was. I will try, then, to forgive him his share of blame. Let him try to 
 forgive me mine ! " 
 
 " Oh Mama ! " said Florence. " How it lightens my heart, even in such 
 a meeting and parting, to 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 me, I think I could have said them 
 still, hearing that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, 
 when you are dearest, ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts 
 of me — that I am most forbearing in my thoughts of him 1 Those are the 
 last words I send him ! Now, good bye, my life ! " 
 
 She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman's 
 soul of love and tenderness at once. 
 
 " This kiss for your child 1 These kisses for a blessing on your head ! 
 My own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell ! " 
 
 " 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. Eemember only that I was 
 once, and that I loved you ! " 
 
 And Flo3?ence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her 
 embraces and caresses to the last. 
 
620 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 Cousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down to Walter in the 
 dingy dining-room, upon whose shoulder she laid her head weeping. 
 
 " I am devilish sony," said Cousin Feenix, lifting Ms wristbands to his 
 eyes in the simplest manner possible, and without the least concealment, 
 " that the lovely and accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and 
 amiable wife of my friend Gay, should 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 best, and 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 himself, in point of fact, into 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 — every- 
 thing would have gone on pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who 
 does me the honour to have formed an uncommonly good opinion of 
 myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my friend Gay, that she may rely 
 on my being, in point of fact, a father to her. And in regard to the 
 changes of human life, and the extraordinary manner in which we are 
 perpetually conducting ourselves, all I can say is, with my friend Shak- 
 speare — man who wasn 't for an age but for all time, and with whom my 
 friend Gay is no doubt acquainted — that it 's like the shadow of a dream.'* 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 FINAL. 
 
 A BOTTLE that has been long excluded from the light of day, and is 
 hoary with dust and cobwebs, has 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 Madeira. 
 
 " You are quite right, Mr. GiUs," says Mr. Dombey. " This is a very 
 rare and most delicious wine." 
 
 The Captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There is a very 
 halo of delight round his glowing forehead. 
 
 " We always promised ourselves, Sir," observes Mr. Gills, " Ned and 
 myself, I mean — " 
 
 Mr. Dombey nods at the Captain, who shines more and more with 
 speechless gratiiication. 
 
 — " that we would drink this, one day or other, to Walter safe at home i 
 though such a home we never thought of. If you don't object to our 
 old whim. Sir, let us devote this first glass to Wedter and his wife." 
 
 " To Walter and his wife ! " says Mr. Dombey. " Florence, my 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 glass, Mr. Dombey, with a ready hand, holds out his. The others 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 6£1 
 
 follow ; and tliere is a blithe and meny ringing, as of a little peal of 
 marriage bells. 
 
 Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeii'a did in its time ; and 
 dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles. 
 
 Mr. Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks 
 of care and suffering ; but they are traces of a storm that has passed on for 
 ever, and 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 silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and 
 is always with his daughter. Miss Tox is not unfrequently of the family 
 party, and is quite devoted to it, and a great favourite. Her admiration 
 of her once stately patron is, and has been ever since the morning of her 
 shock in Princess' Place, platonic, but not weakened in the least. 
 
 Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunes, but a cer- 
 tain annual sum that comes he knows not how, with an earnest entreaty 
 that he will not seek to discover, and with the assurance that it is a debt, 
 and an act of reparation. He has consulted with his old clerk about this, 
 who is clear it may be honourably accepted, and has no doubt it arises out 
 of some forgotten transaction in the times of the old House. 
 
 That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is married now, and to 
 the sister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief sometimes, 
 but seldom. There is a reason in the grey-haired Junior's history, and 
 yet a stronger reason in his name, why he should keep retired from his old 
 employer ; and as he lives with his sister and her husband, they participate 
 in that retirement. Walter sees them sometimes — Florence too — and the 
 pleasant house resounds with profound duets arranged for the Piano- 
 Porte and Violoncello, and with the labours of Harmonious Blacksmiths. 
 
