.
// "// '
/'' ss ;-
' '/' .
OF OA IF 'R^^RY LOS ANGELES
WORKS
OF
CHARLES DICKENS.
Illustrated from Designs by Darley and Gilbert.
DOMBEY AND SON.
vovx VOLUME it jy oim.
BOSTON:
HOUGHTON, OSGOOD AND COMPANY.
(ZTfoe Biiersttic Jprccfg,
1880.
I Mending to Act of CoognM, te QM jmr IMF, fcy
IIUBD AND HOUOHTOX,
i Clerk > Office of the District Court for the Southern Dittrlet *
New York.
VIBBOTTPID AND PSINTIB B
B. 0. HOUQHTOS AN1- COMPAXT.
SACK ANNEX
firl
DOMBEY AND SON.
VOLUME. I.
PREFACE
1 MAKE so bold as to believe that the faculty (or
Ihe- habit) of closely and carefully observing the char-
acters of men, is a rare one. I have not even found,
within my experience, that the faculty (or the habit)
of closely and carefully observing so much as the
faces of men, is a general one by any means. The
two commonest mistakes in judgment that I suppose
to arise from the former default, are, the confounding
of shyness with arrogance, and the not understanding
that an obstinate nature exists in a perpetual struggle
with itself.
Mr. Dornbey undergoes no violent internal change,
either in this book, or in life. A sense of his injus-
tice is within him all along. The more he represses
it, the more unjust he necessarily is. Internal shame
and external circumstances may bring the contest to
the surface in a week, or a day ; but, it has been a
contest for years, and is only fought out after a long
balance of victory.
Tears have elapsed since I dismissed Mr. Dombey.
6 PREFACE.
I have not been impatient to offer this critical remark
&pon him, and I offer it with some confidence.
I began this book by the lake of Geneva, and wen*
on with it for gome months in France. The associa-
tion between the writing and the place of writing is so
curiously strong in my mind, that at this day, although
I know every stair in the little Midshipman's house, and
could swear to every pew in the church in which Flor-
ence was married, or to every young gentleman's bed-
Btead in Doctor Blimber's establishment, I yet con-
fusedly imagine Captain Cuttle as secluding himself from
Mrs. MacStinger among the mountains of Switzerland.
Similarly, when I am reminded by any chance of
what it was that the waves were always saying, I
wander in my fancy for a whole winter night about
the streets of Paris as I really did, with a heavy
heart, on the night w'jen my little friend and I parted
company forever.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I
CHAPTER I.
DOMBET AND SON , . ." " ... .9
CHAPTER II.
In which timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will
sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families . . .84
CHAPTER III.
In which Mr. Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the Head
of the Home Department ........ 39
CHAPTER IV.
In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of
these Adventures ......... 56
CHAPTER V.
Paul's Progress and Christening ...... 71
CHAPTER VI.
Paul's Second Deprivation ..... , .98
CHAPTER Vn.
A Bird's-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox's Dwelling-place; also of the
State of Miss Tox's Affections ....... 128
CHAPTER VIII.
Paul's further Progress, Growth, and Character ' . . . . 136
CHAPTER EX.
In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble ... 165
CHAPTER X.
Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman's Disaster . . 185
rill CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XL PAU
Paul's Introduction to a new Scene ...... 202
CHAPTER Xn.
Paul's Education . . 225
CHAPTER XIII.
Shipping Intelligence and Office Business 249
CHAPTER XIV.
Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home for the
Holidays 266
CHAPTER XV.
Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for Wal-
ter Gay .".'.". 801
CONTENTS OF VOLUME H
CHAPTER XVI.
What the Waves were always saying . f . T
CHAPTKR XVII.
Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People . . 15
CHAPTER XVIII.
Father and Daughter . .^-,f ..... . M
CHAPTER XIX.
Walter goes away .59
CHAPTER XX.
Mr. Dombey goes upon a Journey 78
CHAPTER XXI.
New Faces . 99
CHAPTER XXII.
& Trifle of Management by Mr. Carker the Manager . . . Ill
CHAPTER XXIII.
Florence Solitary, and the Midshipman Mysterious . . . 144
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Study of a loving Heart ..... . IT*
CONTENTS. . US
CHAPTER XXV. r*a
Strange News of Uncle Sol ... . 1M
CHAPTER XXVI
Shadows of the Past and Future . 808
CHAPTER XXVH.
Daeper Shadows . 331
CHAPTER XXVIH.
Alterations . . 26 |
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs. Chick ... . 873
CHAPTER yTT-
The Interval before the Marriage ....... 890
CONTENTS OF VOLUME m.
CHAPTER XXXL
The Wedding . . f
CHAPTER XXXH.
The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces ... . . .11
CHAPTER XXXm.
Contrasts , . . RT
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Another Mother and Daughter ....... 71
CHAPTER XXXV.
The Happy Pair ........ . M
CHAPTER XXXVL
House-warming . . 113
CHAPTER XXXVn.
More Warnings than One ...... . 190
CHAPTER XXXVHL
Hiss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance ' . 141
C . CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XXXIX. r*a
Farther Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner . . 100
CHAPTER XL.
Domestic Relations 181
CHAPTER XLI.
New Voices in the Waves . 208
CHAPTER XLII.
Confidential and Accidental 235
CHAPTER XLIH.
The Watches of the Night .' * . . . . . .248
CHAPTER XLIV.
A Separation 281
CHAPTER XLV.
The Trusty Agent i76
CHAPTER XLVL
Recognizant and Reflective ....... 888
CONTENTS OF VOLUME IV.
CHAPTER XLVII.
The Thunderbolt T
CHAPTER XLVUL
The Flight of Florence 91
CHAPTER XLIX.
The Midshipman makes a Discovery 64
CHAPTER L.
Mr. Toots's Complaint 84
CHAPTER LI.
Mr. Dombey and the World 108
CHAPTER LJI.
Secret Intelligence ..'... Ul
CONTENTS. n
CHAPTER LIH. PAH
More Intelligence 140
CHAPTER LIV.
The Fugitives 163
CHAPTER LV.
Rob the Grinder loses his Place 179
CHAPTER LVI.
Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted . . 197
CHAPTER LVII.
Another Wedding 230
CHAPTER LVIII.
After a Lapse 349
CHAPTER LIX.
Retribution 264
CHAPTER LX.
Chiefly Matrimonial 292
CHAPTER LXL
Relenting 310
CHAPTER LUL
Final Ml
DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER I.
DOMBEY AND SON.
DOM BET sat in the corner of the darkened room in
the great arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked
up warm in a little 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 while he
was very new.
Uombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son
about eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald,
rather red, and though a handsome well-made rnan, too
stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing.
Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course),
an undeniably line infant, somewhat crushed and spotty
in his general effect as yet. On the brow of Dombey,
Time, and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a
t '." lliat was to come down in good time remorseless
tiviu.s they are for striding through their human forests,
uolching as they go while the countenance of Son was
crossed and recrossed with a thousand little creases,
which the same deceitful Time would take delight in
smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his
10 DOMBEY AND SON.
scythe, as a preparation of the surface for his deeper
operations.
Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled
and jingled the heavy gold watch-chain that depended
from helow his trim blue coat, whereof the button
sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the di-
lant lire. Son, with his little fists curled up and clinchtd,
seemed, in his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for
having come upon him so unexpectedly.
" The house will once again, Mrs. Dombey," said Mr
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 a|>-
pended a term of endearment to Mrs. Dombey 's name
(though not without some hesitation, as being a man but
litile used to that form of address) : and said, " Mrs.
Dombey, my my dear."
A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick
lady's face as she raised her eyes towards him.
" He will be christened Paul, my Mrs. Dombey
of course."
She feebly echoed, " Of course," or rather expressed
it by the motion of her lips, and closed her eyes again.
" His father's name, Mrs. Dombey, and his grand-
father's ! I wish his grandfather were alive this day ! r
And again he said " Dom-bey and Son," in exactly the
same tone as before.
Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr. Dom-
bey's life. The earth was made for Dombey and Son to
linde in, and the sun and moon were made to give them
Jight. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships ;
rain!)ows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew
for or against their enterprises; stars and planets circled
DOMBEY: AXb SUN. 11
in their orbits, to preserve inviolate a system of which
Ihey were the centre. Common abbreviations took new
meanings in his eyes^ and had sole reference to them
A. D. had no concern with anno Domini, but stood foi
anno Dombei and Son.
He had risen, as his father had before him, in th
course of life and death, from Son to Dombey, and fb-
nearly twenty years had been the sole representative of
the firm. Of those years he had been married, ten
married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give
him ; whose happiness was in the past, and who was con-
tent to bind her broken spirit to the dutiful and meek en-
durance of the present. Such idle talk was little likely
to reach the ears of Mr. Dombey, whom it nearly con-
cerned ; and probably no one in the world would havti
received it with such utter incredulity as he, if it had
reached him. Dombey and Son had often dealt in hides,
but never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys
and girls, and boarding-schools and books. Mr. Dombey
would have reasoned : That a matrimonial alliance with
himself must, in the nature of things, be gratifying and
honorable to any woman of common sense. That the
hope of giving birth to a new partner in such a house, V r
could not fail to awaken a glorious and stirring ambition
in the breast of the least ambitious of her sex. That
Mrs. Dombey had entered on that social contract of
matrimony : almost necessarily part of a genteel and
wealthy station, even without reference to the perpetu-
ation of family firms : with her eyes fully open to these
advantages. That Mrs. Dombey had had daily practical
knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs. Dora-
oey had always sat at the head of his table, and done the
honors of his house in a remarkably lady-like and becom-
12 DOMBEY ASD SON.
big manner. That Mrs. Dombey must have been happy,
That she couldn't help it.
Or, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he
would have allowed. With only one ; but that one cer-
tainly involving much. They had been married ten
years, and until this present day on which Mr. Dombey
sat jingling and jingling his heavy gold watch-chain in the
great arm-chair by the side of the bed, had had no issue.
To speak of ; none worth mentioning. There had
been a girl some six years before, and the child, who had
stolen into the chamber unobserved, was now crouching
timidly, in a corner whence she could see her mother's
face. But what was a girl to Dombey and Son ! Ii:
the capital of the House's name and dignity, such a
child was merely a piece of base coin that couldn't be
invested a bad boy nothing more.
Mr. Dombey's cup of satisfaction was so full at this
moment, however, 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 like, I dare say. Don't touch
him ! "
The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff
white cravat, which, with a pair of creaking boots and a
very loud-ticking watch, embodied her idea of a father ;
but her eyes returned to her mother's face immediately,
imd she neither moved nor answered.
Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen
the child , and the child had run towards her ; and,
Dtanding on tiptce, the better to hide her face in her em-
brace, had clung about her with a desperate affection
very much at variance with her years.
DOMBEY AND SOX. 13
Oh Lord bless me ! " said Mr. Dombey, rising testily
" A very ill-advised and feverish proceeding this, I ana
sure. I had better ask Doctor Peps if he'll have the
goodness to step up-stairs again perhaps. I'll go down.
I'll go down. I needn't beg you," he added, pausing foi
a moment at the settee before the fire, " to take particu-
lar care of this young gentleman, Mrs. "
" Biockitt, sir ? " 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 sug-
gestion.
" Of this young gentleman, Mrs. Biockitt."
u No, sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence
vas born "
" Ay, ay, ay," said Mr. Dombey, bending over the
basket bedstead, and slightly bending hid brows at the
same time. " Miss Florence was all very well, but this
is another matter. This young gentleman has to accom-
plish a destiny. A destiny, little fellow ! " As he thus
apostrophized the infant he raised one of his hands to
his lips, 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
R man of immense reputation for assisting at tin; increase
of groat families, was walking up and dowrt the drawing-
room with his hands behind him, to the unspeakablo
a !mir:*tion of the family surgeon, who had regularly
puffed the case for the last six weeks, among all his pa-
tients, friends, and acquaintances, as one to which ho
was in hourly expectation day and night of being sum-
tnoned, in conjunction with Doctor Parker Peps.
" Well sir, '" said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep,
14 DOMBKY AND SO\.
sonorous voice, muffled for the occasion, like the knocker,
* do you find that your dear lady is at all roused by
your visit ? "
" Stimulated, as it were ? " said the family practitioner,
faintly ; bowing at the same time to the doctor, as imuh
as to say, " Excuse my putting in a word, but this is a
valuable connection."
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 him, if Doctor Parker Peps would walk
up-stairs again.
" Good ! We must not disguise from you, sir," said
Doctor Parker Peps, u that there is a want of power in
Her Grace the Duchess 1 beg your pardon; 1 con-
found names ; 1 should say, in your amiable lady. That
there is a certain degree of languor, and a general ab-
sence of elasticity, which we would rather not"
44 See," interposed the family practitioner, with another
inclination of the head.
" Quite so," said Doctor Parker Peps, " which we
would rather not see. It would appear that the system
of Lady Cankaby excuse me ; I should say of Mrs.
Dombey: 1 confuse the names of cases"
" So very numerous," murmured the family practitioner
"can't be expected, I'm sure quite wonderful if
otherwise Doctor Parker Peps's west-end practice "
" Thank you," said the doctor, "quite so. It would
nppoar, I was observing, that the system of our patient
has sustained a shock from which it can only hope tu
rally by a great and strong "
" And vigorous," murmured the family practitioner.
u Quite so," assented the doctor " and vigorous ef-
DOMJ3EY AND SON. 15
fort. Mi. i*iikins here, who from his position of mtdical
ftdviecr in this family no one better qualified to nil
that position, I am sure."
" Oh !" murmured the family practitioner. '" Praije
fiom Sir Hubert Stanley!'"
" You are good enough," returned Doctor Parker
Peps, " to say so. Mr. Pilkins who, from his position,
is best acquainted with the patient's constitution in its
normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us in
forming our opinions on these occasions), is of opinion
with me, that Nature must be called upon to make a
vigorous effort in this instance ; and that if our interest-
ing friend the Countess of Dorabey I beg your par-
don ! Mrs. Dombey should not be"
" Able," said the family practitioner.
" To make that effort successfully," said Doctor Par
ker Peps, " then a crisis might arise, which we should
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 Pep>. they went up-stairs; the family
practitioner opening the room-door for that distinguished
professional, and following him out with most obsequious
politeness.
To record of Mr. Dombey that he was not in his way
n3bcted by this intelligence, would be to do him an injus-
tice. He was not a man of whom it could properly be
said that he was ever startled or shocked ; but he cer-
-linly had a sense within him, that if his wife should
sicken and decay, he would be very sorry, and that lie
would find a something gone from among his plate and
furniture, and other household possessions, which was
well worth the having,- and could not be lost without sin
16 DOMBEY AND SON.
wre regret. Though it would be a cool, business like,
gentlemanly, self-possessed regret, no doubt.
His meditations on the subject were soon interrupted,
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 otherwise, but dressed
in a very juvenile manner, particularly as to the tight-
ness of her bodice, who, running up to him with a kind
of screw in her face and carriage, expressive of sup-
pressed emotion, flung her arms round his neck, and
said in a choking voice,
" My dear Paul ! He's quite a Dorabey ! "
" Well, well ! " returned her brother for Mr. Dom-
Ix-y was her brother "I think he is like the family.
Don't agitate yourself, Louisa."
" It's very foolish of me," said Louisa, sitting down,
and taking out her pocket-handkerchief, " but he's
he's such a perfect Dotnbey ! / never saw anything
like it in my life ! "
" But what is this about Fanny, herself ? " said Mr.
Dombey. " How is Fanny ? "
" My dear Paul," returned Louisa, " it's nothing what-
ever. 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'll make it ; I have no doubt she'll
make it. Knowing it to be required of her, as a duty,
of course she'll make it. My dear Paul, it's very weak
[uid silly of me, I know, to be so trembly and shaky
from head to foot ; but I am so very queer that I must
ask you for a glass of wine and a morsel of that cake,
I thought I should have fallen out of the staircase win
DOMBEY AND SON. 17
dow a" I came down from seeing dear Fanny, and that
tiddy iekle sing." These last words originated in a sud-
ilcn vivid reminiscence of the haby.
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 ^h
rose from her seat, " it's Miss Tox. The kindest crea-
ture! I never could have got here without her! Miss
Tox, my brother Mr. Dombey. Paul my dear, my very
particular friend Miss Tox."
The lady thus specially presented, was a long lean
figure, wearing such a faded air that she seemed not to
have been made in what linen-drapers call " fast colors "
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 admirably to everything that was
said in her presence, and looking at the speakers as if
she were mentally engaged in taking off impressions of
their 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 an involuntary admi-
ration. Her eyes were liable to a similar affection.
She had the softest voice that ever was heard ; and hei
nose, stupendously aquiline, had a little knob in the
very centre or keystone of the bridge, whence it tended
ilownwards towards her fare, as in an invincible deter-
oiination never to turn up at anything.
Miss Tox's dress, though perfectly genteel and good,
had a certain character of angularity and scantiness.
She was accustomed to wear odd weedy little flowers in
VOL. i. 2
18 DOMBEY AND SON.
her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were sometimes
perceived in her hair; and it was observed by the curi-
ous, of all her collars, frills, 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 furry articles for
winter wear, as tippets, boas, and muffs, 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 full-dressed, she wore
round her neck the barrenest of lockets, representing a
fishy old eye with no approach to speculation in it.
These and other appearances of a similar nature, had
served 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
encouraged 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 everything.
" I am sure," said Miss Tox, with a prodigious courte-
sy, " that to have the honor of being presented to Mr.
Dombey is a distinction which I have long sought, but
very little expected at the present moment. My dear
Mrs. Chick may I say Louisa ! "
Mrs. Chick took Miss Tox's hand in hers, rested the
ftwt of her wine-glass upon it, repressed a tear, and said
in a low voice " Bless you ! "
' My dear Louisa then," said Miss 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
(oust want it, I am sure."
DOMBET AND SOTS'. 19
Mr. Doinbey of course officiated.
"Miss Tox, Paul," pursued Mrs. Cliiek, still retaining
her hand, " knowing liow much I have been interested in
the anticipation of the event of to-day, has been working
at a little gift for Fanny, which I promised to present
It is only a pincushion for the toilet table, Paul, but I
do say, and will say, and must say, that Miss Tox ha?
T?ry prettily adapted the sentiment to the occasion J
oj 11 '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,"
Baid Miss Tox in a tone of low and earnest entreaty,
" that nothing but the I have some difficulty in ex-
pressing myself the dubiousness of the result would
have induced me to take so great a liberty: 'Welcome,
Master Dombey,' would have been much more congenial
to my feelings, as I am sure you know. But the uncer-
tainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope, ex-
cuse; what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable fa-
miliarity." Miss Tox made a graceful bend as she spoke,
in favor of Mr. Dombey, which that gentleman graciously
acknowledged. Even the sort of recognition of Dombey
and Son, conveyed in the foregoing conversation, was
so palatable to him, that his sister, Mrs. Chick though
he affected to consider her a weak good-natured person
had perhaps more influence over him than anybody
t\*Q.
" Well ! " said Mrs. Chick, with a sweet smile, " after
this, I forgive Fanny everything!"
It was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs.
Chick felt that it did her good. Not that she had any-
thing particular to forgive in her sister-in-law, nor indeed
20 DOMBEY AND SON.
anything at all, except her having married her brother
in itself a species of audacity and her having, in
the course of events, given birth to a girl instead of a
boy : which, as Mrs. Chick had frequently observed, was
not quite what she had expected of her, ami was not a
pleasant return for all the attention and distinction she
bad met with.
Mr. Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room
at this moment, the two ladies were left alone together.
Miss Tox immediately became spasmodic.
"I knew you would admire my brother. I told yo
BO beforehand, my dear," said Louisa.
Miss Tox's hands and eyes expressed how much.
" And as to his property, my dear ! "
" Ah ! " said Miss Tox, with deep feeling.
" Im mense ! "
" But his deportment, my dear Louisa ! " said Miss
Tox. " His presence! His dignity! No portrait that 1
have ever seen of any one has been half so replete with
those qualities. Something so stately, you know : so un-
compromising: so very wide across the chest : so upright!
A pecuniary Duke of York, my love, and nothing short
of it ! " said Miss Tox. " That's what 7 should desig-
nate him."
" Why, my dear Paul ! " exclaimed his sister, as he
returned, " you look quite pale ! There's nothing tha
matter ? "
" I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that
Fnnny"
" Now, my dear Paul," returned his sister rising,
" don't believe it If you have any reliance on 1117 ex-
perience, Paul, you may rest assured that there is noth-
ing wanting but an effort on Fanny's part. And that
DOM BEY AND SON. 21
|
pflfbrt," she continued, taking off her bonnet, and adjust
ing lier cap and gloves, in a business-like manner, " she
must be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to
make. Now, my dear Paul, 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 bustling
matron, acquiesced; and^followed her, at once, to the
sick-chamber.
The lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasp-
ing her little daughter to her breast. The child clung
close about her, with the same intensity as before, and
never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek from her
mother's face, or looked on those who stood around, or
spoke, or moved, or shed a tear.
( Restless without the little girl," the doctor whispered
Mr. Dombey. " We found it best to have her in again."
There was such a solemn stillness round the bed ; and
the two medical attendants seemed to look on the impas-
sive form with so much compassion and so little hope, that
Mrs. Chick was for the moment diverted from her pur-
pose. But presently summoning courage, and what she
called presence of mind, she sat down by the bedside,
and said in the low precise tone of one who endeavors to
twaken a slt-eper :
" Fanny ! Fanny ! "
There was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of
Mr. Dombey's watch and Doctor Parker Peps's watch,
whi.;h seemed in the silence to be running a race.
" Fanny, my dear," said Mrs. Chick, with assumed
lightness, " here's Mr. Dombey come to see you. Won't
pou speak to him? They want to lay your little boy
the baby, Fanny, you know ; you hav-j hardly seen him
22 DOMBET AND SON.
yet, I think in bed ; but they can't till you rouse your-
self a little. Don't you think it's time you moused your-
self a little ? Eh?"
She bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same
time looking round at the by-standers, and holding up her
finger.
" Eh ? " she repeated, " what was it you said, Fanny ?
I didn't hear you."
No word or sound in answer. Mr. Dombey*s watch
and Dr. Parker Peps's watch seemed to be racing faster.
" Now, really Fanny my dear," said the sister-in-law,
altering her position, and speaking less confidently, and
more earnestly, in spite of herself, " I shall have to be
quite cross with you, if you don't rouse yourself. It's
necessary for you to make an effort, and perhaps a very
great and painful effort which you are not disposed to
make ; but this is a world of effort you know, Fanny,
and we must never yield, when so much depends upon
us. Come ! Try ! I must really scold you if you
don't!"
The race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious.
The watches seemed to jostle, and to trip each other
up.
" Fanny ! " said Louisa, glancing round, with a gath-
ering alarm. " Only look at me. Only open your eyes
to show me that you hear and understand me ; will you ?
Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done ! "
The two medical attendants exchanged a look across
the bed ; and the physician, stooping down, whispered
in the child's ear. Not having understood the purport
of his whisper, the little creature turned her perfectly
colorless face, and deep dark eyes towards him ; buf
without loosening her hold in the least.
DOMBET AND SON. 2o
The whisper was repeated.
" Mama ! " said the child.
The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, avnkened
some show of consciousness, even at that ebb. For a
moment, the closed eyelids trembled, and the nostril quiv-
ered, and the faintest shadow of a smile was seen.
" Mama ! " cried the child sobbing aloud. " Oh dear
mama ! oh dear mama ! "
The doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of
the child, aside from the face and mouth of the mother.
Alas how calm they lay there; how little breath there
was to stir them !
Thus, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms,
the mother drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea
that rolls round all the world.
24 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER II.
IS WHICH TIMELY PRO VISION IS MADE KORAN EMERGENCY
THAT WILL SOMETIMES ARISE IN THE BEST-REGULATED
FAMILIES.
"I SHALL never cease to congratulate myself," said
Mrs. Chick, " on having said, when I little thought what
was in store for us, really as if I was inspired by
something, that I forgave poor dear Fanny every-
thing. Whatever happens, that must always be a com-
fort 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, who were
busy on the family mourning. She delivered it for the
behoof of Mr. Chick, who was a stout bald gentleman,
with a very large face, and his hands continually in his
pockets, and who had a tendency in his nature to whistle
and hum tunes, which, sensible of the indecorum of such
sounds in a house of grief, he was at some pains to re-
press at present.
" Don't you over-exert yourself, Loo," said Mr. Chick,
"or you'll be laid up with spasms, I see. Right tol loor
nil ! Bless my soul, I forgot ! We're here one day and
gone the next ! "
Mrs. Chick contented herself with a glance of reproof
and then proceeded with the thread of her discourse.
DOMBEY AND SON. 25
" J am sure," she said, " I hope this heart-rending
occurrence will be a warning to all of us, to accustom
ourselves to rouse ourselves and to make efforts in time
where they're required of us. There's a moral in every-
thing, if we would only avail ourselves of it. It will be
our own faults if we lose sight of this one."
Mr. Chick invaded the grave silence which ensued on
this remark with the singularly inappropriate air of " A
cobbler there was ; " and checking himself, in some con-
fusion, observed, that it was undoubtedly our own faults
if we didn't improve such melancholy occasions as the
present.
" Which might be better improved, I should think,
Mr. C.," retorted his helpmate after a short pause, " than
by the introduction, either of the college hornpipe, or the
equally unmeaning and unfeeling remark of rump-te-
iddity, bow-wow-wow ! " which Mr. Chick had indeed
indulged in, under his breath, and which Mrs. Chick
repeated in a tone of withering scorn.
" Merely habit, my dear," pleaded Mr. Chick.
" Nonsense ! Habit ! " returned his wife. " If you're
a rational being, don't make such ridiculous excuses.
Habit ! If I was to get a habit (as you call it) of
walking on the ceiling like the flies, I should hear
enough of it, I dare say."
It appeared so probable that such a habit might be
attended with some degree of notoriety, that Mr. Chick
didn't venture to dispute the position.
" How's the baby, Loo ? " asked Mr. Chick : to change
the subject.
" What baby do you mean ? " answered Mrs. Chick.
"I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining-
room down-stairs one mass of babies, no one in theii
tenses would believe."
26 DOMBEY AND SON.
a One mass of babies ! " repeated Mr. Chick, staring
ivith an alarmed expression about him.
u It would have occurred to most men," said Mrs,
Chick, " that poor dear Fanny being no more, it be-
comes necessary to provide a nurse."
" Oh ! Ah ! " said Mr. Chick. " Toor-rul such \9
life, I mean. 1 hope you are suited, my dear."
* Indeed I am not,** said Mrs. Chick ; u nor likely
to be, so far as I can see. Meanwhile, of course, the
child is"
" Going to the very deuse," said Mr. Chick, thought-
fiilly, " to be sure."
Admonished, however, that he had committed him-
self, by the indignation expressed in Mrs. Chick's coun-
tenance at the idea of a Dombey going there ; and
thinking to atone for his misconduct by a bright sug-
gestion, he added :
" Couldn't something temporary be done with a tea-
pot?"
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 resig-
nation, Mrs. Chick walked majestically to the window
and peeped through the blind, attracted by the sound
of wheels. Mr. Chick, finding that his destiny was, for
the time, against him, said no more, and walked off. But
it was not always thus with Mr. Chick. He was often
in the ascendant himself, and at those times punished
Louisa roundly. In their matrimonial bickerings they
were, upon the whole, a well-matched, fairly balanced,
give and-take couple. It would have been, generally
speaking, very difficult to have betted on the winner
Often when Mr. Chick seemed beaten, he would sud-
DOMBET AND SON. 27
denly make a start, turn the tables, clatter them about
the ears of Mrs. Chick, and carry all before him. Be-
ing liable himself to similar unlooked-for checks from
Mrs. Chick, their little contests usually possessed a
haracter of uncertainty that was very animating.
Miss Tox had arrived on the wheels just now alluded
to, and came running into the room in a breathless con-
iliiion.
" My dear Louisa," said Miss Tox, " is the vacancy
still unapplied ?"
" You good soul, yes," said Mrs. Chick.
" Then, my dear Louisa," returned Miss Tox, " I hope
and believe but in one moment, my dear, I'll introduce
the party."
Running down-stairs again as fast as she had run up,
Miss Tox got the party out of the hackney-coach, and
soon returned with it under convoy.
It then appeared that she had used the word, not in
Us legal or business acceptation, when it merely expresses
an individual, but as a noun of multitude, or signifying
many : for Miss Tox escorted a plump rosy-cheeked
wholesome apple-faced young woman, with an infant in
Jier 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
vr\io walked by himself; and finally, a plump and ap-
le-faced man, who carried in his arms another plump
and apple-faced boy, whom he stood down on the floor,
and admonished in a husky whisper, to " kitch hold cf
his brother Johnny."
" My dear Louisa," said Miss Tox, " knowing youT
great anxiety, and wishing *o relieve it, I posted off
myself to the Queen Charlotte s Royal Married Females,
28 DOMBET AND SON.
which you had forgot, and put the question, Was there
anybody there that they thought would suit ? No, they
said, there was not. When they gave me that answer,
I do assure you, my dear, I was almost driven to despair
on your account. But it did so happen, that one of the
Royal Married Females, hearing the inquiry, reminded
the matron of another who had gone to her own home,
and who, she said, would in all likelihood be most satis*
factory. The moment I heard this, and had it corrob-
orated by the matron excellent references and unim-
peachable 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. ' DonH 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 ac-
count of them could be half so comfortable to you and
Mr. Dombey as the sight of them all together, I brought
them all away. '' This gentleman," said Miss Tox,
pointing out the apple-faced man, " is the father. Will
you have the goodness to come a little forward, sir?"
The apple-faced man having sheepishly complied with
this request, stood chuckligg and grinning in a front row.
" This is his wife, of course," said Mi-^s 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
ha/1 made the inquiry as in condescension to an old ac-
quaintance, whom she hadn't seen for a fortnight or so.
"I'm glad to hear it," said Miss Tox. "The other
young woman is her unmarried sister who lives with
DOMBEY AND SON. 29
them, and would take care of her children. Her name's
Jemima. How do you do, Jemima?"
" I'm pretty well, I thank you, ma'am," returned Je-
mima.
" I'm very glad indeed to hear it," said Miss Tox.
" I hope you'll keep so. Five Children. Youngest six
weeks. The fine little boy with the blister on his nose
<s the eldest. The blister, I believe," said Miss Tox,
looking round upon the family, "is not constitutional,
but accidental ? "
The apple-faced man was understood to growl, " Flat-
iron."
" I beg your pardon, sir," said Miss Tox, " did
you ? "
" Flat-iron," he repeated.
"Oh yes," said Miss Tox. "Yes! quite true. I
forgot. The little creature, in his mother's absence,
smelt a warm flat-iron. You're quite right, sir. You
were going to have the goodness to inform me, when
we arrived at the door, that you were by trade, a"
u Stoker," said the man.
"A choker!" said Miss Tox, quite aghast.
" Stoker," said the man. " Steam-engine."
" Oh-h ! Yes ! " returned Miss Tox, looking thought-
fully at him, and seeming still to have but a very im-
perfect understanding of his meaning.
" And how do you like it, sir ? "
** Which, mum ? " said the man.
That," replied Miss Tox. "Your trade."
" Oh ! Pretty well, mum. The ashes sometimes gets
in here;" touching his chest: "and 1 makes a man speak
gruff, as at the present time. But it is ashen, mum.
not crustiness."
30 DOMBEY AND SON.
Miss Tox seemed to be so little enlightened by this
reply, as to find a difficulty in pursuing the subject
But Mrs. Chick relieved her, by entering into a close
private examination of Polly, her children, her marriage
certificate, testimonials, and so forth. Polly coming out
unscathed from this or^pal, Mrs. Chick withdrew with
her report to her brother's room, and as an emphatic
comment on it, and corroboration of it, carried the two
rosiest little Toodles with hei* Toodle being the family
name of the apple-faced family.
Mr. Doinbey had remained in his own apartment since
the death of his wife, absorbed in visions of the youth,
education, and destination of his baby son. Something
lay at the bottom of his cool heart, colder and heavier
than its ordinary load ; but it was more a sense of the
child's loss than his own, awakening within him an
almost angry sorrow. That the life and progress on
which he built such hopes, should be endangered in the
outset by so mean a want ; that Dombey and Son should
be tottering for a nurse, was a sore humiliation. And
yet in his pride and jealousy, he viewed with so much
bitterness the thought of being dependent for the very
first step towards the accomplishment of his soul's de-
sire, on a hired serving-woman who would be to the
child, for the time, all that even his alliance could have
made his own wife, that in every new rejection 'of 8
candidate he felt a secret pleasure. The time had
now come, however, when he could no longer be di-
vided between those two sets of feelings. The less so.
ns there seemed to be no flaw in the title of Polly
Toodle after his sister had set it forth, with many
commendations on the indefatigable, friendship of Miss
Pox.
DOMBEY AND SON. 31
u These children look healthy," said Mr. Dorubey.
"But to think of their some day claiming a sort of
relationship to Paul! Take them away, Louisa! Iiet
me see this woman and her husband."
Mrs. Chick bore off the tender pair of Toodles, and
presently returned with that tougher couple whose pres
ence her brother had commanded.
" My good woman," said Mr. Doinbey, turning round
in his easy-chair, as one piece, and not as a man with
limbs and joints, "I understand you are poor, and wish
to earn money by nursing the little boy, my son, who
has been so prematurely deprived of what can never
be replaced. I have no objection to your adding to
the comforts of your family by that means. So far as
I can tell, you seem to be a deserving object. But I
must impose one or two conditions on you, before you
enter my house in that capacity. While you are here,
I must stipulate that you are always known as say as
Richards an ordinary name and convenient. Have
you any objection to be known as Richards ? You had
better consult your husband." , -
As the husband did nothing but chuckle and grin, and
continually draw his right hand across his mouth, mois-
tening the palm, Mrs. Toodle after nudging him twice
or tlmce in vain, dropped a courtesy and replied " that
perhaps if she was to be called out of her name, it would
be considered in the wages."
" Oh, of course," said Mr. Dombey. " I desire to
make it a question of wages, altogether. Now, Richards,
if you nurse my bereaved child, I wish you to remem-
ber this always. You will receive a liberal stipend in
return for the discharge of certain duties, in the per-
formance ol which, I wish you to see as little of youf
32 DOMBEY AXD SON.
family a> possible. When those duties cease to be re-
quired 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. Donibey.
tt It is not at all in this bargain that you need become
attached to my child, or that my child need become
attached to you. I don't expect or desire anything of
the kind. Quite the reverse. When you go away
from here, you will have concluded what is a mere
matter of bargain and sale, hiring and letting : ^""i
will stay away. The child will cease to remember
you ; and you will cea.se, if you please, to remember
.he 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." *id Mr. Dombey. " I
have no doubt yuu knc>-" it v-v-v *!!. Indeed it is so
plain and obviou* it\**; it could hnrdly be otherwise.
Louisa my dear, arrange with Richards about money,
and let her have it when and how she pleases.* 'Mr.
what's-your-name, a word with you, if you please!"
Thus arrested on the threshold as he was following
his wife out of the room, Toodle returned and con-
fronted Mr. Dombey alone. He was a strong, loose,
round-shouldered, shuffling, shaggy fellow, on whom his
clothes sat negligently : with a good deal of hair and
whisker, deepened in its natural tint, perhaps, by smoke
and coal-dint hard knotty hands: and a square fore-
DOMLEY AND SON. 88
head, as coaive in grain as (he bark of an oak. A
thorough contrast in all respects to Mr. Dorabey, who
was one of those close-shaved close-cut moneyed gentle-
men 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, sir."
"What is that?"
" To lose 'em, sir."
" Can you read ? " asked Mr. Dombey.
" Why, not partick'ler, sir."
Write ? "
" With chalk, sir."
"With anything?"
" I could make shift to chalk a little bil. 1 think, if
I was put to it," said Toodle, after some reflec^on.
" And yet," said Mr. Dombey, " you are two o. three
and thirty, I suppose ? "
" Thereabouts, I suppose, sir," answered Toodle, after
more reflection.
'Then why don't you learn ? " asked Mr. Dombey.
' So I'm a-going to, sir. One of my little boys is a-
eomg to learn me, when he's old enough, and been to
kC.hool himself."
" Well ! " said Mr. Dornbey, after looking at him at-
tentively and with no great favor, as he stood gazing
ound the room (principally round the ceiling) and atiU
84 DOMBEY AJH) SON.
Drawing his hand across and across his mouth. " Ton
heard what I said to your wife just now ? "
" Polly heerd it," said Toodle, jerking his hat over his
shoulder in the direction of the door, with an air of per-
fect confidence in his better half. " It's all right.'*
u As you appear to leave everything to her," said Mr
Domhey, frustrated in his intention of impressing La
views still more distinctly on the husband, as the stronger
character, "I suppose it is of no use my saying anything
to you."
Not a bit," said Toodle. " Polly heerd it. SheTt
awake, sir."
" I won't detain you any longer then," returned Mr.
Dombey disappointed. " Where have you worked all
your life ? "
" Mostly underground, sir, till I got married. I come
to the level then. I'm a-going on one of these here rail-
roads when they comes into full play."
As the last straw breaks the laden camel's back, this
piece of underground information crushed the sinking
spirits of Mr. Dombey. He motioned his child's foster-
father to the door, who departed by no means unwill-
ingly : and then turning the key, paced up and down
the room in solitary wretchedness. For all his starched
-impenetrable dignity and composure, he wiped blinding
tears from his eyes as he did so : and often said, with an
emotion of which he would not, foi the world, have Lad
a witness, " Poor little fellow ! "
It may have been characteristic of Mr. Dombeys
nride that he pitied himself through the child. Not
pour me. Not poor widower, confiding by constraint
in the wife of an ignorant Hind who has been work-
'tu> " mostly underground " all his life, nn I yet Ht whose
DOMBEY AND SON. 35
door Death has never knocked, and at whose poor table
four sons daily sit but poor little fellow !
Those words being on his lips, it occurred to him
and it is au instance of the strong attraction with which
his hopes and fears and all his thoughts were tending to
one centre that a great temptation was being placed in
this woman's way. Her infant was a boy too. Now,
vpould it be possible for her to change them ?
Though he was soon satisfied that he had dismissed
the idea as romantic and unlikely though possible,
there was no denying he could not help pursuing it
so far as to entertain within himself a picture of what
his condition would be, if he should discover such an im-
posture when he was grown old. Whether a man so
situated, would be able to pluck away the result of so
many years of usage, confidence, and belief, from the im-
postor, and endow a stranger with it?
As his unusual emotion subsided, these misgivings
gradually melted away, though so much of their shadow
remained behind, that he was constant in his resolution
to look closely after Richards himself, without appearing
to do so. Being now in an easier frame of mind, he re-
garded the woman's station as rather an advantageous
circumstance than otherwise, by placing, in itself, a
broad distance between her and the child, and render-
ing their separation easy and natural.
Meanwhile terms were ratified and agreed upon be-
tween Mrs. Chick and Richards, with the assistance of
Miss Tox ; and Richards being with much ceremony in-
vested with the Doinbey 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.
36 DOMBEY AND SON.
" You'll take a glass yourself, sir, won't you ? " said
Miss Tox. as Toodle appeared.
** Thankee, mum," said Toodle, "since you are sup-
pressing."
"And you're very glad to leave your dear good wife
in such a comfortable home, a'n't you, sir?" said Miss
Tox, nodding and winking at him stealthily.
" No, mum," said Toodle. " Here's wishing of her
back agin."
Polly cried more than ever at this. So Mrs. Chick,
who had her matronly apprehensions that this indulgence
In grief might be prejudicial to the little Dombey (- acid,
indeed," she whispered Miss Tox), hastened to the rescue.
"Your little child will thrive charmingly with your sis-
ter Jemima, Richards," said Mrs. Chick ; " and you have
only to make an effort this is a world of effort, you
know, Richards to be very happy indeed. You have
been already measured for your mourning, haven't you,
Richards ? "
" Ye es, ma'am," sobbed Polly.
" And it'll fit beautifully, I know," said Mrs. Chick,
" for the same young person has made me many dresses."
The very best materials, too ! "
" Lor, you'll be so smart," said Miss Tox, " that your
husband won't know you ; will you, sir? "
"I should know her," said Toodle, gruffly, " anyhows
and anywheres."
Toodle was evidently not to be bought over.
"As to living, Richards, you know," pursued Mrs.
Chick, " why the very best of everything will be at your
disposal. You will order your little dinner every day ;
anil anything you take a fancy to, I'm sure will be as
feadily provided as if you were a lady."
DOMBEY AND SON.
" Yes, lo be sure ! " said Miss Tox, keeping up the
ball with great sympathy. "And as to porter! quite
unlimited, will it not, Louisa?"
"Oh, certainly!" returned Mrs. Chick, in the same
tone. " With a little abstinence, you know, ray dear, in
xjint of vegetables."
" And pickles, perhaps," suggested Miss Tox.
" With such exceptions," said Louisa, " she'll consult
her choice entirely, and be under no restraint at all, my
love."
" And then, of course, you know," said Miss Tox,
u however fond she is of her own dear little child
and I'm sure, Louisa, you don't blame her for being fond
of it ? "
" Oh no ! " cried Mrs. Chick, benignantly.
" Still," reamed Miss Tox, "she naturally must be in-
terested iu 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 Mrs. Chick. " You see,
my love, she's already quite contented and comfortable,
and means to say good-by to her sister Jemima and her
little pets, and her good honest husband, with a light
heart and a smile; don't she, my dear!"
" Oh yes ! " cried Miss Tox. " To be sure she does ! "
Notwithstanding which, however, poor Polly embraced
tnem all round in great distress, and finally ran away to
avoid any more particular leave-taking between herself
and the children. But the stratagem hardly succeeded
as well as it deserved ; for the smallest boy but one
iivining her intent, immediately began swarming up-
after her if that \vord of doubtful etymology
we DOMBEY AND SON
ne admissible on his arras and legs ; while the eldest
(known in the family by the name of Biler, in remem-
brance 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 indis-
jriminately on each young Toodle, checked the first
violence of their regret, and the family were speedily
transported to their own home, by means of the hack-
ney-coach kept in waiting for that purpose. The chil-
dren, under the guardianship of Jemima, blocked up the
window, and dropped out oranges and halfpence all the
way along. Mr. Toodle himself preferred to ride be-
hind among the spikes, as being the mode of convey-
ance to which he was best accustomed.
DOMBEY AND SOX.
CHAPTER III.
IX WHICH MR. DOMHKY, AS A MAX AXO A FATHER, xJ
SEEN AT THE HEAD OF THE HOME-DEPARTMENT.
THE funtral of the deceased lady having been " pei
formed " to the entire satisfaction of the undertaker, as
well as of the neighborhood at large, which is generally
disposed to be captious on such a point, and is prone to
take offence at any omissions or short-comings in the
ceremonies, the various members of Mr. Dombey's
household subsided into their several places in the do-
mestic 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-tem-
pered lady, and the house-keeper had said it was the
common lot, and the butler had said who'd have thought
it, and the house-maid had said she couldn't hardly believe
it, and the footman had said it seemed exactly like a
dream, they had quite worn the subject out, and began
to think their mourning was wearing rusty too.
On Richards, who was established up-stairs in a stato
of honorable captivity, the dawn of her new life seemed
to break cold and gray. Mr. Dombey's house was a
large one, on the shady side of a tall, dark, dreadfully
genteel street in the region between Portland-place and
Bryanstcne-square. It was a corner house, with great
wide aieas containing cellars frowned upon by barred
40 DOMBEY AND SON.
windows, and leered at by crooked-eyed doors leading to
dustbins. It was a house of dismal state, with a circu-
lar back to it, containing a whole suite of drawing-rooms
looking upon a gravelled yard, where two gaunt trees,
with blackened trunks and branches, rattled rather than
rustled, their leaves were so smoke-dried. The summer
sun was never on the street, but in the morning about
breakfast-time, when it came with the water-carts and
the old clothes-men, and the people with geraniums, and
the umbrella-mender, and the man who trilled the little
bell of the Dutch clock as he went along. It was soon
gone again to return no more that day; and the bands
of music and the straggling Punch's shows going after
it, left it a prey to the most dismal of organs and white
mice ; with now and then a porcupine, to vary the en-
tertainments ; until the butlers whose families were din-
ing out, began to stand at the house-doors in the twilight,
and tin: lamp-lighter made his nightly failure in attempt-
ing to brighten up the street with gas.
It was as blank a house inside as outside. When the
funeral was over, Air. Dombey ordered the furniture to
be covered up perhaps to preserve it for the son with
whom his plans were all associated and the rooms to
be ungarnished, saving such as he retained for himself
on the ground floor. Accordingly, mysterious shapes
were made of tables and chairs, heaped together in the
middle of rooms, and covered over with great winding-
sheets. Ball-handles, window-blinds and looking-glasses,
being papered up in journals, daily and weekly, obtruded
fragmentary accounts of deaths and dreadful murders
Every chandelier or lustre, muHled in holland, looked
like a monstrous tear depending from the ceiling's eye.
Odors, as from vaults and damp places, came out of the
DOMBE1 AND SON. 41
:himneys. The dead and buried lady was awful in a
picture-frame of ghastly bandages. Every gust of wind
that rose, brought eddying round the corner from the
neighboring mews, some fragments of the straw that
had been strewn before the house when she was ill,
mildewed remains of which were still cleaving to the
neighborhood ; and these, being always drawn by some
invisible attraction to the threshold of the dirty house
to let immediately opposite, addressed a dismal eloquence
lo Mr. Durnbey's windows.
The apartments which Mr. Dombey reserved for his
own inLabiting, were attainable from the hall, and con-
sisted of a sitting-room ; a library, which was in fact a
dressing-room, so that the smell of hot-pressed paper,
vellum, morocco, and Russia leather, contended in it
with the smell of divers pairs of boots ; and a kind of
conservatory or little glass break fast-room beyond, com
nianding a prospect of the trees before mentioned, and,
generally speaking, of a few prowling cats. These three
rooms opened upon one another. In the morning, when
Mr. Dombey was at his breakfast in one or other of the
two first-mentioned of them, as well as in the afternoon
when he came home to dinner, a bell was rung for
Richards to repair to this glass chamber, and there walk
to and fro with her young charge. From the glimpses
she caught of Mr. Dombey at these times, silting in the
dark distance, looking out towards the infant from among
the dark heavy furniture the house had been inhab-
ited for years by his father, and in many of its appoint-
ments was old-fashioned and grim she began to enter-
tain ideas of him in his solitary state, as if he were a
lone prisoner in a cell, or a strange apparition that was
not *o be accosted or understood.
42 DOMBEY AND SOW.
Little Paul Dombey's foster-mother had led this life
herself and had carried little Paul through it for some
weeks ; and had returned up-stairs one day from a mel-
ancholy saunter through the dreary rooms of state (she
never went out without Mrs. Chick, who called on fine
morning?, usually accompanied by Miss Tox, to take her
and Baby for an airing or in other words, to march
them gravely up and down the pavement ; like a walk-
ing funeral) ; when, as she was sitting in her own room,
the door was slowly and quietly opened, and a dark-eyed
little girl looked in.
" It's Miss Florence come home from her aunt's, no
doubt," thought Richards, who had never seen the child
before. " Hope I see you well, miss."
" Is that my brother ? " asked the child, pointing to
the baby.
" Yes, my pretty," answered Richards. " Come and
kiss him."
But. the child, instead of advancing, looked her ear-
nestly in the face, and said :
" What have you done with my Mama ? "
"Lord bless the little creeter! " cried Richards, "what
a sad question ! I done ? Nothing, miss."
" What have they done with my Mama ? " inquired the
child.
" I never saw such a melting thing in all my life ! " said
Richards, who naturally substituted for this child one
of her own, inquiring for herself in like circumstances,
" Come nearer here, my dear miss ! Don't be afraid of
me."
" I am not afraid of you," said the child, drawing
nearer. " But I want to know what they have don*
vth my Mama,"
DOMBEY AND SON. 43
" My darling," said Richards, " you wear that pretty
black frock in remembrance of your Mama."
** I can remember my Mama," returned the child, with
tears springing to her eyes, " in any frock/'
" But people put on black, to remember people when
they're gone."
" Where gone ? " asked the child.
u Come and sit down by me," said Richards, " and IT*
tell you a story."
With a quick perception that it was intended to relate
to what she had asked, little Florence laid aside the
bonnet she had held in her hand until now, and sat
down on a stool at the nurse's feet, looking up into her
face.
''Once upon a time," said Richards, "there was a lady
a very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved
her."
"A very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved
her," repeated the child.
" Who, when God thought it right that it should be so,
was taken ill and died."
The child shuddered.
" Died, never to be seen again by any one on earth, and
was buried in the ground where the trees grow."
" The cold ground," said the child shuddering again.
" No ! The warm ground," returned Polly, seizing her
advantage, " where the ugly little seeds turn into beauti
ful flowers, and into grass, and corn, and I don't know
what all besides. Where good people turn into bright
Migels, and fly away to Heaven ! "
The child who had drooped her head, raised it again,
ind sat looking at her intently.
" So ; let me see " said Polly, not a little flurried
44 OOMBET AND SON.
between this earnest scrutiny, her desire to comfort the
child, her sudden success, and her very slight confidence
in her own powers. " So, when this lady died, where-
ever they took her, or wherever they put her, she went
to GOD ! and she prayed to Him, this lady did," said
Polly, affecting herself beyond measure ; being heartily
in earnest, " to teach her little daughter to be sure of
that in her heart : and to know that she was happy there
and loved her still : and to hope and try oh all her
life to meet her there one day, never, never, never to
part any more."