 And how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days ? Why, 
 here he still is, right leg foremost, hard at work upon the hackney coaches, 
 and more on the alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat 
 to his buckled shoes ; and up above him, in golden characters, these names 
 shine refulgent, Gills and Cuttle. 
 
 Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond 
 his usual easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile 
 round the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr. Gills's 
 old investments are coming out wonderfully well ; and that instead of being 
 behind the time in those respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth, a little 
 before it, and had to wait the fulness of the time and the design. The 
 whisper is that Mr. GiUs's money has begun to turn itself, and that it is 
 turning itself over and over pretty briskly. Certain it is that, standing at 
 his shop-door, in his coffee-coloured suit, with his chronometer in his 
 pocket, and his spectacles on his forehead, he don't appear to break his 
 heart at customers not coming, but looks very jovial and contented, 
 though full as misty as of yore. 
 
 As to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there 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 country, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the Port of London 
 without the Midshipman's assistance. His delight in his own name over 
 the door, is inexhaustible. He crosses the street, twenty times a-day, to 
 
622 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 look at it from the other side of the way ; and invariably says, on these 
 occasions, " Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother could ha' know'd as 
 as you would ever be a man o' science, the good old creetur would ha' 
 been took aback in-deed ! " 
 
 But here is Mr, Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent 
 rapidity, and Mr. Toots's face is very red as he bursts into the little 
 parlour. 
 
 " Captain GiUs," says Mr. Toots, " and ]\Ir. Sols, I 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. joy, Mr. Toots ! " says old Sol. 
 
 " Thank'ee," chuckles Mi". Toots, " I 'm very much obliged to you. 
 I knew that you'd be glad to hear, and so I came down myself. We 're 
 positively getting on, you know. There 's Florence, and Susan, and now 
 here's another little stranger." 
 
 " A female stranger ! " inquires the Captain. 
 
 " Yes, Captain Gills," says Mr. Toots, " and I 'm glad of it. The 
 oftener we can repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the 
 better ! " 
 
 " Stand by ! " says the Captain, turning to the old case-bottle with no 
 throat — for it is evening, and the Midshipman's usual moderate provisions 
 of pipes and glasses is on the board. " Here 'a to her, and may she have 
 ever so many more ! " 
 
 " Thank'ee Captain Gills/' says the delighted Mr. Toots. " I echo the 
 sentiment. If you 'U allow me, as my so doing cannot be unpleasant to 
 anybody, under the circumstances, I think I'll take a pipe." 
 
 Mr. Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of iiis heart 
 is very loquacious. , 
 
 " Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given 
 of her excellent sense. Captain GUIs and Mr. Sols," says Toots, " I think 
 none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has understood 
 my devotion to IVIiss Dombey." 
 
 Both liis auditors assent. 
 
 " Because, you know," says ^ix. Toots, " / have never changed my 
 sentiments towards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is 
 the same bright vision to me, at present, that she was before I made 
 Walters's acquaintance. When Mrs. Toots and myself first began to talk, 
 of — in short, of the tender passion, you know, Captain Gills." 
 
 " Aye aye, my lad," says the Captain, " as makes us all slue round — for 
 which you '11 overhaul the book — " 
 
 " I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills," says Mr. Toots, with great, 
 earnestness ; " when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained 
 that I was what you may call a Blighted flower, you know." 
 
 The Captain approves of this figure greatly ; and murmurs that no 
 flower as blows, is like the rose. 
 
 " But Lord bless me," pursues Mr. Toots, " she was as entii-ely con- 
 scious of the state of my feelings as I was myself. There was nothing I 
 could tell ker. She was the only person who could have stood between- 
 me and the silent Tomb, and she did it, in a manner to command my 
 everlasting admiration. She knows that there's nobody in the world I 
 look up to, a& I do to Miss Dombey. She knows that there's nothing on 
 
DOMBEY AND SON. 623 
 
 eartli I wouldn 't do for Miss Dombey. She knows that I consider her 
 the most beautiful, the most amiable, the most angelic of her sex. What 
 is her observation upon that ? The perfection of sense. ' My dear you 're 
 right. I think so too.' " 
 
 " And so do I !" says the Captain. 
 