" It was my Mama ! " exclaimed the child, springing
up, and clasping her round the neck.
" And the child's heart," said Polly, drawing her to
her breast : " the little daughter's heart was so full of the
truth of this, that even when she heard it from a strange
nurse that couldn't tell it right, but was a poor mother
herself and that was all, she found a comfort in it
didn't feel so lonely sobbed and cried upon her bosom
took kindly to the baby lying in her lap and
there, there, there ! " said Polly smoothing the child's
curls and dropping tears upon them. " There, poor
dear ! "
" Oh well, Miss Floy ! And won't your Pa be angry
neither ! " cried a quick voice at the door, proceeding
fronc. a short, brown, womanly girl of fourteen, with a
little snub nose and black eyes like jet beads. "When
it was 'tickerlerly given out that you wasn't to go and
worrit the wet nurse."
" She don't worry me," was the surprised rejoinder of
Polly. " I am very fond of children."
" Oh ! but begging your pardon, Mrs. Richards, that
lon't matter you know," returned the black-eyed girl.
DOMBEY AND SON. 45
who was so desperately sharp and biting that, she seemed
to make one's eyes water. " 1 may be very fond of
pennywinkles, Mrs. Richards, but it don't follow that I'm
to have 'em for tea."
" Well, it don't matter," said Polly.
"Oh thankee, Mrs. Richards, don't k!" retimed the
sharp girl. " Remembering, however, if you 11 be so
good, that Miss Floy's under my charge, and Master
Paul's under your'n."
" But still we needn't quarrel," said Polly.
" Oh no, Mrs. Richards," rejoined Spitfire. " Not at
all, I don't wish it, we needn't stand upon that footing,
Miss Floy being a permanency, Master Paul a tem-
porary." Spitfire made use of none but comma pauses ;
shooting out whatever she had to say in one sentence,
and in one breath, if possible.
' Miss Florence has just come home, hasn't she ? "
a>ked Polly.
" Yes, Mrs. Richards, just come home, and here, Miss
Floy, before you've been in the house a quarter of an
hour, you go a-smearing your wet face against the ex-
pensive mourning that Mrs. Richards is a-wearing for
your Ma ! " With this remonstrance, young Spitfire,
whose real name was Susan Nipper, detached the child
from her new friend by a wrench as if she were a
tooth. But she seemed to do it, more in the excessively
sharp exercise of her official functions, than with any
deliberate unkindnoss.
' She'll be quite happy, now she has come home
gain," said Polly, nodding to her with an encouraging
smile upon her wholesome face, " and will be so pleased
to see her dear Papa to-night."
" Lurk, Mrs. Richards ! " cried Miss Nipper, taking
46 DOMBEY AND SON.
np her words with a jerk. " Don't, See her dear Papa
indeed ! I should like to see her do it ! "
" Won't she then ? " asked Polly.
" Lork, Mrs. Richards, no, her Pa's a deal too wrapped
up in somebody else, and before there was a somebody
else to be wrapped up in she never was a favorite, girls
are thrown away in this house, Mrs. Richards, / assure
you."
The child looked quickly from one nurse to the other,
as if she understood and felt what was said.
" You surprise me ! " cried Polly. u Hasn't Mr.
Dombey seen her since "
" No," interrupted Susan Nipper. " Not once since,
and he hadn't hardly set his eyes upon her before that
for months and months, and I don't think he'd have
known her for his own child if he had met her in the
streets, or would know her for his own child if he was to
meet her in the streets to-morrow, Mrs. Richards, as to
me" said Spitfire, with a giggle, " I doubt if he's aweer
of my existence."
" Pretty dear ! " said Richards ; meaning, not Miss
Nipper, but the little Florence.
" Oh ! there's a Tartar within a hundred miles of
where we're now in conversation, I can tell you, Mrs.
Richards, present company always excepted too," said
Susan Nipper : u wish you good-morning, Mrs. Richards,
now Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don't go
hanging back like a naughty wicked child that judgments
is no example to, don't."
In spite of being thus adjured, and in spite also of
some hauling on the part of Susan Nipper, tending tow-
ards the dislocation of her right shoulder, little Florence
*>roke away, and kissed Iver new friend, tflfectionately.
DOMBEY AND SON. 47
"Good-by!" said the child. "God bless you! 1
shall come to see you again soon, and you'll come to see
me? Susan will let us. Won't you, Susan ?"
Spitfire seemed to be in the main a good-natured little
tody, although a disciple of that school of trainers of the
young idea which holds that childhood, like money, mus
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 s-hook her head, and conveyed a relenting ex-
pression into her very-wide-open black eyes.
" It a'n't right of you to ask it, Miss Floy, for you
know I can't refuse you, but Mrs. Richards and me
will see what can be done, if Mrs. Richards likes, 1
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.
" This house a'n't so exactly ringing with merry-mak
ing," said Miss Nipper, " that one need be lonelier than
one must be. Your Toxes and your Chickses may draw
out my two front double teeth, Mrs. Richards, but that's
no reason why I need offer 'em the whole set."
This proposition was also assented to by Richards, as
an obvious one.
" So I'm agreeable, I'm sure," said Susan Nipper,
u to live friendly, Mrs. Richards, while Master Paul
continues a permanency, if the means can be planned
out without going openly against orders, but goodness
gracious ME, Miss Floy, you haven't got your things
off yet, you naughty child, you haven't, come along ! "
With these words, Susan Nipper, in a transport of
coercion, made a charge at her young ward, and swept
Ver out of the room.
48 DOMBEY AND SON.
The child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle, so
quiet, and uncomplaining ; was possessed of so much
affection, that no one seemed to care to have, and so
much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed to mind
or think about the wounding of; that Polly's heart waa
lore when she was left alone again. In the simple pas-
sage that had taken place between herself and tha
motherless little girl, her own motherly heart had been
touched, no less than the child's ; and she felt, as the
child did, that there was something of coniidence and
interest between them from that moment.
Notwithstanding Mr. Toodle's great reliance on Polly,
she was perhaps in point of artificial accomplishments
very little his superior. But she was a good plain
sample of a nature that is ever, in the mass, better,
truer, higher, nobler, quicker to feel, and much more
constani to retain, all tenderness and pity, self-denial
and devotion, than the nature of men. And, perhaps,
unlearned as she was, she could have brought a dawn-
ing knowledge home to Mr. Dombey at that early day,
which would not then have struck him in the end like
lightning.
But this is from the purpose. Polly only thought, at
that time, of improving on her successful propitiation of
Miss Nipper, and devising some means of having little
Florence beside her, lawfully, and without rebellion. An
opening happened to present itself that very night.
She had been rung down into the glass room as usual,
mid had walked about and about it a long time, with the
baby in her arms when, to her great surprise and dis-
may, Mr. Dombey came out suddenly, and stopnod
before her.
" Good-evening, Richards."
DOMBEY AND SON. 49
dust the same austere, stift gentleman, as lie had ap-
peared to her on that first day. Such a hard-looking
gentleman, that she involuntarily dropped her eyes and
her courtesy at the same time.
" How is Master Paul, Richards?"
' Quite thriving, sir, and well."
" He looks so," said Mr. Dombey, glancing with grea
interest at the tiny face she uncovered for his observa-
tion, and yet affecting to be half careless of it. " They
give you everything you want, I hope ? "
" Oh yes, thank you, sir."
She suddenly appended such an obvious hesitation to
this reply, however, that Mr. Dombey, who had turned
away, stopped, and turned round again, inquiringly.
" I believe nothing is so good for making children
lively and cheerful, sir, as seeing oilier children play-
ing about 'em," observed Polly, taking courage.
' I think I mentioned to you, Richards, when you
came here," said Mr. Dembey 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 satisfaction of feeling that he had thorough-
ly misunderstood her object, and that she had fallen into
disgrace without the least advancement of her purpose.
Next night, she found him walking about the conser-
vatory when she came down. As she stopped at the
door, checked ~ by this unusual sight, and uncertain
whether to advance or retreat, he called her iu.
"If you really think that sort of society is good fbi
the child," lie said sharply, as if there had been no inter-
nal since >he proposed it, " where's Miss Florence? "
" Nothing could be better ihan Miss Florence, sir,
VOL. i. 4
60 DOMBEY AND SON.
Baitl Polly eagerly, "but^L understood from her little
maid that they were not to "
Mr. Dombey rang the bell, and walked till it wai
answered.
" Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Rich-
ards when she chooses, and go out with her, and so forth
Tell them to let the children be together, when Richards
wishes it."
The iron was now hot, and Richards striking on it
boldly it was a good cause and she was bold in it,
though instinctively afraid of Mr. Dombey requested
that Miss Florence might be sent down then and there,
to make friends with her little brother.
She feigned to be dandling the child as the servant
retired on this errand, but she thought she saw that Mr.
Dombey's color changed ; that the expression of his face
quite altered ; that he turned hurriedly, as if to gainsay
what he had said, or she had said, or both, and was only
deterred by very shame.
And she was right. The last time he had seen his
slighted child, there had been that in the sad embrace
between her and her dying mother, which was at once
a revelation and a reproach to him. Let him be ab-
sorbed as he would in the Son on whom he built such
high hopes, he could not forget that closing scene. He
could not forget that he had had no part in it. That, at
(he bottom of its clear depths of tenderness and truth, lay
those two figures clasped in each other's arms, while he
stood on the bank above them, looking down a mere
spectator not a sharer with them quite shut out.
Unable to exclude these things from his remembrance,
or to keep his mind free from such imperfect shapes of
\he \neaning with which they were fraught, as were able
DOMBEY AND SON. 51
to make themselves visible to him through the mist of
hia pride, his previous feelings of indifference towards
little Florence changed into an uneasiness of an extraor-
dinary kind. He almost/elt as if she watched and dis-
trusted him. As if she held the clew to something se-
cret in his breast, of the nature of which he was hardly
informed himself. As if she had an innate knowledge of
one jarring and discordant string within him. and her
very breath could sound it.
His feeling about the child had been negative from
her birth. He had never conceived an aversion to her;
it had not been worth his while or in his humor. She
had never been a positively disagreeable object to him.
But now he was ill at ease about her. She troubled his
peace. He would have preferred to put her idea aside
altogether, if he had known how. Perhaps who shall
decide on such mysteries ? he was afraid that he
might come to hate her.
When little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr.
Dombey stopped in his pacing up and down, and looked
towards her. Had he looked with greater interest and
with a father's eye, he might have read in her keen
glance the impulses and fears that made her waver ; the
passionate desire to run clinging to him, crying, as she
hid her face in his embrace, " Oh, father, try to love me !
there's no one else ! " the dread of a repulse ; the fear
of being too bold, and of offending him ; the pitiable
need in which she stood of some assurance and encour
flgement ; and how her overcharged young heart was
vandering to find some natural resting-place, for its sor-
"ow and affection.
But he saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irres-
alutely at tbe door and look towards him ; and he saw
QO more.
52 DOMBEY AND SON.
u Come in," he said, " come in : what is the child
afraid of ? "
She came in ; and after glancing round her for a
moment with an uncertain air, stood pressing her small
liands hard together, close within the dooi.
' Come here, Florence," said her father, coldly. " Ik)
you know who I arn ? "
' Yes, papa."
" Have you nothing to say to me ? "
The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them
quickly to his face, were frozen by the expression it
wore. She looked down again, and put out her trem-
bling hand.
Mr. Dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood
looking down upon her for a moment as if he knew as
little as the child, what to say or do.
" There ! lie a good girl," he said, patting her on the
head, and regarding her as it were by stealth with a
disturbed and doubtful look. " Go to Richards ! Go 1 "
Mis little daughter hesitated for another instant as
though she would have clung about him still, or had
some lingering hope that he might raise her in his arms
and kiss her. She looked up in his face once more. He
thought how like her expression was then, to what it had
been when she looked round at the doctor that night
and instinctively dropped her hand and turned away.
It was not difficult to perceive that Florence was at
great disadvantage in her father's presence. It was
not only a constraint upon the child's mind, but even
ii]>on the natural grace and freedom of her actions.
Still Polly persevered with all the better heart for see-
ing this ; and, judging of Mr. Dombey by herself, had
great confidence in the mute appeal of poor little
DOM BEY AND SON. 53
Florence's mourning-dress. " It's hard indeed," thought
Polly, " if lie takes only to one little motherless child
when he has another, and that a girl, before his eyes."
So, Polly kept her before his eyes, as long as she
rould, and managed so well with little Paul, as to make
it very plain that he was all the livelier for his sister's
company. When it was time to withdraw up-stairs
again, she would have sent Florence into the inner
room to say good-night to her father, but the child was
timid and drew back ; and when she urged her again,
said, spreading her hands before her eyes, as if to shut
out her own unworthiness, "Oh no, no! He don't want
me. He don't want me ! "
The little altercation between them had attracted the
notice of Mr. Dombey, who inquired from the table
where he was sitting at his wine, what the matter was.
"Miss Florence was afraid of interrupting, sir, if she
came in to say good-night," said Richards.
" It doesn't matter," returned Mr. Dombey. " You
can let her come and go without regarding me."
The child shrunk as she listened and was gone, be-
fore her humble friend looked round again.
However, Polly triumphed not a little in the success
of her well-intentioned scheme, and in the address with
which she had brought it to bear : whereof she made a
full disclosure to Spitfire when she was once more safely
intrenched up-stairs. Miss Nipper received that proof
of her confidence, as well as the prospect of their free
association for the future, rather coldly, and was any-
thing but enthusiastic in her demonstrations of joy.
" I thought you would have been pleased," said Polly.
" Uh yes, Mrs. Richards, I'm very well pleased, thank
you" returned Susan, who had suddenly become so very
54 DOMBEY AND SON.
upright that she seemed to have put an additional bone
in her stays.
" You don't show it," said Polly.
" Oh ! Being only a permanency I couldn't be ex-
pected to show it like a temporary," said Susan Nipper.
" Temporaries carries it all before 'em here, I find, but
though there's a 1 excellent party-wall between this house
and the next, I mayn't exactly like to go to it, Mrs.
Richards, notwithstanding ! "
DOMBEY AND SON. 55
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH SOME MORE FIRST APPEARANCES ARE MADE
ON THE STAGE OF THESE ADVENTURES.
THOUGH the offices of Dombey and Son were within
the liberties of the city of London, and within hearing
of Bow Bells, when their clashing voices were not
drowned by the uproar in the streets, yet were there
hints of adventurous and romantic story to be observed
in some of the adjacent objects. Gog and Magog held
their state within ten minutes' walk ; the Royal Ex-
change was close at hand ; the Bank of England with
its vaults of gold and silver " down among the dead
men " underground, was their magnificent neighbor.
Just round the corner stood the rich East India House,
teeming with suggestions of precious stuffs and stones,
tigers, elephants, howdahs, hookahs, umbrellas, palm-
trees, palanquins, and gorgeous princes of a brown com-
plexion sitting on carpets with their slippers very much
turned up at the toes. Anywhere in the immediate
vicinity there might be seen pictures of ships speeding
away full sail to all parts of the world ; outfitting ware-
houses ready to pack off anybody anywhere, fully
equipped in half an hour ; and little timber, midship-
men in obsolete naval uniforms, eternally employed out-
side the shop-doors of nautical instrument-makers in
iaking observations of the hackney -coaches.
56 DOMBEY AND SON.
Sole master and proprietor of one of tliese effigies
of that which might be called, familiarly, tl.e woodeneat
of that which thrust itself out above the pavement,
right leg foremost, with a suavity the least endurable,
mid had the shoe-buckles and flapped waistcoat the least
T roncilable to human reason, and bore at its right eye
he most offensively disproportionate piece of machinery
sole master and proprietor of that midshipman, and
proud of him too, an elderly gentleman in a Welsh wig
had paid house-rent, taxes, and dues, for more years than
many a full-grown midshipman of flesh and blood has
numbered in his life : and midshipmen who have at-
tained a pretty green old age, have not been wanting in
the English navy.
The stock in trade of this old gentleman comprised
chronometers, barometers, telescopes, compasses, charts,
maps, sextants, quadrants, and specimens of every kind
of instrument used in the working of a ship's course, 01
the keeping of a ship's reckoning, or the prosecuting of
a ship's discoveries. Objects in brass and glass were ii
his drawers and on his shelves, which none but the in
itialed could have found the top of, or guessed the use
of, or having once examined, could have ever got back .
again into their mahogany nests without assistance
Everything was jammed into the tightest cases, fitted
into the narrowest corners, fenced up behind the most
impertinent cushions, and screwed into the acutest an-
gles, to prevent its philosophical composure from being
disturbed by the rolling of the sea. Such extraordinary
precautions were taken in every instance to save room,
and keep the thing compact ; and so much practical nav-
igation was fitted, and cushioned, and screwed into every
box (whether the box was a mere slab, as some were, or
DOMBEY AND SON. 57
something between a cocked-hat and a star-fish, as other?
were, and those quite mild and modest boxes as com-
pared with others) ; that the shop itself, partaking of
the general infection, seemed almost to become a sni)g>
pea-going, ship-shape concern, wanting only good s ra-
room, in the event of an unexpected launch, to work ilg
way securely to any desert island in the world.
Many minor incidents in the household life of the
Ships' Instrument-maker who was proud of his litlle
midshipman, assisted and bore out this fancy. His ac-
quaintance lying chiefly among ship-chandlers and so
forth, he had always plenty of the veritable ships' biscuit
oti his table. It was familiar with dried meats ami
tongues, possessing an extraordinary flavor of rope-yarn.
Pickles were produced upon it, in great wholesale jar.-,
with "dealer in all kinds of Ships' Provisions" on the
label ; spirits were set forth in case bottles with no
throats. Old prints of ships with alphabetical refer-
ences to their various mysteries, hung in frames upon
the walls ; the Tartar Frigate under weigh, was on the
plates ; outlandish shells, seaweeds, and mosses, deco-
rated the chimney-piece ; the little wainscoted back-
parlor was lighted by a skylight, like a cabin.
Here he lived too, in skipper-like state, all alone with
his nephew Walter : a boy of fourteen who looked quite
enough like a midshipman, to carry out the prevailing
ilca. But there it ended, for Solomon Gills himself
(more generally called old Sol) was far frori having a
maritime appearance. To say nothing of his Welsh
wig, which was as plain and stubborn a Welsh wig as
ever was worn, and in which he looked like anything
but a Rover, he was a slow, quiet-spoken, thoughtful old
fellow, with eyes as red as if they had been small suns
58 DOMBEY AND SON.
looking at you through a fog ; and a newly-awakened
manner, such as he might have acquired by having
stared for three or four days successively, through every
optical instrument in his shop, and suddenly came back
to the world again, to find it green. The only change
ever known in his outward man, was from a complet
suit of coffee-color cut very square, and ornamente
with glaring buttons, to the same suit of coffee-color
minus the inexpressibles, which were then of a pal^
nankeen. He wore a very precise shirt-frill, and car-
ried a pair of first-rate spectacles on his forehead, and
a tremendous chronometer in his fob, rather than doubt
which precious possession, he would have believed in a
conspiracy against it on 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 par-
lor behind the little midshipman, for years upon years ;
going regularly aloft to bed every night in a howling
garret remote from the lodgers, where, when gentlemen
of England who lived below at ease had little or no
idea of the state of the weather, it often blew great
guns.
It is half-past five o'clock, and an autumn afternoon,
when the reader and Solomon Gills become acquainted.
Solomon Gills is in the act of seeing what time it is by
the unimpeachable chronometer. The usual daily clear-
ance has been making in the city for an hour or more ;
and the human tide is still rolling westward. " The
streets have thinned," as Mr. Gills says, " very much."
It threatens to be wet to-night. All the weather-glasses
in the shop are in low spirits, and the rain already
shines upon the cocked-hat of the wooden midshipman.
u Where's Walter, I wonder ! " said Solomon Gills,
DOMBEY AND SOX 59
after he had carefully put up the chronometer again.
u Here's dinner been ready half an hour, and no Wal-
ter ! "
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 cer-
tainly was not the newspaper-boy in the oilskin cap who
was slowly working his way along the piece of brass out-
Bide, writing his name over Mr. Gills' name with his
forefinger.
" If I didn't know he was too fond of me to make a
run of it, and go and enter himself aboard ship against
my wishes, I should begin to be lidgety," said Mr. Gills,
tapping two or three weather-glasses with his knuckles.
" I really should. All in the Downs, eh ! Lots of
moisture ! Well ! it's wanted."
" I believe," said Mr. Gills, blowing the dust off the
glass top of a compass case, " that you don't point more
direct and due to the back-parlor than the boy's incli-
nation does after all. And the parlor couldn't bear
straighter either. Due north. Not the twentieth part
of a point either way."
Halloa, Uncle Sol ! "
" Halloa, my boy ! " cried the Instrument-maker, turn-
ing briskly round. " What ! you are here, are you ! "
A cheerful-looking, merry boy, fresh with running
home in the rain ; fair-faced, bright-eyed, and curly-
haired.
" Well, uncle, how have you got on without me all
day ! Is dinner ready ? I'm so hungry."
" As to getting on," said Solomon, good-naturedly, " it
would be odd if I couldn't get on without a young dog
60 DOMBEY" AND SON.
like you a great deal better than with you. As to dinner
being ready, it's been ready this half hour and waiting
for you. As to being hungry, /am ! "
" Come along then, uncle ! " cried the boy. " HurraV
for the admiral ! "
" Confound the admiral ! " returned Solomon Gills
* You mean the Lord Mayor."
" No I don't ! " cried the boy. " Hurrah for the ad-
miral. Hurrah for the admiral ! For ward ! "
At this word of command, the Welsh wig and its
wearer were borne without resistance into the back-par-
lor, as at the head of a boarding-party of five hundred
men ; and uncle Sol arid his nephew were speedily
engaged on a fried sole with a prospect of steak to
follow.
" The Lord Mayor, Wally," said Solomon, " forever !
No more admirals. The Lord Mayor's your admiral."
" Oh, is he though!" said the boy, shaking his head.
"Why, the Sword Bearer's better than him. He draws
his sword sometimes."
" And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains,"
returned the uncle. " Listen to me Wally, listen to me.
Look on the 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, x ' I'll drink out of any-
thing you like, so long as I can drink to you. Here's
lo you, Uncle Sol, and hurrah for the"
" Lord Mayor," interrupted the old man.
DOMBEY AND SON. 61
** For the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, Common Council,
nnd Livory," said the boy. " Long life to 'em ! "
The uncle nodded his head with great satisfaction.
"And now," he said, "let's hear something about the
Firm."
"Oh! there's not much to be told about the Firm,
ancle," said the boy, plying his knife and fork. " It's
a precious dark set of offices, and in the room where
I sit, there's a high fender, and an iron safe, and some
cards about ships that are going to sail, and an alma-
nac, and some desks and stools, and an ink-bottle, and
some books, and some boxes, and a lot of cobwebs, and
in one of 'em, just over my head, a shrivelled-up blue-
bottle that looks as if it had hung there ever so long."
" Nothing else ? " said the uncle.
" No, nothing else, except an old bird-cage (I wonder
how that ever came there !) and a coal-scuttle."
" No bankers' books, or check books, or bills, or such
tokens of wealth rolling in from day to day ? " said old
Sol, looking wistfully at his nephew out of the fog that
always seemed to hang about him, and laying an unc-
tuous emphasis upon the words.
" Oh yes, plenty of that I suppose," returned his
nephew carelessly ; "but all that sort of thing's in Mr.
Carker's room, or Mr. Morfin's, or Mr. Dombey's."
" Has Mr. Dombey been there to-day ? " inquired the
ancle.
" Oh yes ! In and out all day."
" He didn't take any notice of you, I suppose."
" Yes he did. He walked up to my seat, I wish
he wasn't so solemn and stiff, uncle and said ' Oh !
you are the son of Mr. Gills the Ships' Instrument-
maker.' 'Nephew, sir,' I said. 'I said nephew, boy,'
t>2 DOMBEY AND SON.
said he. But I could take my oath lie 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 1/j
him about me, and that he had found me employment
in the House accordingly, and that I was expected to
be attentive and punctual, and then he went away. I
thought he didn't seem to like me much."
" You mean, I suppose," observed the Instrument-
maker, "that you didn't seem to like him much."
" Well, uncle," returned the boy, laughing. " Per-
haps so ^ I never thought of that."
Solomon looked a little graver as he finished his din-
ner, and glanced from time to time at the boy's bright
face. When dinner was done, and the cloth was cleared
away (the entertainment had been brought from a neigh-
boring eating-house), he lighted a raiulle, and went down
below into a little cellar, while his nephew, standing on
the mouldy staircase, dutifully held the light. After
a moment's groping here and there, he presently re-
turned with a very ancient-looking bottle, covered with
dust and dirt.
" Why, Uncle Sol ! " said the boy, " what are you
nbout ! that's the wonderful Madeira! there's only
one more bottle!"
Uncle Sol nodded his head, implying that h knew
very well what he was about ; and having drawn tJ.c
ork in solemn silence, filled two glasses and set the
bottle and a third clean glass on the table.
"You shall drink the Qther bottle, Wally," he said.
' when you come to good fortune ; when you are a
DOMBET AND SON. 63
thriving, respected, happy man ; when the start in life
you have made to-day shall have brought you, as I
pray Heaven it may ! to a smooth part of the course
you have to run, my child. My love to you ! "
Some of the fog that hung about old Sol seemed to
have got into his throat ; for he spoke huskily. His
hand shook too, as he clinked his glass against his
nephe\v's- But having once got the wine to hjs lips,
he tossed it o like a man, and smacked them after-
wards.
" Dear uncle," said the boy, affecting to make light
of it, while the tears stood in his eyes, " for the honor
you have done me, et cetera, et cetera. I shall now
beg to propose Mr. Solomon Gills with three times
three and one cheer more. Hurrah ! and you'll return
thanks, uncle, when we drink the last bottle together ;
won't you ? "
They clinked their glasses again; and Walter, who
was hoarding his wine, took a sip of it, and held the
glass up to his eye with as critical an air as he could
possibly assume.
His uncle sat looking at him for some time in silence.
When their eyes at last met, he began at once to pur-
sue the theme that had occupied his thoughts, aloud,
as if he had been speaking all the while.
"You see, Walter," he said, -"in truth this business
is merel) habit with me. I am so accustomed to the
habit that 1 could hardly live if I relinquished it : -but
there's nothing doing, nothing doing. When that uni-
form was worn/' pointing out towards the little mid-
shipman, " then indeed, fortunes were to be made, and
were made. But competition, competition new inven-
tion, new invention alteration, alteration the world'f
64 DOMBEY AND SON.
gone past me. I hardly know where I am myself;
much less where my customers are."
" Never mind 'em uncle ! "
" Since you came home from weekly boarding-school
at Peckham, for instance and that's ten days," said
Solomon, " I don't remember more than one person that
has come into the shop."
"Two uncle, don't you recollect? There was the
man who came to ask for change for a sovereign "
"That's the one," said Solomon.
" Why uncle ! don't you call the woman anybody, who
came to ask the way to Mile-end Turnpike ? "
" Oh ! its true," said Solomon, " I forgot her. Two
persons."
" To be sure, they didn't buy anything," cried the
boy.
" No. They didn't buy anything," said Solomon,
quietly.
" Nor want anything," cried the boy.
" No. If they had, they'd gone to another shop,"
uttid Solomon, in the same tone.
" But there were two of 'em uncle," cried the boy
as if that were a great triumph. " You said only one."
" Well, Wally," resumed the old man, after a short
pause : " not being like the savages who came on Robiu-
in Crusoe's island, we can't live on a man who asks
for change for a sovereign, and a woman who inquires
the" way to Mile-end Turnpike. As I said just new,
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, busi-
ness is not the same, business commodities are not the
tame. Seven eighths of my stock is old-fashioned. J
DOR1BEY AND SON. 65
Bm an old-fashioned man in an t)ld-fashioned shop, in a
street that is not the same as I remember it. I have
fallen behind the time, and am too old to catch it again.
Even the noise it makes a long way ahead, confuses me."
Walter was going to speak, but his uncle held up his
hand.
"Therefore Wally therefore it is that I am anxious
you should be early in the busy world, and on the
world's track. I am only the ghost of this business
its substance vanished long ago : and when I die, its
ghost will be laid. As it- is clearly no inheritance for
you then, I have thought it best to use for your ad-
vantage, almost the only fragment of the old connection
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 what-
ever I can give you, you in such a house as Dombey'a
are in the road to use well and make the most of. Be
diligent, try to like it my dear boy, work for a steady
independence, and be happy ! "
" I'll do everything I can, uncle, to deserve your affec-
tion. 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 inci-eased relish. " As to the sea," he pursued,
u 1 hat's well enough in fiction, Wally, but it won't do in
feet : it won't do at all. It's natural enough that you
should think about it, associating it with all these "amil-
br things ; but it won't do, it won't do."
Solomon Gills rubbed his hands with an air of stealthy
enjoyment, as he talked of the sea, though ; and looked
on the seafaring objects about him with inexpressible
omplao?n?y.
OL. i 6
66 DOMBEY AND SOW.
" Think of this wSre for instance," said old Sol,
" which has been to the East Indies and I tack, I'm not
able to say how often, and has been once round the
world. Think of the pitch-dark nights, the roaring
winds, and rolling seas : "
u The thunder, lightning, rain, hail, storms of all
kinds," said the boy.
" To be sure," said Solomon, " that this wine has
passed through. Think what a straining and creaking
of timbers and masts : what a whistling and howling of
the gale through ropes and rigging : "
*' What a clambering aloft of men, vy.'ig with eacb
other who sliall lie out first upon the yards to furl the
icy sails, while the ship rolls and pitches, like mad ! "
cried his nephew.
" Exactly f-o" said Solomon : '* has gone on, over the
old cask that held this wine. Why, when '.lie Charming
Sally went down in the "
" In the Baltic Sea, in the dead of night ; five-and-
twenty minutes past twelve when the captain's watch
stopped in his pocket ; he lying dead against the main-
mast on the fourteenth of February, seventeen forty-
nine ! " cried Walter, with great animation.
"Ay, to be sure ! " cried old Sol, " quite right ! Then,
there were five hundred casks of such wine aboard ; and
all hands (except the first mate, first lieutenant, two sea-
men, and a lady, in a leaky boat), going to work to stave
the casks, got drunk and died drunk, singing ' Rule Bri-
tannia,' when she settled and went down, and ending
with one awful scream in chorus."
" But when the George the Second drove ashore,
ancle, on the coast of Cornwall, in a dismal gaie twc
hours before daybreak, on the fourth of March, Seventy
DOMBEY AND SON. 67
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 trampling 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
bust men, losing heart and head, went overboard in de-
spair, and only two were left alive, at last, to tell the
tale."
"And when," said old Sol, " when the Polyphemus"
"Private West India Trader, burden, three hundred
und fifty tons, Captain, John Brown of Deptford. Own-
ers, Wiggs and Co.," cried Walter.
" The same," said Sol ; " when she took fire, four days'
sail with a fair wind out of Jamaica Harbor, in the
night "
" There were two brothers on board," interposed his
nephew, speaking very fast and loud, " and there not be-
ing room for both of them in the only boat that wasn't
swamped, neither of them would 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 your promised wife at home.
I'm only a boy. No one waits at home for me. Leap
down into my place ! ' and flung himself in the sea ! "
The kindling eye and heightened color 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 aneo-
dotes, as he had evidently intended but a moment be-
fore, he gave a short dry cough, and said, " Well ! sup*
pose we change the subject."
The truth was, that the simple-minded uncle in his
68 DOMBEY AND SON.
secret attraction towards the marvellous and adventurous
of which he was, in some sort, a distant relation, by his
trade had greatly encouraged the same attraction in
the nephew ; and that everything that had ever been put
before the boy to deter him from a life of adventure, had
had the usual unaccountable effect of sharpening his
taste for it. This is invariable. It would 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 course.
But an addition to the little party now made its ap-
pearance, in the shape of a gentleman in a wide suit of
blue, with a hook instead of a hand attached to his right
wrist; very bushy 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 wineglass was intended, and evidently knew
it ; for having taken off his rough outer coat, and hung
up, on a particular peg behind the door, such a hard
glazed hat as a sympathetic person's head might ache at
the sight of, and which left a red rim round bis own
forehead as if he had been wearing a tight basin, he
brought a chair to where the clean glass was, and sat
himself down behind it. He was usually addressed as
Captain, this visitor ; and had been a pilot, or a skipper,
or a privateersman, or all three perhaps ; and was a very
salt-looking man indeed.
His face, remarkable for a brown solidity, brightened^
as he shook hands with uncle and nephew ; but hn
teemed to be of a laconic disposition, and merely said
a How goes it ? "
DOMBEY AXD SON. 6?
u All well," said Mr. Gills, pushing the bottle towards
him.
He took it up, and having surveyed and smelt it, saia
with extraordinary expression :
"The?"
" The" returned the Instrument-maker.
Upon that he whistled as he filled his glass, and seeraei
to think they were making holiday indeed.
" Wal'r ! " he said, arranging his hair (which was thin)
with his hook, and then pointing it at the Instrument-
maker, " Look at him ! Love ! Honor ! And Obey !
Overhaul your catechism till you find that passage, and
when found turn the leaf down. Success, my boy ! "
He was so perfectly satisfied both with his quotation
and his reference to it, that he could not help repeating
the words again in a low voice, and saying he had for-
gotten '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-
Gills," he observed. " It comes of not wasting lan-
guage as some do"
The reflectior, perhaps reminded him that he had bet-
ter, like young NorvaPs father, '- increase his store." At
any rate he became silent, and remained so, until 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 could make a clock if he tried ? "
" 1 shouldn't wouder, Captain Cuttle," returned the
boy.
"And it would go!" said Captain Cuttle, making a
species of serpent in the air with his hook. " Lord, how
lhat clock would go ! "
For a moment or two he seemed quite lost in contem
70 DOMBEY AND SON.
plating the pace of this ideal timepiece, and sat looking
ut the boy as if his face were the dial.
" But he's chock-full of science," he observed, waving
his hook towards the stock-in-trade. " Look 'ye here I
Here's a collection of 'era. Earth, air, or water. It's
all one. Only say where you'll have it. Up in a bal-
loon ? There you are. Down in a bell ? There you
are. D'ye want to put the North Star in a pair of
scalss, and weigh it. He'll do it for you."
It may be gathered from these remarks that Captain
Cuttle's reverence for the stock of instruments was pro-
found, and that his philosophy knew little or no distinc-
tion between trading in it and inventing it.
" Ah ! " he said, with a sigh, " it's a fine thing to un-
derstand 'em. And yet it's a fine thing not to under-
stand 'em. I hardly know which is best. It's so com-
fortable 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 Madeira, combined
with the occasion (which rendered it desirable to im-
prove and expand Walter's mind), could have ever
loosened his tongue to the extent of giving utterance
to this prodigious oration. He seemed quite amazed
himself at the manner in which it opened up to view the
source** of the taciturn delight he had had in eating Sun-
day dinners in that parlor for ten years. Becoming
sadder and a wser man, he mused and held his peace."
" Come ! " cried the subject of his admiration, return-
ing. " Before you have your glass of grog, Ned, we
must finish the bottle."
Stand by ! " said Ned, filling his glass. " Give the
V>y some more."
DOM BEY AND SON. 71
u No more, ihank'e, uncle ! "
" Yes, yes," said Scl, " a little more. We'll finish the
bottle, to the House, Ned Walter's house. AVhy it
may be his house one of these days, in part. Who
knows ? Sir Richard Whittington married his master's
(laughter."
"'Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London,
and when you are old you will never depart from it,' "
'jiterposed the Captain. " Wal'r ! Overhaul the hook,
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 'ein
were talking about it in the office to-day. And they do
say, uncle and Captain Cuttle," lowering his voice, " that
he's taken a dislike to her, and that she's left, unnoticed,
among the servants, and that his mind's so set all the
while upon having his son in the House, that although
he's only a baby now he is going to have balances struck
oftener than formerly, and the books kept closer than
they used to be, and has even been seen (when he
thought he wasn't) walking in the Docks, looking at
his ships and property and all that, as if he was exulting
like, over what he and his son will possess together.
That's what they say. Of course / don't know."
' He knows all about her already, you see," said the
Instrument-maker.
" Nonsense, uncle," cried the boy, still reddening and
laughing, boy-like. " How can I help hearing what
Ihey teU ine?"
72 DOMBEY AND SON.
" The son's a little in our way at present, I'm afraid,
Ned," said the old man, humoring the joke.
" Very much," said the captain.
" Nevertheless, we'll drink him," pursued Sol. " So,
here's to Dombey and Son."
" Olu very well, uncle," said the boy, merrily. " Since
you have introduced the mention of her, and have con-
nected me with her, and have said that I know all about
her, I shall make bold to amend the toast So here's to
Dombey and Son and Daughter 1 "
DOMBET AND SON. 73
CHAPTER V.
PAUL'S PROGRESS AND CHRISTENING.
LITTLE Paul, suffering no contamination from the
blood of the Toodles, grew stouter and stronger every
day. Every day, too, he was more and more ardently
cherished by Miss Tox, whose devotion was so far ap-
preciated by Mr. Dombey that he began to regard her
as a woman of great natural good sense, whose feelings
did her credit and deserved encouragement. He was so
lavish of this condescension, that he not only bowed to
her, in a particular manner, on several occasions, but
even intrusted such stately recognitions of her to his
sister as " pray tell your friend, Louisa, that she is very
good," or " mention to Miss Tox, Louisa, that I am
obliged to her ; " specialities which made a deep impres-
sion on the lady thus distinguished.
Miss Tox was often in the habit of assuring Mrs.
Chick, that " nothing could exceed her interest in all
connected with the development of that sweet child ; "
and an observer of Miss Tox's proceedings might have
inferred so much without declaratory confirmation. She
would preside over the innocent repasts of the young
heir, with ineffable satisfaction, almost with an air of
joint proprietorship with Richards in the entertainment.
A.t the little ceremonies of the bath and toilet, she
'Wsisted with enthusiasm. The administration of infan-
74 DOMBEY AND S'ON.
tine doses of physic awakened all the active sympathy
of her character ; and being on one occasion secreted
in a cupboard (whither she had fled in modesty), when
Mr. Dombey was introduced into the nursery by his
sister, to behold his son, in the course of preparation
for bed, taking a short walk up-hill over Richards's
gown, in a short and airy linen jacket, Miss Tox wa
so transported beyond the ignorant present as to be
unable to refrain from crying out, ' Is he not beauti-
ful, Mr. Dombey ! Is he not a Cupid, sir ! " and then
almost sinking behind the closet-door with confusion and
blushes.
" Louisa," said Mr. Dombey, one day, to his sister,
" I really think I must present your friend with some
little token, on the occasion of Paul's christening. She
has exerted herself so warmly in the child's behalf
from the first, and seems to understand her position so
thoroughly (a very rare merit in this world, I am sorry
to say), that it would really be agreeable to me to notice
her."
Let it be no detraction from the merits of Miss Tox,
to hint that in Mr. Dombey's eyes, as in some others
that occasionally see the light, they only achieved that
mighty piece of knowledge, the understanding of their
own position, who showed a fitting reverence for his.
Tt was not so much their merit that they knew them-
selves, as that they knew him, and bowed low before him
" My dear Paul," returned his sister, " you do Miss
Pox but justice, as a man of your penetration was sure.
knew, to do. I believe if there are three words in
the English language for which she has a respect
amounting almost to veneration, those words are, Dora-
bey and Son."
DOMBEY AND SON. 75
s< Well," said Mr. Dombey, " I believe it. It does
Miss Tox credit."
" And as to anything in the shape of a token, my dear
Paul," pursued his sister, " all I can say is that anything
yen give Miss Tox will be hoarded and prized, I am
sure, like a relic. But there is a way, my dear Paul,
of sbo v ving your sense of Miss Tox's friendliness in a
still more flattering and acceptable manner, if you should
be so inclined."
" How is that ? " asked Mr. Dombey.
" Godfathers, of course," continued Mrs. Chick, "are
important in point of connection 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 your-
self. I might have expected nothing el.se from you. I
might have known that such would have been your
opinion. Perhaps ; " here Mrs. Chick flattered again,
as not quite comfortably feeling her way ; " perhaps that
is a reason why you might have the less objection to
allowing Miss Tox to be godmother to the dear thing,
if it were only .as deputy and proxy for some one elseu
That it would be received as a great honor and distinc-
tion, Paul, I need not say."
" Louisa," said Mr. Dombey, after a short pause, u it
is not to be supposed "
" Certainly not," cried Mrs. Chick, hastening to antic!'
pnte a refusal, " I never thought it was."
Mr. Dombey looked at her impatiently.
" Don't flurry me, my dear Paul," said his sister '
for that destroys me. I am far from strong. I
76 DOMBEY AND SOW.
have not been quite myself, since poor dear Fanny
departed."
Mr. Douibey glanced at the pO(.ket-liandkerchief
which his sister applied to her eyes and resumed:
" It is not to be supposed, I say "
"And I say," murmured Mrs. Chick, "that I never
thought it was."
" Good Heaven, Louisa ! " said Mr. Dombey.
" No, my dear Paul," she remonstrated with tearful
dignity, " I must really be allowed to speak. I am not
to clever, or so reasoning, or so eloquent, or so anything,
as you are. I know that very well. So much the worse
for me. But if they were the last words I had to utter
and last words should be very solemn to you and me,
Paul, after poor dear Fanny I should still say I never
thought it was. And what is more," added Mrs. Chick
with increased dignity, as if she had withheld her crush-
ing argument until now, " I never did think it was."
Mr. Dombey walked to the window and back again.
" It is not to be supposed, Louisa," he said (Mrs.
Chick had nailed her colors to the mast, and repeated
u I know it isn't," but he took no notice of it), " but
that there are many persons who, supposing that I rec-
ognized any claim at all in such a case, have a claim
upon me superior to Miss Tox's. But I do not. I rec-
ognize no such thing. Paul and myself will be able,
when the time comes, to hold our own the house, in
other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain
its own, and hand down its own of itself, and without
any such commonplace aids. The kind of foreign help
which people usually seek for their children, I can afford
to despise ; being above it, I hope. So that Paul's in-
fancy and childhood pass away well, and I see bin?
DOMBEY AND SON. 77
becoming qualified without waste of time for the career
on which he is destined to enter, I am satisfied. He
will make what powerful friends he pleases in after-life,
when he is actively maintaining and extending, if that
is possible the dignity and credit of the Firm. Until
then, I am enough for him, perhaps, and all in all. I
have no wish that people should step in between us. I
would much rather show my sense of the obliging con-
duct of a deserving person like your friend. Therefore
let it be so ; and your husband and myself will do well
enough for the other sponsors, I dare say."
In the course of these remarks, delivered with great
majesty and grandeur, Mr. Dombey had truly revealed
the secret feelings of his breast. An indescribable dis-
trust of anybody stepping in between himself and his son:
a haughty dread of having any rival or partner in the
boy's respect and deference ; a sharp misgiving, recently
acquired, that he was not infallible in his power of bend-
ing and binding human wills ; as sharp a jealousy of any
second check or cross ; these were, at that time, the mas-
ler-keys of his soul. In all his life, he had never made
a friend. His cold and distant nature had neither sought
one, nor found one. And now when that nature concen-
trated 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
tunning clear and free, had thawed for but an instant
to admit its burden, and then frozen with it into one
myielding block.
Elevated thus to the godmothership of little Paul, in
virtue of her insignificance, Miss Tox was from thai
hour chosen and appointed to office ; and Mr. Dorabey
further signified his pleasure that the ceremony, alreadj
78 DOMBEY AND SON.
long delayed i?hvuld take place without further postpone-
ment. His sister, vho had been far from anticipating so
signal a success, withdrew- as soon as she could, to com-
municate it to her best of friends ; and Mr. Dombey was
left alone in his library.
There was anything but solitude in the nursery ; for
thare, Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox were enjoying a social
evening, so much to the disgust of Miss Susan Nipper
that that young lady embraced every opportunity of
making wry faces behjnd the door. Her feelings were
BO much excited on the occasion, that she found it indis-
pensable to afford them this relief, even without having
the comfort of any audience or sympathy whatever. As
the knight-errants of old relieved their minds by carving
their mistresses' names in deserts and wildernesses, and
other savage places where there was no probability of
there ever being anybody to read them, so did Miss Susan
Nipper curl her snub nose into drawers and wardrobes,
put away winks of disparagement in cupboards, shed
derisive squints into stone pitchers, and contradict and
call names out in the passage.
The two interlopers, however, blissfully unconscious
of the young lady's sentiments, saw little Paul safe
through all the stages of undressing, airy exercise, sup-
per and bed ; and then sat down to tea before the fire.
The two children now lay, through the good offices of
Polly, in one room ; and it was not until the ladies were
established at their tea-table that happening to look tow-
ards the little beds, they thought of Florence.
" How sound she sleeps ! " said Miss Tox.
" Why, you know, my dear, she takes a good deal of
exercise in the course of the day," returned Mrs. Chick,
' playing about little Paul so much."
DOMBEY AND SON. 79
" She is a curious child," said Miss Tox.
"My dear," i-etorted Mrs. Chick, in a low voice : *Her
mama, all over ! "
" In-deed ! " said Miss Tox. " Ah dear me ! "
A tone of most extraordinary compassion Miss Tox
said it in, though she had no distinct idea why, except
that it was expected of her.
" Florence will never, never, never, be a Dorabey,"
said Mrs. Chick, " not if she lives to be a thousand
years old."
Miss Tox elevated her eyebrows, and was again full
of commiseration.
" I quite fret and worry myself about her," said Mrs.
Chick, with a sigh of modest merit " I really don't see
what is to become of her when she grows older, or what
position she is to take. She don't gain on her papa in
the least. How can one expect she should, when she is
so very unlike a Dombey ? "
Miss Tox looked as if she saw no way out of such a
cogent argument as that, at all.
" And the child, you see," said Mrs. Chick, in deep
confidence, " has poor Fanny's nature. She'll never
make an effort in after-life, I'll venture to say. Never I
She'll never wind and twine herself about her papa's
heart like "
" Liko the ; vy ? " suggested Miss Tox.
"Like the ivy," Mrs. Chick assented. "Never! Sle'fl
never glide and reptle into the bosom of her papa's a
fections like the "
" Startled fawn ? " suggested Miss Tox.
" Like the startled fawn," said Mrs. Chick. " Never !
Poor Fanny ! Yet how I loved her ! "
" You must not distress yourself my dear," said Miss
80 DOMBET AND SON.
Tox, in a soothing voice. u Now, really ! You have too
much feeling."
" We have all our faults," 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 if,
Yet how I loved her ! "
What a satisfaction it was to Mrs. Chick a common
place piece of folly enough, compared with whom her
sister-in-law had been a very angel of womanly intelli
gence and gentleness to patronize and be tender to
the memory of that lady : in exact pursuance of her
conduct to her in her lifetime : and to thoroughly believe
herself, and take herself in, and make herself uncom-
monly comfortable on the strength of her toleration !
What a mighty pleasant virtue toleration should be when
we are right, to be so very pleasant when we are wrong,
and quite unable to demonstrate how we come to be in-
vested with the privilege of exercising it !
Mrs. Chick was yet drying her eyes and shaking her
head, when Richards made bold to caution her that Miss
Florence was awake and sitting in her bed. She had
risen, as the nurse said, and the lashes of her eyes were
wet with tears. But no one saw them glistening save
Polly. No one else leant over her, and whispered
soothing words to her, or was near enough to hear the
flutter of her beating heart.
" Oh ! dear nurse ! " said the child, looking earnestly
up in her face, " let me lie by my brother ! "
u Why, my pet ? " said Richards.
* Oh ! I think he loves me," cried the child wildly
* Let me lie by him. Pray do ! "
Mrs. Chick interposed with some motherly words about
going to sleep like a dear, but Florence repeated her
DOMBEY AND SON. 81
bupplication, wiih a frightened look, and in a voice
broken by sobs and tears.
" I'll not wake him," she said, covering her face and
hanging down her head. " I'll only touch him with my
hand, and go to sleep. Oh, pray, pray, let me lie by my
brother, to-night, for I believe he's fond of me ! "
Richards took her without a word, and carrying her
to the little bed in which the infant was sleeping, laid
her down by his side. She crept as near him as she
could without disturbing his rest ; and stretching out one
arm so that it timidly embraced his neck, and hiding her
face on the other, over which her damp and scattered
hair fell loose, lay motionless.
" Poor little thing," said Miss Tox ; " she has been
dreaming, I dare say."
This trivial incident had so interrupted the current
of conversation, that it was difficult of resumption ; and
Mrs. Chick moreover had been so affected by the con-
templation of her own tolerant nature, that she^was not
in spirits. The two friends accordingly soon made an
end of their tea, and a servant was despatched to fetch
a hackney cabriolet for Miss Tox. Miss Tox had great
experience in hackney cabs, and her starting in one waa
generally a work of time, as she was systematic in the
jU'eparatory arrangements.
" Have the goodness, if you please, Towlinson," said
Bliss Tox, " first of all to carry out a pen and ink and
take his number legibly."
" Yes, miss," said Towlinson.
"Then, if you please, Towlinson," said Miss Tox,
% have the goodness to turn the cushion. Which," said
Miss Tox apart to Mrs. Chick, " is generally damp, my
dear."
VOL. I. 6
82 DOMBET AND SOX.
" Yes, miss," said Towlinson.