 "So do I," says Sol Gills. 
 
 " Then," resumes Mr. Toots, after some contemplative pulling at his 
 pipe, during which his visage has expressed the most contented reflection, 
 " what an observant woman my wife is ! What sagacity she possesses ! 
 W'hat remarks she makes ! It was only last night, when we were sitting 
 in the enjoyment of connubial bliss — which, upon my word and honour, 
 is 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 \vife, ' he is, released from sea- 
 going, after that first long voyage with his young bride ' — as you know 
 he was, Mr. Sols." 
 
 " Quite true," says the Old Instrument Maker, rubbing his hands. 
 
 " ' Here he is,' " says my wife, " ' released from that, immediately ; 
 appointed by the same establishment to a post of great trust and con- 
 fidence at home; showing himself again worthy ; mounting up the ladder 
 with the greatest expedition ; beloved by every body ; assisted by his 
 uncle at the very best possible time of his fortunes' — which I think is the 
 case Mr. Sols ? My wife is always correct." 
 
 " Why yes, yes — some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come 
 home, truly," returns old Sol, laughing. " Small craft, Mr. Toots, but 
 serviceable to my boy ! " 
 
 " Exactly so ! " says Mr, Toots. " You 'U never find my wife wrong. 
 '' Here he is,' says that most remarkable woman, ' so situated, — 
 and what follows? What follows?' observed Mrs. Toots. Now pray 
 remark. Captain GiUs, and Mr. Sols, the depth of my wife's penetration. 
 ' Why that, under the very eye of Mr. Dombey, there is a foundation 
 going on, upon which a — an Edifice ; ' that was JVIi-s. 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 wife, ' from his daughter, after all, another 
 Dombey and Son will ascend ' — no ' rise ' ; that was Mrs. Toots's word — 
 ' triumphant ! ' " 
 
 Mr. Toots, with the assistance of his pipe — which he is extremely 
 glad to devote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with 
 a very uncomfortable sensation — does such grand justice to this prophetic 
 sentence of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat in 
 a state of the greatest excitement, cries : 
 
 " Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell 
 Wal 'r to overhaid on that there night when he first took to business ? 
 Was it this here quotation, * Turn again Whittington Lord Mayor of 
 London, and when you are old you wiU never depart from it.' Was it them 
 words, Sol GiUs ? " 
 
 " It certainly was, Ned," replied the Old Instrument Maker. " I 
 remember well." 
 
 " Then I tell you what," says the Captain, leaning back in his chair. 
 
624 DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 and composing his chest for a prodigious roar. " I'll give you Lovely Peg 
 right through ; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus ! " 
 
 Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time ; and dust 
 and cobwebs thicken on the bottles. 
 
 Autumn days arc shining,' and on the sea-beach there are often a young 
 lady, and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two 
 children : boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company. 
 
 The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him, 
 helps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him, as if he were thfe 
 object of his life. If he is thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is 
 thoughtful too ; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and 
 looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in his, 
 and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the child says : 
 
 " What, grandpapa, am I so like my poor little uncle again ? " 
 
 " Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong." 
 
 " Oh yes, I am very strong." 
 
 "And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about." 
 
 And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman 
 bkes best to see the cliild free and stirring ; and as they go about toge- 
 ther, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows them. 
 
 But no one, except Plorence, knows 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. lie fancies that she feels a slight, when 
 there is none. He steals away to look at her, in her sleep. It pleases 
 him to have her come, and wake him in the morning. He is fondest of 
 her and most loving to her, when there is no creature by. The child says 
 then, sometimes : 
 
 " Dear grandpapa, why 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 END. 
 
 IX>NDON : 
 BnADBUnV AND KVAN3, PRINTERS, WHITKFRfARS. 
 
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