" I'll trouble you also, if you please," said Miss Tox,
M with this card and this shilling. He's to drive tn the
card, and is to understand that he will not on any
account have more than the shilling."
" No, miss," said Towlinson.
" And I'm sorry to give you so much trouble,
Towlinson," said Miss Tox, looking at him pensively.
"Not at all, miss," said Towlinson.
"Mention to the man, then, if you please, Towlinson,"
said Miss Tox, "that the lady's uncle is a magistrate,
and that if he gives her any of his impertinence he will
be punished terribly. You can pretend to say that, if
you please, Towlinson, in a friendly way, and because
you know it was done to another man, who died."
" Certainly, miss,"* said Towlinson.
" And now good-night to my sweet, sweet, sweet, god
son," said Miss Tox, with a soft shower of kisses at each
repetition of the adjective ; " and Louisa, my dear friend,
promise me to take a little something warm before you
go to bed, and not to distress yourself!"
It was with extreme difficulty that Nipper, the black-
eyed, who looked on steadfastly, contained herself at thia
crisis, and, until the subsequent departure of Mrs. Chick.
But the nursery being at length free of visitors, she
made herself some recompense for her late restraint.
" You might keep me in a straight-waistcoat for six
weeks," said Nipper, " and when I got it off I'd only be
more aggravated, who ever heard the like of them two
Giiffins, Mrs. Richards?"
"And then to talk of having been dreaming, poor
dear!" said Polly.
"Oh you beauties!" cried Susan Nipper, affecting to
DOMBEY AND SON. 88
salute tile door by vvhicli the ladies had departed.
K Never be a Dombey, won't she, it's to be hoped she
won't, we don't want any more such, one's 'enough."
" Don't wake the children, Susan dear," said Polly.
" I'm very much beholden to you, Mrs. Richards,"
Baid Susan, who was not by any means discriminating m
her wrath, " and really feel it as a honor to receive
your commands, being a black slave and a mulotter.
Mrs. Richards, it' there's any other orders you am give
me, pray mention 'em."
" Nonsense ; orders," said Polly.
" Oh ! bless your heart, Mrs. Richards," cried Susan,
" temporaries always orders permanencies here, didn't
you know that, why wherever was you born, Mrs. Rich-
ards ? But wherever you was born, Mrs. Richards,"
pursued Spitfire, shaking her head resolutely ? "and
whenever, and however (which is best known to your-
self), 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 oif a bridge head fore-
most into five-and-forty feet of water, Mrs. Richards, but
a person may be very far from diving."
" There no" w," said Polly, " you're angry because
you're ft good little thing, and fond of Miss Florence ;
&nd yet you turn round on me, because there's nobody
else."
" It's very easy for some to keep their tempers, and
be soft-spoken, Mrs. Richards," returned Susan, slightly
mollified, " when their child's made as much of as a
prince, and is petted and patted till it wishes its friends
farther, 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 good-
84 DOMBEY AKD SON.
ness gracious rae, Miss Fley, you naughty, sinful child,
if you don't shjit your eyes this minute, I'll call in them
hobgoblins that lives in the cock-loft to come and eat you
up alive ! "
Here Miss Nipper made a horrible lowing, supposed
to issue from a conscientious goblin of the bull species,
impatient to discharge the severe duty of his position.
Having further composed her young charge by covering
her head with the bedclothes, and making three or four
angry dabs at the pillow, she folded her arms, and
screwed up her mouth, and sat looking at the fire for the
rest of the evening.
Though little Paul was said, in nursery phrase, * to
take a deal of notice for his age," he took as little notice
of all this as of the preparations for his christening on
the next day but one ; which nevertheless went on about
him, as to his personal apparel, and that of his sister and
the two nurses, with great activity. Neither did he, on
the arrival of the appointed morning, show any sense of
its importance ; being, on the contrary, unusually in-
clined to sleep, and unusually inclined to take it ill in his
attendants that they dressed him to go out.
It happened to be an iron-gray autumnal day, with a
shrewd east wind blowing a day in keeping with the
proceedings. Mr. Dombey represented in himself the
wind, the shade, and the autumn of the christening. He
Btood in his library to receive the company, as hard and
cold as the weather ; and when he looked out through
the glass room, at the trees in the little garden, their
brown and yellow leaves came fluttering down, as if he
blighted them.
Ugh ! They were black, cold rooms ; and seemed to
be in mourning, like the inmates of the house. Th
DOMBEY AND SON. 85
books precisely matched as to size, and drawn up in line,
like soldiers, looked in their cold, hard, slippery uniforms,
as it' they had but one idea among them, and that was a
freezer. The bookcase, glazed and locked, repudiated
all familiarities. Mr. Pitt, in bronze on the top, with no
trace of his celestial origin about him, guarded the un-
attainable treasure like an enchanted Moor. A du.sty
urn at each high corner, dug up from an ancient tomb,
preached desolation and decay, as from two pulpits ; and
the chimney-glass, reflecting Mr. Dombey and his por-
trait at one blow, seemed fraught with melancholy medi-
tations.
The stiff and stark fire-irons appeared to claim a
nearer relationship than anything else there to Mr.
Dombey, with his buttoned coat, his white cravat, his
heavy gold watch-chain, and his creaking boots. But
this was before the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Chick, his
lawful relatives, who soon presented themselves.
" My dear Paul," Mrs. Chick murmured, as she em-
braced him, " the beginning, 1 hope, of many joyful
days ! "
"Thank you, Louisa," said Mr. Dombey, giimly.
u How do you do, Mr. John ? "
" How do you do, sir ? " said Chick.
He gave Mr. Dombey his hand, as if he feared it
might electrify him. Mr. Dombey 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, slightly turning
his head in his cravat, as if it were a socket, " you would
have preferred a fire ? "
" Oh, my dear Paul, no," said Mrs. Chick, who had
much ado to keep her teeth from chattering ; " not for
$6 DOMBEY AND SOtt.
" Mr. John," said Mr. Dombey, " you are not sensible
>f any chill ? "
Mr. John, who had already got both his hands in his
pockets over the wrists, and was on the very threshold
of that same canine chorus which had given Mrs. Chick
HO much offence on a former occasion, protested that he
was perfectly comfortable.
He added in a low voice, " With my tiddle (ol toor
rul " when he was providentially stopped by Towlin-
eon, who announced :
Miss Tox ! "
And enter that fair enslaver, with a blue nose and in-
describably frosty face, referable to her being very thin-
ly 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
courtesied so low, in acknowledgment of Mr. Dombey'a
advancing a step or two to meet her.
" I can never forget this occasion, sir," said Miss Tox,
softly. " 'Tis impossible. My dear Louisa, I can hard-
ly believe the evidence of my senses."
If Miss Tox could believe the evidence of one of her
senses, it was a very cold day. That was quite clear.
She took an early opportunity of promoting the circu-
lation in the tip of her nose by secretly chafing it with
her pocket-handkerchief, lest, by its very low temper-
ature, it should disagreeably astonish the laby when she
came to kiss it.
The baby soon appeared, carried in great giory by
Richards ; while Florence, in custody of that active
young constable, Susan Nipper, brought up the rear
DOMBEY AND SON. 87
Though the whole nursery party were dressed by this
time in lighter mourning than at first, there was enough
in the appearance of the bereaved children to make the
day no brighter. The baby too it might have been
Miss Tox's nose began to cry. Thereby, as it hap-
pened, preventing Mr. Chick from the awkward fulfil-
ment of a very honest purpose he had ; which was, U
make much of Florence. For this gentleman, insensible
to the superior claims of a perfect Dombey (perhaps on
account of having the honor to be united to n Dornbey
himself, and being familiar with excellence), really liked
her, and showed that he liked her, and was about to
show it in his own way now, when Paul cried, and his
helpmate stopped him short.
" Now Florence child ! " said her aunt, briskly, " what
are you doing, love ? Show yourself to him. Engage
his attention, my dear ! "
The atmosphere became, or might have become, colder
and colder, when Mr. Dombey stood frigidly watching
his little daughter, who, clapping her hands, and stand-
ing on tiptoe before the throne of his son and heir, lured
him to bend down from his high estate, and look at her.
Some honest act of Richards's may have aided the effect,
but he did look down, and held his peace. As his sister
hid behind her nurse, he followed her with his eyes ;
und when she peeped out with a merry cry to him, he
sprang up and crowed lustily laughing outright when
eh e ran in upon him ; and seeming to fondle her curia
with his tiny hands, while she smothered him with kisses.
Was Mr. Dombey pleased to see this ? He testified
uo pleasure by the relaxation of a nerve ; but outward
tokens of any kind of feeling were, unusual with him.
If any sunbeam stole into the -"om to light the childreii
88 DOMBEY AND SON.
at their play, it never reached his face. He look&J on
so fixedly and coldly, that the warm light vanished even
from the laughing eyes of little Florence, when, at last,
they happened to meet his.
It was a dull, gray, autumn day indeed, and in a min-
ute's pause and silence that took place, the leaves fell
sorrowfully.
" Mr. John," said Mr. Dombey, referring to his watch,
and assuming his hat and gloves. " Take my sister, if
you please : my arm to-day is Miss Tox's. You had better
go first with Master Paul, Richards. Be very careful."
In Mr. Dombey's carriage, Dombey and Son, Misa
Tox, Mrs. Chick, Richards, and Florence. In a little
carriage following it, Susan Nipper and the owner Mr.
Chick. Susan looking out of window, without intermis-
sion, 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 ap-
propriate pecuniary compliment for herself.
Once upon the road to church, Mr. Dombey clapped
his hands for the amusement of his son. At which in-
stance of parental enthusiasm Miss Tox was enchanted.
But exclusive of this incident, the chief difference be-
tween the christening party and a party in a mourning
coach, consisted in the colors of the carriage and horses.
Arrived at the church steps, they were received by a
portentous beadle. Mr. Dombey dismounted first to help
the ladies out, and standing near him at the church-door,
looked like another beadle. A beadle less gorgeous, but
more dreadful ; the beadle of private life : the beadle of
our business and our bosoms.
Miss Tox's hand 'trembled as she slipped it through
Mr. Dombey's arm, and felt herself escorted up the
DOMBEY AND SON. 89
steps, preceded by a cocked hat and a Babylonian collar.
It seemed for a moment like that other solemn institution.
* Wilt thou have this man, Lucretia ? " " Yes, I will."
" Please to bring the child in quick out of the air
there," whispered the beadle, holding open the innet
door of the church.
Little Paul might have asked with Hamlet " into my
grave ? " so chill and earthy was the place. The tall
shrouded pulpit and reading-desk ; the dreary perspec-
tive of empty pews stretching away under the galleries,
and empty benches mounting to the roof and lost in the
shadow of the great grim organ ; the dusty matting and
cold stone slabs ; the grisly free seats in the aisles ; and
the damp corner by the bell-rope, where the black tre-
gels used for funerals were stowed away, along with
some shovels and baskets, and a coil or two of deadly-
looking rope ; the strange, unusual, uncomfortable smell,
and the cadaverous light ; were all in unison. It was
a cold and dismal scene.
" There's a wedding just on, sir," said the beadle,
" but it'll be over directly, if you'll walk into the westry
here."
Before he turned again to lead the way, he gave Mi'.
Dombey a bow and a half smile of recognition, importing
that he (the beadle) remembered to have had the plea*-
ure of attending on him when he buried his wife, and
hoped he had enjoyed himself since.
The very wedding looked dismal as they passed ir
front of the altar. The bride was too old and the bride-
groom too young, and a superannuated beau with on
eye and an eyeglass stuck in its blank companion, was
giving away the lady, while the friends were shivering.
In the veetry the fire was smoking ; and an over-aged
90 DOMBEY AND SON.
and over-worked and under-paid attorney's clerk, " mak-
ing a search," was running his forefinger down the parch
ment pages of an immense register (one of a long series
of similar volumes) gorged with burials. Over the fire-
place was a ground-plan of the vaults underneath the
church ; and Mr. Chick, skimming the literary portion
of it aloud, by way of enlivening the company, read the
reference to Mrs. Dombey's tomb in full, before he could
stop himself.
After another cold interval, a wheezy little pew-
opener afflicted with an asthma, appropriate to the
church-yard, if not to the church, summoned them to
the font. Here they waited some little time while the
marriage -party enrolled themselves; and meanwhile the
wheezy little pew-opener partly in consequence of her
infirmity, and partly that the marriage-party might not
forget her went about the building coughing like a
grampus.
Presently the clerk (the only cheerful-looking object
there, and he was an undertaker) came up with a jug of
warm water, and said something, as he poured it into the
font, about taking the chill off; which millions of gallons
boiling hot .could not have done for the occasion. Then
the clergyman, an amiable and mild-looking young curate,
but obviously afraid of the baby, appeared like the princi-
pal character in a ghost-story, "a tall figure all in white;"
at eight 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 re-
lief of everybody, he was heard under the portico, during
the rest of the ceremony, now fainter, now louder, now
hushed, now bursting forth again with an irrepressible
DOMBEY AXD SON. 91
gense of his wrongs. This so distracted the attention of
the two ladies, that Mrs. Chick was constantly deploying
into the centre aisle, to send out messages by the pew-
opener, while Miss Tox kept her prayer-book open at
the Gunpowder Plot, and occasionally read responses
from that service.
During the whole of these proceedings, Mr. Dombey
remained as impassive and gentlemanly as ever, and
perhaps assisted in making it so cold, that the young
curate smoked at the mouth as he read. The only time
that he unbent his visage in the least, was when the
clergyman, in delivering (very unaffectedly and simply)
the closing exhortation, relative to the future examina-
tion of the child by the sponsors, happened to rest his
eye on Mr. Chick ; and then Mr. Dombey might have
been seen to express by a majestic look, that he would
like to catch him at it.
It might have been well for Mr. Dombey, if he had
thought of his own dignity a little less; and had thought
of the great origin and purpose of the ceremony in which
he took so formal and so stiff* a part, a little more. His
arrogance contrasted strangely with its history.
When it was all over, he again gave his arm to Misa
Tox, and conducted her to the vestry, where he informed
the clergyman how much pleasure it would have given
him to have solicited the honor of his company at dinner,
but for the unfortunate state of his household affairs.
The register signed, and the fees paid, and the pew-
opener (whose cough was very bad again) remembered,
and the beadle gratified, and the sexton (who was acci-
dentally on the door-steps, looking with great interest at
the weather) not forgotten, they got into the carriage
9gain, and drove borne in the same bleak fellowship.
J2 DOMBEY AND SON.
There they found Mr. Pitt turning up his nose at a
cold collation, set forth in a cold pomp of glass and sil-
ver, and looking more like a dead dinner lying in state
than a social refreshment. On their arrival, Miss Tox
produced a mug for her godson, and Mr. Chick a knife
and fork and spoon in a case. Mr. Dombey also pro-
duced a bracelet for Miss Tox ; and, on the receipt of
this token, Miss Tox was tenderly affected.
u Mr. John," said Mr. Dombey, " will you take the
bottom of the table, if you please. What have you got
there, Mr. John ? "
" I have got a cold fillet of veal here, sir," replied Mr.
Chick, rubbing his numbed hands hard together. " What
have you got there, sir?"
" This," returned Mr. Dombey, " is some cold prepa-
ration of calf's head, I think. I see cold fowls ham
patties salad lobster. Miss Tox will do me the
honor of taking some wine ? Champagne to Miss Tox."
There was a toothache in everything. The wine was
so bitter cold that it forced a little scream from Miss
Tox, which she had great difficulty in turning into a
u Hem ! " The veal had come from such an airy pan-
try, that the first taste of it had struck a sensation as of
cold lead to Mr. Chick's extremities. Mr. Dombey alone
remained unmoved. He might have been hung up for
sale at a Russian fair as a specimen of a frozen gentle-
man.
The prevailing influence was too much even for his
sister. She made no effort at flattery or small-talk, and
directed all her efforts to looking as warm as she could.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Chick, making a desperate
plunge, after a long silence, and filling a glass of sherry ;
* I shall drink tins, if you'll allow me, sir, to little Paul."
DOMBEY AND SON. 93
" Bless him ! " murmured Miss Tox, taking a sip of
wine.
" Dear little Dombey ! " murmured Mrs. Chick.
" Mr. John," said Mr. Dombey, with severe gravity
u my son would feel and express himself obliged to you
I have no doubt, if he could appreciate the favor yoi
have done him. He will prove, in time to come, I trust
equal to any responsibility that the obliging disposition
of his relations and friends, in private, or the oneroua
nature of our position, in public, may impose upon him."
The tone in which this was said admitting of nothing
aiore, Mr. Chick relapsed into low spirits and silence.
Not so Miss Tox, who, having listened to Mr. Dombey
with even a more emphatic attention than usual, and with
a more expressive tendency of her head to one side, now
leant across the table, and said to Mrs. Chick softly :
" Louisa ! "
" My dear," said Mrs. Chick.
" Onerous nature of our position in public may I
have forgotten the exact term."
" Expose him to," said Mrs. Chick.
" Pardon me-, my dear," returned Miss Tox, " I think
not. It was more rounded and flowing. Obliging dis-
position of relations and friends in private, or onerous
nature of position in public may impose upon
him ? "
" Impose upon him, to be sure," said Mrs. Chick.
Miss Tox struck her delicate hands together lightly,
in triumph ; and added, casting up her eyes, " eloquence
indeed ! "
Mr. Dombey, in the mean while, had issued orders for
the attendance of Richards, who now entered courtesying,
but without the baby ; Paul being asleej) after the fa-
J4 DOMBEY AND SON.
tigues of the morning. Mr. Dombey, having deliveied
a glass of wine to this vassal, addressed her in the follow-
ing words : Miss Tox previously settling her head on one
side, and making other little arrangements for engrav
ing them on her heart.
" During the six months or so, Richards, which have
w:en you an inmate of this house, you have done your
duty. Desiring to connect some little service to you
with this occasion, I considered how 1 could best effect
that object, and I also advised with my sister Mrs. "
" Chick," interposed the gentleman of that name.
" Oh, hush if you please! " said Miss Tox.
" I was about to say to you, Richards," resumed Mr.
Dombey, with an appalling glance at Mr. John, " that
I was further assisted in my decision, by the recollee-
tion of a conversation I held with your husband in
this room, on the occasion of your being hired, when
he disclosed to me the melancholy fact that your family,
himself at the head, were sunk and steeped in igno-
rance."
Richards quailed under the magnificence of the re-
proof.
" I am far from being friendly," pursued Mr. Dom-
bey, " to what is called by persons of levelling senti-
ments, 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 nomi-
nating a child on the foundation of an ancient establish-
ment, called (from a worshipful company) the Charitable
Grinders ; where not only is a wholesome education
bestowed upon the scholars, but where a dress and badge
is likewise provided for them ; I have (first communicat-
DOMBEY AND SON. 95
Ing, through Mrs. Chick, with your family) nominated
your eldest sjn to an existing vacancy; and he has this
day, I am informed, assumed the habit. The number
of her son, I believe," said Mr. Dombey, turning to hia
sister and speaking of the child as if he were a hackney-
coach, " is one hundred and forty-seven. Louisa, you
can tell her."
" One hundred and forty-seven," said Mrs. Chick.
"The dress, Richards, is a nice, warm, blue baize tailed
coat and cap, turned up with orange-colored binding ;
red worsted stockings ; and very strong leather small-
clothes. One might wear the articles one's self," said
Mrs. Chick, with enthusiasm, " and be grateful."
" There, Richards !" said Miss Tox. " ]\ow, indeed,
you may be proud. The Charitable Grinders ! "
" I am sure I am very much obliged, sir," returned
Richards faintly, "and take it very kind that you should
remember my little ones." At the same time a vision
of Biler as a Charitable Grinder, with his very small
legs encased in the serviceable clothing described by
Mrs. Chick, swam before Richards's eyes, and made
them water.
" I am very glad to see you have so much feeling,
Richards," said Miss Tox.
" It makes one almost hope, it really does," said Mrs.
Chick, who prided herself on taking trustful views of
human nature, " that there may yet be some faint spark
of gratitude and right feeling in the world."
Richards deferred to these compliments by courtesy-
ing and murmuring her thanks ; but finding it quite
Impossible to recover her spirits from the disorder into
tfhich they had been thrown by the image of her jon
\n his precocious nether garments, she gradually np-
J6 DOMBEY AND SON.
preached the door and was heartily relieved to escape
by it.
Such temporary indications of a partial thaw that had
appeared with her, vanished with her; and the frost
get in again, as cold and hard as ever. Mr. Chick
was twice heard to hum a tune at the bottom of the
table, but on both occasions it was a fragment of the
Dead March in Saul. The party seemed tc get colder
and colder, and to be gradually resolving itself into a
congealed and solid state, like the collation round which
it was assembled. At length Mrs. Chick looked at
Miss Tox, and Miss Tox returned the look, and they
both rose and said it was really time to go. Mr.
Dombey receiving this announcement with perfect equa-
nimity, they took leave of that gentleman, and pres-
ently departed under the protection of Mr. Chick ; who,
when they had turned their backs upon the house and
left its master in his usual solitary state, put his hands
in his pockets, threw himself back in the carnage, and
whistled " With a hey ho chevy ! " all through ; con-
veying into his face as he did so, an expression of such
gloomy and terrible defiance, that Mrs. Chick dared not
protest, or in any way molest him.
Richards, though she had little Paul on her lap, could
not forget her own first-born. She felt it was ungrate-
ful ; but the influence of the day fell even on the
Charitable Grinders, and she could hardly help regard-
ing his pewter badge, number one hundred and forty-
seven, as, somehow, a part of its formality and sternness
She spoke, too, in the nursery, of his " blessed legs,"
and was again troubled by his spectre in uniform.
" I don't know what I wouldn't give," said Polly, " to
see the poor little dear before he gets used to 'em."
DOMBEY AND SON. 97
" Why, (lien, I tcil you what, Mrs. Richards," retorted
Nipper, who had been admitted to her confidence, " see
him and make your mind easy."
" Mr. Dombey wouldn't like it," said Polly.
" Oh wouldn't he, Mrs. Ricjiards ! " retorted Nip-
per, " he'd like it very much, I think, when he was
B.--ked."
" You wouldn't ask him, I suppose, at all ? " said
Tolly.
" No, Mrs. Richards, quite contrairy," returned Susan,
" and them two inspectors Tox and Chick, not intend-
ing to be on duty to-morrow, as I heard 'em say, me
and Miss Floy will go along with you to-morrow morn-
ing, and welcome, Mrs. Richards, if you like, for we
may as well walk there as up and down a street, and
better too."
Polly rejected the idea pretty stoutly at first ; but
by little and little she began to entertain it, as she enter-
tained more and more distinctly the forbidden pictures
of her children, and her own home. At length, argu-
ing that there could be no great harm in calling for
u moment at the door, she yielded to the Nipper prop-
osition.
The matter being settled thus, little Paul began to
cry most piteously, as if he had a foreboding that no
good would come of it.
" What's the matter with the child ? " asked Susan.
" lie's cold, I think," said Polly, walking with him
t and fro, and hushing him.
It was a bleak autumnal afternoon indeed ; and as
she walked, and hushed, and, glancing through the
dreary windows, pressed the little fellow closer to hii
breast, the withered leaves came showering down.
DOJLBEY A2JD fiOIf.
CHAPTER VL
PAUL'S SECOND DEPRIVATION".
POLLY was beset by so many misgivings in the morn-
ing, that but for the incessant promptings of her black-
eyed companion, she would have abandoned all thoughts
of the expedition, and formally petitioned for leave to
gee number one hundred and forty-seven under the awful
shadow of Mr. Dombey's roof. But Susan who was
personally disposed in favor of the excursion, and who
(like Tony Lumpkin), if she could bear the disappoint-
ments of other people with tolerable fortitude, could not
abide to disappoint herself, threw so many ingenious
doubts in the. way of this second thought, and stimulated
the original intention with so many ingenious arguments,
that almost as soon as Mr. Dombey's stately back was
turned, and that gentleman was pursuing his daily road
towards the city, his unconscious son was on his way to
Staggs's Gardens.
This euphonious locality was situated in a subuib.
known by the inhabitants of Staggs's Gardens by the
Dame of Camberling Town ; a designation which the
Strangers' Map of London, as printed (with a view to
{tleasant and commodious reference) on pocket-handker-
nhiefs, condenses, with some show of reason, into Camdeo
Town. Hither the two nurses bent their steps, accom-
panied by their charges ; Richards carrying Paul? of
DOMBEI 4.ND SON. 99
course, and Susan leading little Florence by the
and giving her such jerks and pokes from time to time,
as she considered it wholesome to administer.
The iirst shock of a great earthquake had, just at
i hat period, rent the whole neighborhood to its centre,
Traces of its course were visible on every side. Houses
were knocked down ; streets broken through and stop-
ped ; deep pits and trenches dug in the ground ; enor-
mous heaps of earth and clay thrown up ; buildings
that were undermined and shaking, propped by great
beams of wood. Here, a chaos of carts, overthrown
and jumbled together, lay topsy-turvy at the bottom of
a steep unnatural hill ; there, confused treasures of iron
soaked and rusted in something that had accidentally
become a pond. Everywhere were bridges that led
nowhere ; thoroughfares that were wholly impassable ;
Babel towers of chimneys, wanting half their height ;
temporary wooden houses and enclosures, in the most
unlikely situations ; carcases of ragged tenements, and
fragments of unfinished walls and arches, and piles of
scaffolding, and wildernesses of bricks, and giant forma
of cranes, and tripods straddling above nothing. There
were a hundred thousand shapes and substances of in-
completeness, wildly mingled out of their places, upside
down, burrowing in the earth, aspiring in the air, mould-
ering in the water, and unintelligible as any dream. Hot
springs and fiery eruptions, the usual attendants upon
earthquakes, lent their contributions of confusion to the
scene. Boiling water hissed and heaved within dilapi-
dated walls ; whence, also, the glare and roar of flames
jame issuing forth ; and mounds of ashes blocked up
rights of way, and wholly changed the law and custom
vf the neighborhood.
JOO DOMBEY AND SON.
In short, the yet unfinished and unopened railroad was
in progress ; and, from the very core of all this dire dis-
order, trailed smoothly away, upon its mighty course of
civilization and improvement.
But as yet, the neighborhood was shy to own the Rail-
road. One or two bold speculators had projected streets;
and one had built a little, but had stopped among the
inud and ashes to consider further of it. A bran-new
tavern, redolent of fresh mortar and size, and fronting
nothing at all, had taken for its sign The Railway Arms;
but that might be rash enterprise and then it hoped to
sell drink to the workmen. So, the Excavators' House
of Call had sprung up from a beer-shop ; and the old-
eatablished Ham and Beef Shop had become the Rail-
way Eating House, with a roast leg of pork daily,
through interested motives of a similar immediate and
popular description. Lodging-house keepers were favor-
able in like manner; and for the like reasons were not
to be trusted. The general belief was very slow. There
were frowzy fields, and cow-houses, and dunghills, and
dust-heaps, and ditches, and gardens, and summer-houses,
and carpet-beating grounds, at the very door of the rail-
way. Little tumuli of oyster shells in the oyster season,
and of lobster shells in the lobster season, and of broken
crockery and faded cabbage leaves in all seasons, en-
croached upon its high places. Posts, and rails, and oll
cautions to trespassers, and backs of mean houses, and
patches of wretched vegetation, stared it out of counte-
nance. Nothing was the better for it, or thought of being
BO. If the miserable waste ground lying near it could
have laughed, it would have laughed it to scorn, like
many of the miserable neighbors.
Staggs's Gardens was uncommonly incredulous. It
DOMBEY AXD SON. 101
was a little row of houses, with little squalid patches of
ground before them, fenced off with old doors, barrel
staves, scraps of tarpaulin, and dead bushes ; with 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 sum-
mer-houses (one was an old boat), "dried clothes, and
smoked pipes. Some were of opinion that Staggs's
Gardens derived its name from a deceased capitalist,
one Mr. Staggs, who had built it for his delectation.
Others, who had a natural taste for the country, held
that it dated from those rural times when the antlered
herd, under the familiar denomination of Staggses, had
resorted to its shady precincts. Be this as it may,
Staggs's Gardens was regarded by its population as a
sacred grove not to be withered by railroads ; and so
confident were they generally of its long outliving any
such ridiculous inventions, that the master chimney-
sweeper at the corner, who was understood to take the
lead in the local politics of the Gardens, had publicly
declared that on the occasion of the railroad opening, if
ever it did open, two of his boys should ascend the flues
of his dwelling, with instructions'to hail the failure with
derisive jeers from the chimney-pots.
To this unhallowed spot, the very name of whicb
liad hitherto been carefully concealed from Mr. Dom-
hey by his sister, was little Paul now borne by Fate
and Richards.
" That's my house, Susan," said Polly, pointing it out.
" Is it, indeed, Mrs. Richards," said Susan, condescend-
ingly.
" And there's my sister Jemima at the door, I do de-
clare ; " cried Polly, " with my own sweet precious baby
u her arms ! "
-02 DOMBET AND SON.
The sight added such an extensive pair of wings to
Polly's impatience, that she set off down the Gardens at
a run, and bouncing on Jemima, changed babies with her
in a twinkling ; to the utter astonishment of that young
damsel, on whom the heir of the Dombeys seemed to
have fallen from the clouds.
"Why, Polly!" cried Jemima. "You! what a turn
you have given me ! who'd have thought it ! come along
in Polly! How well you do look to be sure! The
children will go half wild to see you Polly, that they
will."
That they did, if one might judge from the noise they
made, and the way in which they dashed at Polly and
dragged her to a low chair in the chimney corner, where
her own honest apple face became immediately the centre
of a bunch of smaller pippins, all laying their rosy cheeks
close to it, and all evidently the growth of the same tree.
As to Polly, she was full as noisy and vehement as the
children ; and it was not until she was quite out of
breath, and her hair was hanging all about her flushed
face, and her new christening attire was very much di-
shevelled, that any pause took place in the confusion.
Even then, the smallest Toodle but one remained in her
lap, holding on tight with both arms round her neck;
while the smallest Toodle but two mounted on the back
of the chair, and made desperate efforts, with one kg in
Ihe air, to kiss her round the corner.
" Look ! there's a pretty little lady come to see you,"
said Polly ; " and see how quiet she is ! what a beautiful
little lady, a'n't she ? "
This reference to Florence, who had been standing by
A .he door not unobservant of what passed, directed the
attention of the vounger branches towards her; and had
POMBEY AND SOX. 103
likewise {lie happy effect of leading to the formal rccogni-
lion of Miss Nipper, who was not quite free from a mis-
giving that she had been already slighted.
"Oli do come in and sit down a minute, Susan,
please," said Polly. ' This is my sister Jemima, ihb
is. .Jemima, I don't know what I should ever do with
myself, if it wasn't for Susan Nipper ; I shouldn't bo
here now but for her."
" Oh do sit down Miss Nipper, if you please," quoth
Ji-mima.
Susan took the extreme corner of a chair, with a
stately and ceremonious aspect.
" I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life ;
now really, I never was, Miss Nipper," said Jemima.
Susan relaxing, took a little more of the chair, and
smiled graciously.
" Do untie your bonnet-strings and make yourself at
home, Miss Nipper, please," entreated Jemima. " I am
afraid it's a poorer place than you're used to ; but you'll
make allowances, I'm sure."
The black-eyed was so softened by this deferential be-
havior, that she caught up little Miss Toodle who was
running past, and took her to Banbury Cross immedi-
ately.
"But where's my pretty buy?" said Polly. "My
poor fellow ? I came all this way to see him in his
oew clothes."
" Ah what a pity ! " cried Jemima. " He'll break his
heart, when he hears his mother has been here. He's at
school, Polly."
" Gone already ! "
" Yes. He went for the first time yesterday, for feiu
he should lose any learning. But it's half-holiday, Polly
104 DOMBEY AND SON.
if you could only stop till he comes home you and
Miss Nipper, leastways," said Jemima, mindful in good
time of the dignity of the black-eyed.
" And how does he look, Jemima, bless him ! " faltered
Polly.
" Well, really he don't look so bad as you'd suppose,"
returned Jemima.
" Ah ! " said Polly, with emotion, " I knew his legs
must be too short."
" His legs is short," returned Jemima; "especially be-
hind ; but they'll get longer, Polly, every day."
It was a slow, prospective kind of consolation ; but the
cheerfulness and good nature with which it was admin-
istered, gave it a value it did not intrinsically possess.
After a moment's silence, Polly asked, in a more spright-
ly manner:
"And where's father, Jemima dear?" for by that
patriarchal appellation, Mr. Toodle was generally known
in the family.
" There again ! " said Jemima. " What a pity ! Fa-
ther took his dinner with him this morning, and isn't
coming home till night. But he's always talking of you,
Polly, and telling the children about you ; and is the
peaceablest, patientest, best temperedest soul in the
world, as he always was and will be ! "
" Thankee, Jemima," cried the simple Polly; delighted
by the speech, and disappointed by the absence.
" Oh you needn't thank me, Polly," said her sister,
giving her a sound kiss upon the cheek, and then dancing
little Paul cheerfully. " I say the same of you some-
times, and think it too."
In spite of the double disappointment, it was im|>os-
sible to regard in the light of a, failure a visit which
DOMBEY AND SON. 105
was greeted with such a reception ; so the sisters talked
hopefully about family matters, and about Biler, and
about all his brothers and sisters : while the black-
eyed, having performed several journeys to Banbury
Cross and back, took sharp note of the furniture, tho
Dutch clock, the cupboard, the castle on the mantel-
piece with red and green windows in it, susceptible of ,
illumination by a candle-end within ; and the pair of *
small black velvet kittens, each with a lady's reticule in
its mouth; regarded by the Staggs's Gardeners as prod-
igies of imitative art. The conversation soon becoming
general lest the black-eyed should go off at score and
turn sarcastic, that young lady related to Jemima a sum-
mary of everything she knew concerning Mr. Dombey,
his prospects, family, pursuits, and character. Also an
exact inventory of her personal wardrobe, and some
account of her principal relations and friends. Having
relieved her mind of these disclosures, she partook of
shrimps and porter, and evinced a disposition to swear
eternal friendship.
Little Florence herself was not behindhand in im-
proving the occasion ; for, being conducted forth by the
young Toodles to inspect some toadstools and other curi-
osities of the Gardens, she entered w-ith them, heart and
soul, on the formation of a temporary breakwater across
a small green pool that had collected in a corner. She
was still busily engaged in that labor, when sought and
found by Susan ; who, such was her sense of duty, even
under the humanizing influence of shrimps, delivered a
moral address to her (punctuated with thumps) on her
degenerate nature, while washing her face and hands ;
wid predicted that she would bring the gray hairs of her
family in general, with sorrow to the grave. After some
106 , UOMBEY AND SON.
delay, occasioned by a pretty long confidential interview
Boove-stairs on pecuniary subjects, between Polly and
Jemima, an interchange of babies was again effected
for Polly had all this time retained her own child, and
Jemima little Paul and the visitors took leave.
Hut first the young Toodles, victims of a pious fraud,
wure deluded into repairing in a body to a chandler's
shop iu the neighborhood, for the ostensible purpose cf
spending a penny ; and when the coast was quite clear,
Polly fled: Jemima calling after her that if they could
only go round towards the City Road on their way
back, they would be sure to meet little Biler coming
from school.
" Do you think that we might make time to go a little
round in that direction, Susan ? " inquired Polly, when
they halted to take breath.
" Why not, Mrs. Richards ? " returned Susan.
" It's getting on towards our dinner-time you know,"
said Polly.
But lunch had rendered her companion more than in-
different to this grave consideration, so she allowed no
weight to it, and they resolved to go " a little round."
Now, it happened that. poor Biler's life had been, since
yesterday morning, rendered weary by the costume of
the Charitable Grinders. The youth of the streets could
not endure it. No young vagabond could be brought to
bear its contemplation for a moment, without throwing
himself upon the unoffending wearer, and doing him a
mischief. His social existence had been more like that
of an early Christian, than an innocent child of the
nineteenth century. He had been stoned in the streets.
He had been overthrown into gutters ; bespattered with
laud ; violently flattened against posts. Entire strangers
DOMBEY AND SON. 107
to his person had lifted his yellow cap off his head, and
cast it to the winds. His legs had not only undergone
verbal criticisms and revilings, but had been handled and
pinched. That very morning, he had received a perfectly
unsolicited black eye on his way to the Grinders' estab-
lishment, and had been punished for it by the master: a
superannuated old Grinder of savage disposition, who
had been appointed school-master because he didn't
know anything, and wasn't fit for anything, and for
whose cruel cane all chubby little boys had a perfect
fascination.
Thus it fell out that Biler. on his way home, sought
unfrequented paths; and slunk along by narrow passages
and hack streets, to avoid his tormentors. Being com-
pelled to emerge into the main road, his ill fortune
brought him at last where a small party of boys,
headed by a ferocious young butcher, were lying in
wait for any means of pleasurable excitement that might
happen. These, finding a Charitable Grinder in the
midst of them unaccountably delivered over, as it
were, into their hands set up a general yell and
rushed upon him.
But it so fell out likewise, that, at the same time,
Polly, looking hopelessly along the road before her, after
a good hour's walk, had said it was no use going any
farther, when suddenly she saw this sight. She no
sconer saw it than, uttering a hasty exclamation, and
giving Master Dombey to the black-eyed, she started
to the rescue of her unhappy little son.
Surprises, like misfortunes, rarely come alone. The
astonished Susan Nipper and her two young charges
were rescued by the by-standers from under the very
wheels of a passing carriage before they knew what had
tOB DOMBET AND SON.
happened ; and at that moment (it was market-day) a
thundering alarm of " Mad Bull ! " was raised.
With a wild confusion before her, of people running
up and down, and shouting, and wheels running over
them, and boys fighting, and mad bulls coming up, and
the nurse in the midst of all these dangers being torn to
pieces, Florence screamed and ran. She ran till sho
was exhausted, urging Susan to do the same ; and then
stopping and wringing her hands as she remembered
they had left the other nurse behind, found, with a sen-
sation of terror not to be described, that she was quite
alone.
" Susan ! Susan ! " cried Florence, clapping her hands
in the very ecstasy of her alarm. "Oh, where are they!
where are they ! "
" Where are they ? " said an old woman, coming hob-
bling across as fast as she could from the opposite side of
the way. " Why did you run away from 'em ? "
" I was frightened," answered Florence. " I didn't
know what I did. I thought they were with me. Where
are they ? "
The old woman took her by the wrist, and said, " I'll
ehow you."
She was a very ugly old woman, with red rims round
her eyes, and a mouth that mumbled and chattered of
itself when she was not speaking. She was miserably
dressed, and carried some skins over her arm. She
aeemed to have followed Florence some little way at
all events, for she had lost her breath ; and this made
her uglier still, as she stood trying to regain it : working
her shrivelled yellow face and throat into all sorts of
ton tort ions.
Florence was afraid of her, and looked, hesitating, up
DOMBEY AND SON 109
the street, of which she had almost reached the bottom.
It was a solitary place more a back road than a street
and there was no one in it but herself and the old
woman.
" You needn't be frightened now," said the old woman,
still holding her tight. " Come along with me."
"I I don't know you. What's your name ? " asked
Florence.
" Mrs. Brown," said the old woman. " Good Mra
Brown."
" Are they near here ? " asked Florence, beginning to
be led away.
" Susan a'n't far off," said Good Mrs. Brown ; " and
the others are close to her."
" Is anybody hurt ? " cried Florence.
" Not a bit of it," said Good Mrs. Brown.
The child shed tears of delight on hearing this, and
accompanied the old woman willingly ; though she could
not help glancing at her face as they went along par-
ticularly at that industrious mouth and wondering
whether Bad Mrs. Brown, if there were such a person,
was at all like her.
They had not gone far, but had gone by some very
uncomfortable places, such as brick-fields and tile-yards,
when the old woman turned down a dirty lane, where the
mud lay in deep black ruts in the middle of the road.
She stopped before a shabby little house, as closely
shut up as a house that was full of cracks and crevicea
could be. Opening the door with a key she took out
of her bonnet, she pushed the child before her into
a back-room, where there was a great heap of rags of
different colors lying on the floor : a heap of bones,
uul a heap of sifted dust or cinders ; but there was no
110 POMBEY AND SON.
furniture at all, and the walls and ceiling were quit-)
black.
The child became so terrified that she was stricken
speechless, and looked as though about to swoon.
" Now don't be a young mule," said Good Mrs.
Brown, reviving her with a shake. " I'm not a-going
to hurt you. Sit upon the rags."
Florence obeyed her, holding out her folded hands, in
mute supplication.
" I'm not a-going to keep you, even, above an hour,"
said Mrs. Brown. " D'ye understand what I say ? "
The child answered with great difficulty, " Yes."
" Then," said Good Mrs. Brown, takjng her own seat
on the bones, " don't vex me. If you don't, I tell you
I won't hurt you. But if you do, I'll kill you. I could
have you killed at any time even if you was in your
own bed at home. Now let's know who you are, and
what you are, and all about it"
The old woman's threats and promises ; the dread of
giving her offence ; and the habit, unusual to a child,
but almost natural to Florence now, of being quiet, and
repressing what she felt, and feared, and hoped ; enabled
her to do this bidding, and to tell her little history, or
what she knew of it. Mrs. Brown listened attentively,
until she had finished.
"So your name's Dombey, eh?" said Mrs. Brown.
" Yes ma'am."
u 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
*m off."
Florence obeyed as fast as her trembling hands would
; keeping, all the while, a frightened eye on Mr*
DOMBEY AND SON. Ill
Brown. When she had divested herself of all the ar-
ticles of apparel mentioned by that lady, Mrs. B. ex-
amined them at leisure, and seemed tolerably well satis-
fied with their quality and value.
" Humph!" she said, running her eyes over the child's
plight figure, "I don't see anything else except the
shoes. I must have the shoes, Miss Dombey."
Poor little Florence took them otF with equal alacrity,
only too glad to have any more means of conciliation
about her. The old woman then produced some wretched
substitutes from the bottom of the heap of rags, which
she turned up for that purpose ; together with a girl's
cloak, quite worn out and very old ; and the crushed re-
mains of a bonnet that had probably been picked up
from some ditch or dunghill. In this dainty raiment,
fhe instructed Florence to dress herself; and as such
preparation seemed a prelude to her release, the child
complied with increased readiness, if possible.
In hurriedly putting on the bonnet, if that may be
called a bonnet which was more like a pad to carry loads
on, she caught it in her hair which grew luxuriantly, and
could not immediately disentangle it. Good Mrs. Brown
whipped out a large pair of scissors, and fell into an un-
accountable state of excitement.
" Why couldn't you let me be," said Mrs. Brown,
< when I was contented. You little fool ! "
" I beg your pardon. I don't know what 1 have done,"
punted Florence. "I couldn't help it."
" Couldn't help it ! " cried Mrs. Brown. " How do
you expect I can help it ? Why, Lord ! " said the old
vpoman, ruffling her curls with a furious pleasure, "any
Vody but. me would have had 'em off first of all."
Florence was so relieved to find that it was only hei
112 DOMBEY AND SON.
hair and not her head which Mrs. Brown coveted, thai
phe 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 seaa
now that was proud of her hair," said Mrs. Brown,
* I'd have had every lock of it. She's far away, she's
far away ! Oho ! Oho ! "
Mrs. Brown's was not a melodious cry, but, accom-
panied with a wild tossing up of her lean arms, it was
full of passionate grief, and thrilled to the heart of Flor-
ence, whom it frightened more than ever. It had its
part, perhaps, in saving her curls ; for Mrs. Brown, after
hovering about her with the scissors for some moments,
(ike a new kind of butterfly, bade her hide them under
the bonnet and let no trace of them escape to tempt her.
Having accomplished this victory over herself, Mrs.
Brown resumed her seat on the bones, and smoked a
very short black pipe, mowing and mumbling all the
time, as if she were eating the stem.
When the pipe was smoked out, she gave the child a
rabbit-skin to carry, that she might appear more like her
ordinary companion, and told her that she was now going
to lead her to a public street whence she could inquire
her way to her friends. But she cautioned her, with
threats of summary and deadly vengeance in case of dis-
obedience, 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
f.ity ; also to wait at the street corner where she would
be left, until the clock struck three. These direction.? [-_
Mrs. Brown enforced with assurances that there would
be potent eyes and ears in her employment cognizant of
all she did; and these directions Florence promised uitk-
fiillv and earnestly to observe.
DOMBEY AND SON. 1J3
At length Mrs. Brown, issuing forth, conducted her
rhanged and ragged little friend through a labyrinth of
narrow streets and lanes and alleys, which emerged after
a long time, upon a stable-yard, with a gate-way at the
end, whence the roar of a great thoroughfare made itself
audible. Pointing out this gate-way, and informing Flor-
ence that when the clock struck three t-he was to go to
the left, Mrs. Brown, after making a parting grasp at her
hair which seemed involuntary and quite beyond her
own control, told her she knew what to do, and bade
her go and do it : remembering that she was watched.
With a lighter heart, but still sore afraid, Florence
felt herself released, and tripped off to the corner. When
she reached it, she looked back and saw the head of
Good Mrs. Brown peeping out of the low wooden pas-
sage, where she had issued her parting injunctions ; like-
wise the fist of Good Mrs. Brown shaking towards her.
But though she often looked back afterwards every
minute, at least, in her nervous recollection of the old
woman she could not see her again.
Florence remained there, looking at the bustle in the
street, and more and more bewildered by it ; and in the
mean while the clocks appeared to have made up their j]
minds never to strike three any more. At last the
steeples rang out three o'clock ; there was one close by,
eo she couldn't be mistaken ; and after often looking
over her shoulder, and often going a little way, and as
often coming back again, lest the all-powerful spies of
Mrs. Brown should take offence she hurried off, as
fast as she could in her slipshod shoes, holding the rabbit
^kin tight in her hand.
All she knew of her father's offices was that they be-
longed to Dombey and Son, and that that was a great
VOL. I. 8
114 DOMBEY AND SON.
power belonging to the city. So she could only ask the
way to Dombey and Son's in the city ; and as she gen-
erally made inquiry of children being afraid to ask
grown people she got very little satisfaction indeed.
But by dint of asking her way to the city after a while,
and dropping the rest of her inquiry for the present, she
really did advance, by slow degrees, towards the heart
of that great region which is governed by the terrible
Lord Mayor.
Tired of walking, repulsed and pushed about, stunned
by the noise and confusion, anxious for her brother and
the nurses, terrified by what she had undergone, and the
prospect of encountering her angry father in such an al-
tered state ; perplexed and frightened alike by what had
passed, and what was passing, and what was yet before
her ; Florence went upon her weary way with tearful
eyes, and once or twice could not help stopping to ease
her bursting heart by crying bitterly. But few people
noticed her at those times, in the garb she wore : or if
they did, believed that she was tutored to excite com-
passion, and passed on. Florence, too, called to her aid
all the firmness and self-reliance of a character that her
sad experience had prematurely formed and tried ; and
keeping the end she had in view steadily before her,
steadily pursued it.
It was full two hours later in the afternoon than when
she had started on this strange adventure, when, escap-
ing from the clash and clangor of a narrow street full of
carts and wagons, she peeped into a kind of wharf oi
landing-place, upon the riverside, where there were a
great many packages, casks, and boxes, strewn about ; a
large pair of wooden scales ; and a little wooden house
n wheels, outside of which, looking at the neighboring
DOMBEY AND SON. 115
masts and boats, a stout man stood whistling, with his
pen behind his ear, and his hands in his pockets, as if hia
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 1"
u If you please, is this the city ? " asked the trembling
daughter of the Dombeys.
" Ah ! it's the city. You know that weii 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 strolling carelessly towards
her, seemed surprised by this reply, and looking atten-
tively in her face, rejoined :
" Why, what can you want with Dombey and Son's?"
' To know the way there, if you please."
The man looked at her yet more curiously, and rubbed
the back of his head so hard in his wonderment that he
knocked his own hat off.
" Joe ! " he called to another man a laborer as
he picked it up and put it on again.
" Joe it is ! " said Joe.
" Where's that young spark of Dombey's who's been
watching the shipment of them goods ? "
" Just gone, by 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 Dorabey's jockey, a'n't you ? " said the first
man.
"Tin in Dombey's House, Mr. Clark," returned tbe
ooy.
116 DOM BEY AND SON.
" Look 'ye here, then," said Mr. Clark.
Obedient to the indication of Mr. Clark's hand, the
boy approached towards Florence, wondering, as well he
might, what he had to do with her. But she, who had
heard what passed, and who, besides the relief of so sud-
denly considering herself safe and at her journey's end,
felt reassured beyond all measure by his lively youthful
face and manner, ran eagerly up to him, leaving one of
the slipshod shoes upon the ground, and caught his
hand in both of hers.
" I am lost, if you please ! " said Florence.
" Lost ! " cried the boy.
" Yes, I was lost this morning, a long way from her
and I have had my clothes taken away, since and I
am not dressed in my own now and my name is Flor-
ence Dombey, my little brother's only sister and, oh
dear, dear, take care of me, if you please ! " sobbed
Florence, giving full vent to the childish feelings she had
so long suppressed, and bursting into tears. At the
same time her miserable bonnet falling off, her hair came
tumbling down about her face : moving to speechless ad-
miration and commiseration, young Walter, nephew of
Solomon Gills, Ships' Instrument-maker in general.
Mr. 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 fooi
as the Prince in the story might have fitted Cinderella's
slipper on. He hung the rabbit-skin over his left arm ;
gave the right to Florence ; and felt not to say like
Richard Whittington that is a tame comparison but
like Saint George of England, with the dragon lying
uead before him.
" Don't cry, Miss Dombey," said Walter, in a trans
DOMBEY AND SON. 117
port 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 onlj
rrying for joy."
" Crying for joy ! " thought Walter, " and I'm the
cause of it. Come along, Miss Dombey. There's the
other shoe off now ! Take mine, Miss Dombey."
" No, no, no," said Florence, checking him in the act
of impetuously pulling off his own. '' These do better
These do very well."
" Why, to be sure," said Walter, glancing at her foot
"mine are a mile too large. What am I thinking about!
You never could walk in mine ! Come along, Miss
Dombey. Let me see the villain who will dare molest
you now."
So Walter, looking immensely fierce, led off Florence,
looking very happy ; and they went arm in arm along
the streets, perfectly indifferent to any astonishment that
their appearance might or did excite by the way.
It was growing dark and foggy, and beginning to rain
too; but they cared nothing for this : being both wholly
absorbed in the late adventures of Florence, which she
related with the innocent good faith and confidence of
her years, while Walter listened as if, far from the mud
and grease of Thames-street, they were rambling alone
Rinong the broad leaves .and tall trees of some desert
island in the tropics as he very likely fancied, for the
time, they were.
" Have we far to go ? " asked Florence at last, lifting
her eyes to her companion's face.
" Ah ! By the by," said Walter, stopping, " let me see
118 DOMBEY AND SON.
where are we ? Oh ! I know. But the offices are shut
up now, Miss Dombey. There's nobody there. Mr.
Dombey has gone home long ago. I suppose we must
go home too ? or, stay. Suppose I take you to my
uncle's, where I live it's very near here and go to
your house in a coach to tell them you are safe, and
hriug you back some clothes. Won't tliat be best? "
"I think so," answered Florence. " Don't you? What
do you think ? "
As they stood deliberating in the street, a man passed
them, who glanced quickly at Walter as he went by, as
if he recognized him ; but seeming to correct that first
impression, he passed on without stopping.
" Why, I think it's Mr. Carker," said Walter. " Car-
ker in our House. Not Carker, our manager, Miss
Dombey the other Carker ; the junior Halloa !
Mr. Carker ! "
" Is that Walter Gay ? " said the other, stopping and
returning. " I couldn't believe it, with such a strange
companion."
As he stoou near a lamp, listening with surprise to
Walter's hurried explanation, he presented a remarkable
contrast to the two youthful figures arm-in-arm before
him. He was not old, but his hair was white ; his body
was bent, or bowed as if by the weight of some great
(rouble ; and there were deep lines in his worn and mel-
ancholy face. The fire of his eyes, the expression of
his features, the very voice in which he spoke, were all
subdued and quenched, as if the spirit within him lay in
ashes. He was respectably, though very plainly, dressed
in black ; but his clothes, moulded to the general char-
acter of his figure, seemed to shrink and abase them-
selves upon him, and to join in the sorrowful solicitation
DOMBEY AND SON. 119
v-hich the whole man from head to foot expressed, to be
loft unnoticed, and alone in his humility.
And yet his interest in youth and hopefulness was not
extinguished with the other embers of his soul, for he
watched the hoy's earnest countenance as he spoke with
unusual sympathy, though witli an inexplicable show cf
trouble and compassion, which escaped into his look;-,
however hard he strove to hold it prisoner. When Wal-
ter, 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, mourn-
fully at variance with its present brightness.
" What do you advise, Mr. Carker?" said Walter,
Bmiling. " You always give me good advice, you know,
when you do speak to me. That's not often, though."
"I think your own idea is the best," he answered:
looking from Florence to Walter, and back again.
" Mr. Carker," said Walter, brightening with a gen-
erous thought, " Come ! Here's a chance for you. Go
you to Mr. Dombey's, and be the messenger of good
news. It may do you some good, sir. I'll remain at
home. You shall go."
" I ! " returned the other.
" Yes. Why not, Mr. Carker ? " said the boy.
He merely shook him by the hand in answer ; he
seemed in a manner ashamed and afraid even to do that;
and bidding him good-night, and advising him to make
haste, turned away.
" Come, Miss Dombey," said Walter, looking after him
ds they turned away also, " we'll go to my uncle's ts
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 ofteu heai
120 DOMBEY AND SON.
"Ah. true! more shame for him," thought Walter
After a minute's pause, during which he had been look-
ing down upon the gentle patient little face moving on
at his side, he bestirred himself with his accustomed
boyish animation and restlessness to change the subject;
and one of the unfortunate shoes coming off again op-
portunely, proposed to carry Florence to his uncle's iu
his arms. Florence, though very tired, laughingly de-
clined the proposal, lest he should let her fall ; and aa
they were already near the wooden midshipman, and as
Walter went on to cite various precedents, from ship-
wrecks and other moving accidents, where younger boys
than he had triumphantly rescued and carried off oldei
girls than Florence, they were still in full conversation
about it when they arrived at the Instrument-maker's
door.
" Halloa, Uncle Sol ! " cried Walter, bursting into the
shop, and speaking incoherently and out of breath, from
that time forth, for the rest of the evening. " Here's a
wonderful adventure ! Here's Mr. Dombey's daughter
lost in the streets, and robbed of her clothes by an old
witch of a woman found by me brought home to
our parlor to rest look here ! "
" Good Heaven ! " said Uncle Sol, starting back against
his favorite compass-case. " It can't be ! Well, I "
" No, nor anybody else," said Walter, anticipating the
rcMt. " Nobody would, nobody could, you know. Here 1
just help me lift the little sofa near the fire, will you,
Uncle Sol take care of the plates cut t>ome dinner
for her, will you uncle throw those shoes under the
grate, Miss Florence put your feet on the fender to
dry how damp they are here's an adventure, uncle
eh ? God bless my soul, how hot I am 1 "
DOMBEY AND SON. 121
Solomon Gills was quite as hot, by sympathy, and in
excessive bewilderment. He patted Florence's head,
pressed her to eat, pressed her to drink, rubbed the solos
of her feet with his pocket-handkerchief heated at the
Ore, followed his locomotive nephew with his eyes, and
ears, and had no clear perception of anything except thai
he was being constantly knocked against and tumbled
over by that excited young gentleman, as he darted
about the room attempting to accomplish twenty things
at once, and doing nothing at all.
" Here, wait a minute, uncle," he continued, catching
up a candle, " till I run up-stairs, and get another jacket
on, and then I'll be off. I say, uncle, isn't this an ad-
venture ? "
"My dear boy," said Solomon, who, with his spectacles
.MI his forehead and the great chronometer in his pocket,
was incessantly oscillating between Florence on the sofa
and his nephew in all parts of the parlor, " it's the most
extraordinary "
" No, but do, uncle, please do, Miss Florence
dinner, you know, uncle."
" Yes, yes, yes," cried Solomon, cutting instantly into
a leg of mutton, as if he were catering for a giant. " 111
take care of her, Wally ! I understand. Pretty dear!
Famished, of course. You go and get ready. Lord
bless me ! Sir Richard Whittington thrice Lord Mayor
of London ! "
Walter was not very long in mounting to his lofty
garret and descending from it, but in the mean time
Florence, overcome by fatigue, had sunk into a doze
before the fire. The short interval of quiet, though only
H few minutes in duration, enabled Solomon Gills so far
to collect his wits as to make some little arrangements
122 DOMBEY AND SON.
for her comfort, and to darken the room, and to screen
her from the blaze. Thus, when the boy returned, she
was sleeping peacefully.
" That's capital ! " he whispered, giving Solomon such
a hug that it squeezed a new expresfdon into his face.
u Now I'm off. I'll just take a crust of bread with me,
for I'm very hungry and don't wake her, Uncle
Sol."
" No, no," said Solomon. " Pretty child."
" Pretty, indeed ! " cried Walter. " / never saw such
a face, Uncle Sol. Now I'm off."
" That's right," said Solomon, greatly i-elieved.
"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-by, but came behind us
here there's an odd thing! for when we reached
the shop-door, I looked round, and saw him going quietly
away, like a servant who had seen me home, or a faith-
ful dog. How does she look now, uncle ? "
44 Pretty much the same as before, Wally," replied
Uncle Sol.
" That's right. Now I am off ! "
And thi time he really was; and Solomon Gills, with
w appetite for dinner, sat on the opposite side o f . the
DOMBEY AND SON 123
fire, watching Florence in her slumber, building a great
many airy castles of the most fantastic architecture ; and
looking in the dim shade, and in the close vicinity of all
the instruments, like a magician disguised in a Welsh
wig and a suit of coffee color, who held the child iu ai>
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 win-
dow every two or three minutes, in impatient remon-
strance with the driver. Arriving at his journey's end,
he leaped out, and breathlessly announcing his errand to
the servant, followed him straight into the library, where
there was a great confusion of tongues, and where Mr
Dombey, his sister, and Miss Tox, Richards, and Nip-
per, were all congregated together.
"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir," said Walter, rushing
ii]> to him, " but I'm happy to say it's all right, sir. Miss
Dombey's found ! "
The boy with his open face, and flowing hair, and
sparkling eyes, panting with pleasure and excitement,
was wonderfully opposed to Mr. Dombey, as he sat con-
fronting him in his library chair.
"I told you, Louisa, that she would certainly ba
found," said Mr. Dombey, looking slightly over hia
shoulder at that lady, who wept in company with Mii
Tox. " Let the servants know that no further steps are
u-cessary. This boy who brings the information, is
young Gay, from the office. How was my daughter
I'-*', i nd, sir? I know how she was lost." Here he
looked majestically at Richards. " But how was he
ibund ? who found her ? "
* Why, I believe / found Miss Dombey, sir," said
124 DOMBEY AND SON.
Walter modestly ; " at least I don't know that I can
claim the merit of having exactly found her, sir, but I
was the fortunate instrument of"
li What do you mean, sir," interrupted Mr. Dombey
regarding the boy's evident pride and pleasure in big
share of the transaction with an instinctive dislike, "by
not having exactly found my daughter, and by being a
fortunate instrument? Be plain and coherent, if you
please."
It was quite out of Walter's power to be coherent ;
but he rendered himself as explanatory as he could, in
his breathless state, and stated why he had come alone.
" You hear this, girl ? " said Mr. Dombey sternly to
the black-eyed. " Take what is necessary, and return
immediately with this young man to fetch Miss Florence
home. Gay, you will he rewarded to-morrow."
" Oh ! thank you sir," said Walter. " You are very
kind. I'm sure I was not thinking of any reward, sir."
" You are a boy," said Mr. Dombey, suddenly and
almost fiercely ; " and what you think of, or affect to
think of, is of little consequence. You have done well,
sir. Don t undo it. Louisa, please to give the lad some
wine."
Mr. Dombey's glance followed Walter Gay with sharp
disfavor, as he left the room under the pilotage of Mrs.
Chick ; and it may be that his mind's eye followed him
with no greater relish as he rode back to his uncle's with
Miss Susan Nipper.
There they found that Florence, much refreshed by
sleep, had dined, and greatly improved the acquaintance
of Solomon Gills, with whom she was on terms of per-
fect confidence and ease. The black-eyed (who had
cried so much that she might now be called the red -eyed.
DOMBET AND SON. 125
and who was very silent and depressed) cauglit her in
her arms without a word of contradiction or reproach,
and made a very hysterical meeting of it. Then con-
verting the parlor for the nonce, into a private tiring
room, she dressed her, with great care, in proper clothes;
and presently led her forth, as like a Dombey as her
natural disqualifications admitted of her being made.
" Good-night ! " said Florence, running up to Solo-
mon. " You have been very good to me."
Old Sol was quite delighted, and kissed her like her
grandfather.
" Good-night, Walter ! Good-by ! " said Florence.
" Good-by ! " said Walter, giving both his hands.
" I'll never forget you," pursued Florence. " No ! in
deed I never will. Good-by, Walter ! "
In the innocence of her grateful heart, the child lifted
up her face to his. Walter, bending down his own,
raised it again, all red and burning ; and looked at Uncle
Sol, quite sheepishly.
"Where's Walter?" " Good-night, Walter!" "Good-
by, Walter ! " " Shake hands, once more, Walter J "
This was still Florence's cry, after she was shut up with
her little maid, in the coach. And when the coach at
length moved off, Walter on the doorstep gayly returned
the waving of her handkerchief, while the wooden mid-
shipman behind him seemed, like himself, intent upon
that coach alone, excluding all the other passing coaches
from his observation.
In good time Mr. Dombey's mansion was gained again,
and again there was a noise of tongues in the library.
Again, too, the coach was ordered to wait "for Mrs.
Bichards," one of Susan's fellow-servants ominously
whispered, as she passed with Florence.
126 DOMBEY AND SON.
The entrance of the lost child mad > a slight sensa-
O
tion, but not much. Mr. Dombey, who had never found
her, kissed her once upon the forehead, and cautioned
her not to run away again, or wander anywhere with
treacherous attendants. Mrs. Chick stopped in hei
lamentations on the corruption of human nature, ever
when beckoned to the paths of virtue by a Charitabla
Grinder ; and received her with a welcome something
short, of the reception due to none but perfect Dombeys.
Miss Tox regulated her feelings by the models before
her. Richards, the culprit Richards, alone poured out
her heart in broken words of welcome, and bowed her-
self over the little wandering head as if she really
loved it.
" Ah Richards ! " said Mrs. Chick, with a sigh. " It
would have been much more satisfactory to those who
wish to think well of their fellow-creatures, and much
more becoming in you, if you had shown some proper
fueling, in time, for the little child that is now going
to be prematurely deprived of its natural nourishment."
" Cut off," said Miss Tox, in a plaintive whisper,
" from one common fountain ! "
" If it was my ungrateful case," said Mrs. Chick,
solemnly, "and I had your reflections, Richards, I should
feel as if the Charitable Grinders' dress would blight my
child, and the education choke him."
For the matter of that but Mrs. Chick didn't knew
it he had been pretty well blighted by the dress al-
ready ; and as to the education, even its retributive effect
might be produced in time, for it was a storm of sobs and
blows.
" Louisa ! " said Mr. Dornbey. " Ii is not necessarj
to prolong these observations. Th* woman is discliarged
DOMBEY AND SON. 1*J7
Rnd paid. You leave this house, Richards, for taking
my son my son," said Mr. Dombey, emphatically re-
peating these two words, " into haunts and into society
which are not to be thought of without a shudder. As
to the accident which befell Miss Florence this mom ing
I regard that, as, in one great sense, a happy and fortu-
nate circumstance; inasmuch as, but for that occurrence
1 never could have known and from your own lips
loo of what you had been guilty. I think, Louisa,
the other nurse, the young person," here Miss Nipper
sobbed aloud, " being so much younger, and necessarily
influenced by Paul's nurse, may remain. Have the
goodness to direct that this woman's coach is paid to "
Mr. Dombey stopped and winced "to Staggs's Gar-
dens."
Polly moved towards the door, with Florence holding
to her dress, and crying to her in the most pathetic man-
ner not to go away. It was a dagger in the haughty
lather's heart, an arrow in his brain, to see how the fiesh
mid blood he could not disown clung to this obscure
stranger, and he sitting by. Not that he cared to whom
his daughter turned, or from whom turned away. The
swift sharp agony struck through him, as he thought of
what his son might do.
His son cried lustily that night, at all events. Sooth
to say, poor Paul had better reason for his tears than
sons of that age often have, for he had lost his second
mother his first, so far as he knew by a stroke as
sudden as that .natural affliction which had darkened the
beginning of his life. At the same blow, his sister too,
who cried herself to sleep so mournfully, had lost as
good and true a friend. But that is quite beside the
question. Let us waste no words about it.
128 DOMBEY AND SOK.
CHAPTER VH.
A BIRD'S- ETE GLIMPSE OF MISS TOX's DWE1 LING-PI.ACK
AX8O OP THE STATE OF MISS TOX'S AFFECTIONS.
Miss Tox inhabited a dark little house that had been
squeezed, at some remote period of English History, into
R fashionable neighborhood at the west end of the town,
where it stood in the shade like a poor relation of the
great street round the corner, coldly looked down upon
by mighty mansions. It was not exactly in a court, and
it was not exactly in a yard ; but it was in the dullest of
No-Thoroughfares, rendered anxious and haggard by
distant double knocks. The name of this retirement,
where grass grew between the chinks in the stone pave-
ment, was Princess's-place ; and in Princess's-place was
Princess's Chapel, with a tinkling bell, where sometimes
as many as five-and-twenty people attended service" on a
Sunday. The Princess's Arms was also there, and much
resorted to by splendid footmen. A sedan-chair was
kept inside the railing before the Princess's Arms, but
t had never come out, within the memory of man ; and
on fine mornings, the top of every rail (there are eight-
and-forty, as Miss Tox had often counted) was decorated
with a pewter- pot.
There was another private house besides Miss Tox'a
m Princess's-place : not to mention an immense pair of
gate?, with an immense pair of lion-headed knockers on
DOMBEY AND SON. 129
lliem, which were never opened by any chance, and were
supposed to constitute a disused entrance to somebody's
stables. Indeed, there was a smack of stabling in the air
of Princess's-place ; and Miss Tox's bedroom (which was
at the back) commanded a vista of Mews, where hos-
tiers, at whatever sort of work engaged, were continu-
ally accompanying themselves with effervescent noises ;
and where the most domestic and confidential garments
of coachmen and their wives and families, usually hung,
like Macbeth's banners, on the outward walls.
At this other private house in Princess's-place, t^n
anted by a retired butler who had married a house-keeper,
apartments were let Furnished, to a single gentleman :
to wit a wooden-featured, blue-faced, Major, with his
eyes starting out of his head, in whom Miss Tox recog-
nized, as she herself expressed it, " something so truly
military ; " and between whom and herself, an occasional
interchange of newspapers and pamphlets, and such Pla-
tonic dalliance, was effected through the medium of a
dark servant of the major's whom Miss Tox was quite
content to classify as a " native," without connecting him
with any geographical idea whatever.
Perhaps there never was a smaller entry and stair-
case, than the entry and staircase of Miss Tox's house.
Perhaps, taken altogether, from top to bottom, it was
Ine most inconvenient little house in England, and the
crook v.dest ; but then, Miss Tox said, what a situation !
There was very little daylight to be got there in the
winter: no sun at the best of times: air was out of the
question, and traffic was walled out. Still Miss Tex
said, think of the situation ! So said the blue-fact d
major, whose eyes were starting out of his head : who
gloried in Princess's-place : and who delighted to tun?
Vi>:. I. 8
130 DOMBEY AND SON.
Ihe conversation at his club, whenever he could, to
thing connected with some of the great people in the
great street rouud the corner, that he might have the
satisfaction of saying they were his neighbors.
The dingy tenement inhabited by Miss Tox was her
own ; having been devised and bequeathed to her by the
deceased owner of the fishy eye in the locket, of whom a
miniature portrait, with a powdered head and a pigtail,
balanced the kettle-holder on opposite sides of the parlor
Gr^-place. The greater part of the furniture was of the
powdered head and pigtail period : comprising a plate-
warmer, always languishing and sprawling its four at-
tenuated bow legs in somebody's way ; and an obsolete
harpsichord, illuminated round the maker's name with a
painted garland of sweet peas.
Although Major Bagstock had arrived at what is
called in polite literature, the grand meridian of life,
and was proceeding on his journey 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
t!ie state of artificial excitement already mentioned, he
was mightily proud of awakening an interest in Miss
Tox, and tickled his vanity with the fiction that she was
a splendid woman who had her eye on him. This he
had several times hinted at the club : in connection with
little jocularities, of which old Joe Bagstock, old Joey
Bagstock, old J. Bagstock, old Josh Bagstock, or so forth,
was the perpet?.l theme : it being, as it were, the major's
stronghold ar>d donjon-keep of light humor, to be on the
most fam'lia-r t^rms with his own name.
" Jooy B-, ir," the major woukl say, with a flourish
of his wlku:g-stick, " is worth a dozen of you. If you
uad a few more of the Bagstock breed among you. sir,
DOMBEY AND SON. 131
pou'cl 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 would be heard ; and the major's blue
would deepen into purple, while his eyes strained an
started convulsively.
Notwithstanding his very liberal laudation of him-
self, however, the major was selfish. It may be doubted
whether there ever was a more entirely selfish person
at heart ; or at stomach is perhaps a better expression,
seeing that he was more decidedly endowed with that
latter organ than with the former. He had no idea of
being overlooked or slighted by anybody ; least of all,
had he the remotest comprehension of being overlooked
and slighted by Miss Tox.
And yet, Miss Tox, as it appeared, forgot him
gradually forgot him. She began to forget him soon
after her discovery of the Toodle family. She continued
to forget him up to the time of the christening. She
went on forgetting him with compound interest after
that. Something or somebody had superseded him as
a source of interest.
" Good-morning, rna'am," said the major, meeting Miss
Tox in Princess's-place, some weeks after the changes
chronicled in the last chapter.
" Good-morning, sir," said Miss Tox ; very coldly.
" Joe Bagstock, ma'am," observed the major, with his
usual gallantry, " has not had the hsippiness of bowing
to you at your window, for a considerable period. Joe
bas been hardly used, ma'am. His sun has been behind
a cloud.
Miss Tox inclined her head ; but very coldly indeed
182 DOMBET AND SON.
" Joe's luminary has been out of town ma'am, per-
haps," inquired the major.
" I ? out of town ? oh no, I have not been out of
town," said Miss Tox. " I have been much engaged
lately. My time is nearly all devoted to some very in-
timate friends. I am afraid I have none to spare, even
now. Good-morning, sir ! "
As Miss Tox, with her most fascinating step and car-
riage; disappeared from Princess's-place, the major stood
looking after her with a bluer face than ever : mutter-
ing and growling some not at all complimentary re-
marks.
" Why, damme, sir," said the major, rolling his lob-
ster eyes round and round Princess's-place, and apostro-
phizing its fragrant air, " six months ago, the woman
loved the ground Josh Bagstock walked on. What's the
meaning of it ? "
The major decided, after some consideration, that it
meant 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 which
reflection he chuckled for the rest of the day.
But still, when that day and many other days were
gone and past, it seemed that Miss Tox took no heed
whatever of the major, and thought nothing at all about
him. She had been wont, once upon a time, to look out
ai one of her little dark windows by accident, and blush-
ingly 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
bad come to pass too. The major, standing in the shade
cf his own apartment, could make out that an air cf
DOMBEY AND SON. 133
greater smartness had recently come over Miss Tox'a
house ; that a new cage with gilded wires had been
provided for the ancient little canary bird ; that diver*
ornaments, cut out of colored card-boards and paper,
seemed to decorate the chimney-piece and tables ; that a
plant or two had suddenly sprung up in the windows ;
that Miss Tox occasionally practised on the harpsichord,
whose garland of sweet peas was always displayed os-
tentatiously, crowned with the Copenhagen and Bird
Waltzes in a music-book of Miss Tox's own copying.
Over and above all this, Miss Tox had long been
dressed with uncommon care and elegance in slight
mourning. But this helped the major out of his dif-
ficulty ; and he determined within himself that she had
come into a small legacy, and grown proud.
It was on the very next day after he had eased his
mind by arriving at this decision, that the major, sit-
ting at his breakfast, saw an apparition so tremendous
and wonderful in Miss Tox's little drawing-room, that he
remained for some time rooted to his chair ; then, rush-
ing into the next room returned with a double-barrelled
opera-glass, through which he surveyed it intently for
some minutes.
" It's a Baby, sir," said the major, shutting up the
tt lass again, " for fifty thousand pounds ! "
The major couldn't forget it. He could do nothing
but whistle, and stare to that extent, that his eyes com-
pared with what they now became, had been in former
times quite cavernous and sunken. Day after day, two,
three, four times a week, this baby reappeared, The
?iajor continued to stare and whistle. To all other in-
tents and purposes he was alone in Princess's-placa.
Miss Tox had ceased to mind what he did. He migbt
134 DOMBEY AND SON.
have been black as well as blue, and it would have been
of no consequence to her.
The perseverance with which she walked out of Prin-
cess's-place to fetch this baby and its nurse, and walked
back with them, and walked home with them again, and
continually mounted guard over them ; and the perse-
verance with which she nursed it herself, and fed it, and
played with it, and froze its young blood with airs upon
flic harpsichord ; was extraordinary. At about the same
period too, she was seized with a passion for looking at
a certain bracelet ; also with a passion for looking at
the moon, of which she would take long observations
from her chamber-window. But whatever she looked
at ; sun, moon, stars, or 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'll quite win my brother Paul's heart, and that's
the truth, my dear," said Mrs. Chick, one day.
Miss Tox turned pale.
" He grows more like Paul every day," said Mrs.
Chick.
Miss Tox returned no other reply than by taking the
little Paul in her arms, and making his cockade per-
fectly flat and limp with her caresses.
" His mother, my dear," said Miss Tox, " whose ac-
quaintance I was to have made through you, does he
at all resemble her ? "
"Not at all," returned Louisa.
" She was she was pretty, I believe? ' fa'terad Miss
Tox.
" Why, poor dear Fanny was interesting," said Mrs.
Ohick, after some judicial consideration. " Certainly in-
DOMBEY AND SOX. 135
leresting. She had not that air of commanding supe-
riority which one would somehow expect, almost as a
matter of course, to find in my brother's wife ; nor had
ghe that strength and vigor of mind which such a man
requires."
Miss Tox heaved a deep sigh.
" lUit she was pleasing;" said Mrs. Chick: "ex-
tremely so. And she meant ! oh, dear, how well poor
[fanny meant ! "
" You angel ! " cried Miss Tox to little Paul. " You
picture of your own papa ! "
If the major could have known how many hopes and
ventures, what a multitude of plans and speculations,
rested on that baby head ; and could have seen them
hovering, in all their heterogeneous confusion and dis-
order, round the puckered cap of the unconscious little
Paul ; he might have stared indeed. Then would he
have recognized, among the crowd, some few ambitious
motes and beams belonging to Miss Tox: then would
he perhaps have understood the nature of that lady's
faltering investment in the Dombey Firm.
If the child himself could have awakened in the night,
and seen, gathered about his cradle-curtains, faint re-
flections of the dreams that other people had of him,
they might have scared him, with good reason. But he
slumbered on, alike unconscious of the kind intentions
of Miss Tox, the wonder of the major, the early sor-
rows of his sister, and the sterner visions of his father;
aud innocent that any spot of earth contained a Dom-
bey or a Soc
136 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER
PAUL'S FURT11KR PROGRESS, GROWTH, AND CHARACTER.
BENEATH the watching and attentive eyes of Time
so far another Major Paul's slumbers gradually
changed. More and more light broke in upon them ;
distincter and distincter dreams disturbed them ; an ac-
cumulating crowd of objects and impressions swarmed
about his rest; and so he passed from babyhood to
childhood, and became a talking, walking, wondering
Dombey.
On the downfall and banishment of Richards, the nur-
sery may be said to have been put into commission ; as a
Public Department is sometimes, when no individual
Atlas can be found to support it. Thj Commissioners
were, of course, Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox : who de-
voted themselves to their duties with such astonishing
ardor that Major Bagstock had every day some new re-
minder of his being forsaken, while Mr. Chick, bereft of
domestic supervision, cast himself upon the gay world,
dined at clubs and coffee-houses, smelt of smoke on three
distinct occasions, went to the play by himself, and in
phort, loosened (as Mrs. Chick once told him) every
social bond, and moral obligation.
Yet, in spite of his early promise, all this vigilance
and care could not make little Paul a thriving boy.
Naturally delicate, perhaps, he pined and wasted aftei
DOMBEY AND SON. 137
the dismissal ot nis nurse, and, for a long time, seemed
but to wait his opportunity of gliding through their
hands, and seeking his lost mother. This dangerous
ground in his steeple-chase towards manhood passed, he
grill found it very rough riding, and was grievously beset
ir) all the obstacles in his course. Every tooth was a
breakneck fence, and every pimple in the measles
stone wall to him. He was down in every fit of the
whooping-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 tin-oat 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, per-
haps to some sensitive part of his nature, which could
not recover itself in the cold shade of his father ; but he
was an unfortunate child from that day. Mrs. Wickam
often said she never see a dear so put upon.
Mrs. Wickam was a waiter's wife which would seem
equivalent to being any other man's widow whose ap-
plication for an engagement in Mr. Dombey's service had
been favorably considered, on account of the apparent
impossibility of her having any followers, or any one to
follow ; and who, from within a day or two of Panl's
sharp weaning, had been engaged as his nurse. Mrs.
Wickam was a meek woman, of a fair complexion, with
her eyebrows always elevated, and her head always
drooping ; who was always ready to pity herself, or to be
pitied, or to pity anybody else ; and who had a surprising
vtafcural gift of viewing all subjects in an utterly forlorn
and pitiable light, and bringing dreadful precedents to
/
138 DOMBEY AND SON.
I>ear upon them, and deriving the greatest consolation
from the exercise of that talent.
It is hardly necessary to observe, that no touch of this
quality ever reached the magnificent knowledge of Mr.
ombey. It would have been remarkable, indeed, if
any had ; when no one in the house not even Mrs.
Chick or Miss Tox dared ever whisper to him <hat
there had, on any one occasion, been the least reason for
uneasiness in reference to little Paul. He had settled,
within himself, that the child must necessarily pass through
a certain routine of minor maladies, and that the sooner
he did so the better. If he could have bought him off,
or provided a substitute, as in the case of an unlucky
drawing for the militia, he would have been glad to do
so on liberal terms. But as this was not feasible, he
mereiy wondered, in his haughty manner, now and then,
what Nature meant by it ; and comforted himself with
the reflection that there was another milestone passed
upon the road, and that the great end of the journey lay
so much the nearer. For the feeling uppermost in hid
mind, now and constantly intensifying, and increasing in
it as Paul grew older, was impatience. Impatience for
the time to come, when his visions of their united conse-
quence and grandeur would be triumphantly realized.
Some philosophers tell us that selfishness is at the root
of our best loves and affections. Mr. Dombey's young
child was, from the beginning, so distinctly important to
him as a part of his own greatness, or (which is the
eame thing) of the greatness of Dombey and Son, that
there is no doubt his parental affection might have been
easily traced, like many a goodly superstructure of fair
fame, to a very low foundation. But he loved his son
with all the love he had. If there were a warm plae<
DOMBEY AND SON. 13J
in his frosty heart, his son occupied it ; if its very hard
surface could receive the impression of any image,
the image of that son was there ; though not so much aa
an infant, or as a boy, but as a grown man the " Son "
at' the Firm. Therefore he was impatient to advance
into the future, and to hurry over the intervening pas-
sages of his history. Therefore he had little or no aux
iety about them, in spite of his love ; feeling as if the
boy had a charmed life, and must become the man with
whom he held such constant communication in his
thoughts, and* for whom he planned and projected, as
for an existing reality, every day.
Thus Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was
a pretty little fellow ; though there was something wan
and wistful in his small face, that gave occasion to many
significant shakes of Mrs. Wickam's head, and many
long-drawn inspirations of Mrs. Wickam's breath. His
temper gave abundant promise of being imperious in
after-life ; and he had as hopeful an apprehension of his
own importance, and the rightful subservience of all
other things and persons to it, as heart could desire. He
was childish and sportive enough at times, and not of a
sullen disposition ; but he had a strange old-fashioned,
thoughtful way, at other times, of sitting brooding in his
miniature arm-chair, when he looked (and talked) like
one of those terrible little Beings in the Fairy tales,
who, at a hundred and fifty or two hundred years of
age, fantastically represent the children for whom they
have been substituted. He would frequently be stricken
with this precocious mood up-stairs in the nursery ; and
would sometimes lapse into it suddenly, exclaiming that
he was tired : even while playing with Florence, or
driving Miss Tox in single harness. But at no time
140 DOMBEY AND SON.
did he fall into it so surely, as when, his little chair being
carried down into his father's room, he sat there with
him after dinner, by the fire. They were the strangest
pair at such a time that ever firelight shone upon. Mr.
Domhey so erect and solemn, gazing at the blaze ; his
little image, with an old, old, face, peering into the red
perspective with the fixed and rapt attention of a sage.
Mr. Dombey entertaining complicated worldly schemes
and plans ; the little image entertaining Heaven knows
what wild fancies, half-formed thoughts, and wandering
speculations. Mr. Dombey stiff with starch and arro-
gance ; the little image by inheritance, and in uncon-
scious imitation. The two so very much alike, and yet
BO monstrously contrasted.
On one of these occasions, when they had both been
perfectly quiet for a long time, and Mr. Dombey only
knew that the child was awake by Occasionally glancing
at his eye, where the bright fire was sparkling like a
jewel, little Paul broke silence thus :
" Papa ! what's money ? "
The abrupt question had such immediate reference to
the subject of Mr. Dombey's thoughts, that Mr. Dombey
was quite disconcerted.
" What is money, Paul ? " he answered. " Money ? "
u Yes," said the child, laying his hands upon the el-
bows of his little chair, and turning the old face up tow-
u-ds Mr. Dombey's ; " what is money ? "
Mr. Dombey was in a difficulty. He would have
liked to give him some explanation involving the terms
circulating-medium, currency, depreciation of currency,
paper, bullion, rates of exchange, value of precious met-
als in the market, and so forth ; but looking down at the
little chair, and seeing what a long way down it was, he
DOMBEY AND SON. 141
answered : " Gold, and silver, and copper. Guineas,
shillings, half-pence. You know what they are ? "
" Oh yes, I know what they are," said Paul. " I don't
mean that, papa. I mean what's money after all."
Heaven and Earth, how old his face was as he turned
it up again towards his father's !
" What is money after all ! " said Mr. Dombey, back-
ing his chair a little, that he might the better gaze in
sheer amazement at the presumptuous atom that pro-
pounded such an inquiry.
" I mean, papa, what can it do ? " returned Paul, fold-
ing his arms (they were hardly long enough to fold), and
looking at the fire, and up at him, and at the fire, and up
at him again.
Mr. Dombey drew his chair back to its former place,
and patted him on the head. " You'll know better by
and by, my man," he said. " Money, Paul, can do any-
thing.'' He took hold of the little hand, and beat ;t
softly against one of his own, as he said so.
But Paul got his hand free as soon as he could ; and
rubbing it gently to and fro on the elbow of his chair, as
if his wit were in the palm, and he were sharpening it
and looking at the fire again, as though the fire had
been his adviser and prompter repeated, after a short
pause :
" Anything, papa ? "
" Yes. Anything almost." said Mr. Dombey.
u Anything means everything, don't it, papa ? " asked
his son : not observing, or possibly not understanding, the
Qualification.
" It includes it : yes," said Mr. Dombey.
u Why didn't money save me my mama?' 1 ' returned
;he child. "It isn't cruel, is it?"
142 DOMBE\ AND SON.
"Cruel!" said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth,
and seeming to resent the idea. " No. A good thing
can't be cruel."
" If it's a good thing, and can do anything," said the
little fellow, thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire,
14 1 wonder why it didn't save me ray mama."
He didn't ask the question of his father this timo.
1'erhaps he had seen, with a child's quickness, that it
had already made his father uncomfortable. But he re-
peated the thought aloud, as if it were quite an old one
to him, and had troubled him very much ; and sat with
his chin resting on his hand, still cogitating and looking
for an explanation in the fire.
Mr. Dombey having recovered from his sarprise, not
t6 say his alarm (for it was the very first occasion on
which the chiid had ever broached the subject of his
mother to him, though he had had him sitting by his
side, in this same manner, evening after evening), ex-
pounded to him how that money, though a very potent
spirit, never to be disparaged on any account whatever,
could not keep people alive whose time was come to die ;
and how that we must all die, unfortunately, even in the
city, though we were never so rich. But how that money
caused us to be honored, feared, respected, courted, and
admired, and made us powerful and glorious in the eyea
of all men ; and how that it could, very often, even keep
off death, for a long time together. How, for example
it had secured to his mama the services of Mr. Pilkin.*,
by which he, Paul, had often profited himself; likewise
of the great Doctor Parker Peps, whom he had never
known. And how it could do all, that could be done.
This, with more to the same purpose, Mr. Dombey in-
stilled into the mind of his son, who listened attentively
DOMBEY AND SON. 143
and seemed to understand the greater part of what was
said to him.
" It can't make me strong and quite well, eithe:, papa ;
can it ? " asked Paul, after a short silence ; rubbing his
tiny hands.
" Why, you are strong and quite well," returned Mr-
Dombey. " Are you not ? "
Oh ! the age of the face that was turned ^p again,
with an expression, half of melancholy, half of slyness,
jn it!
" You are as strong and well as such little people
usually are ? Eh ? ". said Mr. Dombey.
" Florence is older than I am, but I'm not as strong
and well as Florence, I know," returned the child ; " but
I believe that when Florence was as little as me, she
could play a great deal longer at a time without tiring
herself. I am so tired sometimes," said little Paul,
warming his hands, and looking in between the bars of
the grate, as if some ghostly puppet-show were perform-
ing there, " and my bones ache so (Wickatn says it's my
bones), that I don't know what to do."
" Ay ! But that's at night," said Mr. Dombey, draw-
ing his own chair closer to his son's, and laying his hand
gently on his back ; " little people should be tired at
oight, for then they sleep well."
" Oh, it's not at night, papa," returned the child, " it's
u the day ; and I lie down in Florence's lap, and she
Rings to me. At night I dream about such cu-ri-ous
things ! "
And he went ou, worming his hands again, and think
eg about them, like an old man or a young goblin.
Mr. Dombey was so astonished, and so uncomfortable,
fcnd so perfectly at a loss how to pursue the conversation,
144 DOMBEY AND SON.
that he could only sit looking at his son by the light of
the fire, with his hand resting on his back, as if it were
detained there by some magnetic attraction. Once ho
advanced his other hand, and turned the contemplative
face towards his own for a moment. But it sought the
fire again as soon as he released it ; and remained, ad-
dres-ed towards the flickering blaze, until the nurse
appeared, to summon him to bed.
** I want Florence to come for me," said Paul.
" Won't you come with your poor Nurse Wickam,
Master Paul ? " inquired that attendant, with great
pathos.
" No, I won't," replied Paul, composing himself in his
arm-chair again, like the master of the house.
Invoking a blessing upon his innocence, Mrs. Wickam
withdrew, and presently Florence appeared in her stead.
The child immediately started up with sudden readiness
and animation, and raised towards his father in bidding
him good-night, a countenance so much brighter, so much
younger, and so much more childlike altogether, that
Mr. Dombey, while he felt greatly reassured by the
change, was quite amazed at it.,
After they had left the room together, he thought he
heard a soft voice singing ; and remembering that Paul
had said his sister &ung to him, he had the curiosity to
open the door and listen, and look after them. She was
toiling up the great, wide, vacant staircase, with him in
her arms ; his head was lying on her shoulder, one of hig
urtns thrown negligently round her neck. So they went,
foiling up ; she singing all the way, and Paul sometim-H i
crooning out a feeble accompaniment. Mr. Donahey
looked after them until they reached the top of the stair-
case not without halting to rest by the way and
DOMBEY AND SON. 115
passed out of his sight ; and then he still stood gazing
upwards, until the dull rays of the moon, glimmering in
a melancholy manner through the dim skylight, sent him
back to his 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 in
formed, without any gloss or reservation, whether there
was anything the matter with Paul, and what Mr. Pil-
kins said about him.
" For the child is hardly," said Mr. Dombey, " as
stout as I could wish."
" With your usual happy discrimination, my dear
Paul," returned Mrs. Chick, " you have hit the point at
once. Our darling is not altogether as stout as we could
Tvisb. The fact is, that his mind is too much for him.
His soul is a great deal too large for his frame. I am
sure the way in which that dear child talks ! " said Mrs.
Chick, shaking her head ; " no one would believe. His
expressions, Lucretia, only yesterday upon the subject
of funerals ! "
" I am afraid," said Mr. Dombey, interrupting her
testily, " that some of those persons up-stairs suggest im-
proper subjects to the child. He was speaking to me
last night about his about his bones," said Mr. Dom-
bey, laying an irritated stress upon the word. " What
on earth has anybody to do with the with the bones
of my son ? He is not a living skeleton, I suppose."
" Very far from it," said Mrs. Chick, with unspeak-
able expression.
" I hope so," returned her brother. " Funerals again I
who talks to the child of funerals ? We are not under-
takers, or mutes, or grave-diggers, I believe."
VOL. 1. 10
146 DOMBEY AND SON.
" Very far from it," interposed Mrs. Chick, with thfl
same profound expression as before.
" Then who puts such things into his head ? " said Mr
Dombey. " Really I was quite dismayed and shocked
last night. Who puts such things into his head, Louisa ?"
" My dear Paul," said Mrs. Chick, after a moment's
silence, " it is of no use inquiring. I do not think, I will
tell you candidly, that Wickam is a person of very cheer-
ful spirit, or what one would call a "
"A daughter of Momus,""Miss Tox softly suggested.
" Exactly so," said Mrs. Chick ; " but she is exceed-
ingly attentive and useful, and not at all presumptuous;
indeed I never saw a more biddable woman. If the dear
child," pursued Mrs. Chick, in the tone of one who was
summing up what had been previously quite agreed
upon, instead of saying it all for the first time, " is a
little weakened by that last attack, and is not in quite
such vigorous health as we could wish ; and if he has
some temporary weakness in his system, and does oc-
casionally seem about to lose, for the moment, the use
of his"
Mrs. Chick was afraid to say limbs, after Mr. Dora-
bey's recent objection to bones, and therefore waited for
a suggestion from Miss Tox, who, true to her office,
hazarded " members."
" Members ! " repeated Mr. Dombey.
" I think the medical gentleman mentioned legi this
morning, my dear Louisa ; did he not ? " said Miss Tox.
'' Why, of course he did, my love," retorted Mrs.
Chirk, mildly reproachful. " How can you ask me ?
You heard him. I say, if our dear Paul should lose,
for the moment, the use of his legs, these are casualties
common to many children at his time of life, and not to
DOMBKY AND SON. 147
!>e prevented by any care or caution. The sooner you
understand that, Paul, and admit that, the better."
" Surely you must know, Louisa," observed Mr. Dom-
bey, " that I don't question your natural devotion to, and
natural regard for, the future head of my house. Mr.
Pilkins saw Paul this morning, I believe?" said Mr.
Dombey.
" Yes, he did," returned his sister. " Miss Tox and
myself were present. Miss Tox and myself are always
present. We make a point of it. Mr. Pilkins has seen
him for some days past, and a very clever man I believe
him to be. He says it is nothing to speak of; which I
can confirm, if that is any consolation ; but he recom-
mended, to-day, sea-air. Very wisely, Paul, I feel con-
vinced."
" Sea-air," repeated Mr. Dombey, looking at his sis-
ter.
" There is nothing to be made uneasy by, in that,"
said Mrs. Chick. " My George and Frederick were both
ordered sea-air, when they were about his age ; and I
have been ordered it myself a great many times. I
quite agree with you, Paul, that perhaps topics may be
incautiously mentioned up-stairs before him, which it
would be as well for his little mind not to expatiate
upon ; but I really don't see how that is to be helped in
the case of a child of his quickness. If he were a
common child, there would be nothing in it. I must pay
I think, with Miss Tox, that a short absence from this
house, the air of Brighton, and the bodily and mental
training of so judicious a person as Mrs. Pipchin for in-
stance "
" Who is Mrs. Pipchin, Louisa ? " asked Mr. Dombey :
aghast at this familiar introduction of a name he had
Clever he^rd before.
148 DOMBEY AND SON.
"Mrs. Pipchin, ray dear Paul," returned bis sister, "is
an elderly lady Miss Tox knows her whole history
who has for some time devoted all the energies of her
mind, with the greatest success, to the study and treat-
ment of infancy, and who has been extremely well con-
nected. Her husband broke his heart in how did you
say her husband broke his heart, my dear ? I forget the
precise circumstances."
" In pumping water out of the Peruvian Mines," re-
plied Miss Tox.
" Not being a Pumper himself, of course," said Mrs.
Chick, glancing at her brother ; and it really did seem
neces.sary to offer the explanation, for Miss Tox had
spoken of him as if he had died at the handle ; " but
having invested money in the speculation, which failed.
I believe that Mrs. Pipchin's management of children is
quite astonishing. I have heard it commended in pri-
vate circles ever since I was dear me how high ! "
Mrs. Chick's eye wandered about the bookcase near the
bust of Mr. Pitt, which was about ten feet from the
ground.
" Perhaps I should say of Mrs. Pipchin, my dear sir,"
observed Miss Tox, with an ingenuous blush, " having
been so pointedly referred to, that the encomium which
has been passed upon her by your sweet sister is well
merited. Many ladies and gentlemen, now grown up to
ye interesting members of society, have been indebted
o her care. The humble individual who addresses you
Was once under her charge. I believe juvenile nobility
itself is no stranger to her establishment."
" Do I understand that this respectable matron keeps
&n establishment, Miss Tox ? " inquired Mr. Dombey,
condescendingly.
DOMBEY AND SON. 149
" Why, I really don't know," rejoined thai lady,
fc whether I am justified in calling it so. It is not &
Preparatory School by any means. Should I express
my meaning," said Miss Tox, with peculiar sweetness,
" if I designated it an infantine Boarding-House of a
very select description ? "
" On an exceedingly limited and particular scale," sag
Bested Mrs. Chick, with a glance at her brother.
Oh ! Exclusion itself! " said Miss Tox.
There was something in this. Mrs. Pipchin's husband
having broken his heart of the Peruvian mines was
good. It had a rich sound. Besides, Mr. Dombey was
in a state almost amounting to consternation at the idea
of Paul remaining where he was one hour after his re-
moval had been recommended by the medical practi-
tioner. It was a stoppage and delay upon the road the
child must traverse, slowly at the best, before the goal
was reached. Their recommendation of Mrs. Pipchin
had great weight with him ; for he knew that they were
jealous of any interference with their charge, and he
never for a moment took it into account that they might
be solicitous to divide a responsibility, of which he had,
as shown just now, his own established views. Broke
his heart of the Peruvian mines, mused Mr. Dombey.
Well, a very respectable way of doing it.
" Supposing we should decide, on to-morrow's inqui-
ries, to send Paul down to Brighton to this lady, who
would go with him ? " inquired Mr. Dombey, after some
reflection.
" I don't think you could send the child anywhere at
present without Florence, my dear Paul," returned hi
>i*ter. hesitating. " It's quite an infatuation with him
lie's \ery young, you know, and has his fancies."
150 DOMBEY AND SON.
Mr. Dombey turned his head away, and going slowly
to the bookcase, and unlocking it, brought back a book
to read.
" Anybody else, Louisa ? " he said, without looking up,
and turning over the leaves.
" Wickam, of course. Wickam would be quite suffi-
cient, I should ?ay," returned his sister. " Paul being iu
such hands as Mrs. Pipchin's. you could hardly send
anybody who would be a further check upon her. You
would go down yourself once a week at least, of course."
" Of course," said Mr. Dombey ; and sat looking at
one page for an hour afterwards, without reading one
word.
This celebrated Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous ill-
favored, ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure,
with a mottled face, like bad marble, a hook nose, and a
hard gray eye, that looked as if it might have been ham-
mered at on an anvil without sustaining any injury.
Forty years at least had v elapsed since the Peruvian
mines had been the death of Mr. Pipchin ; but his relict
still wore black bombazine, of such a lustreless, deep, dead,
sombre shade, that gas itself couldn't light her up after
dark, and her presence was a quencher to any number
of candles. She was generally spoken of as " a great
manager" of children; and the secret of her manage-
ment, was, to give them everything that they didn't like,
and nothing that they did which was found to sweeten
their dispositions very much. She was such a bitter old
lady, that one was tempted to believe there had been
some mistake in the application of the Peruvian ma-
chinery, and that all her waters of gladness and milk of
human kindness had been pumped out dry, instead of
.he mines.
DO3V1BEY AND SON. 151
The castle of this ogress nnd child-queller was in a
steep by-street at Brighton ; where the soil was more
than usually chalky, flinty, and sterile, and the houses
were more than usually brittle and thin ; where the
email front-gardens had the unaccountable property of
producing nothing but marigolds, whatever was sown in
(hem ; and where snails were constantly discovered hold-
ing on to the street-doors, and other public places they
were not expected to ornament, with the tenacity of
cupping-glasses. In the winter time the air couldn't be
got out of the castle, and in the summer time it couldn't
be got in. There was such a continual reverberation of
wind in it, that it sounded like a great shell, which the
inhabitants were obliged to hold to their ears night and
day, whether they liked it or no. It was not, naturally,
a fresh-smelling house ; and in the window of (he front-
parlor, which was never opened, Mrs. Pipchin kept a
collection of plants in pots, which imparted an earthy fla-
vor of their own to the establishment. However choice
examples of their kind, too, these plants were of a kind
peculiarly adapted to the embowerment of Mrs. Pipchin.
There were half a dozen specimens of the cactus, writh-
ing round bits of lath, like hairy serpents ; another speci-
men shooting out broad claws, like a green lobster ; sev-
eral creeping vegetables, possessed of sticky and adhesive
leaves ; and one uncomfortable flower-pot hanging to the
ceiling, which appeared to have boiled over, and tickling
people underneath with its long green ends, reminded
Ihcm of spiders in which Mrs. Pipchin's dwelling was
uncommonly prolific, though perhaps it challenged com
oetition still more proudly, in the season, in point of ear-
wigs.
Mrs. Pipchin's scale of charges being high, howevei
152 DOMBEY AXD SON.
to all who could afford to pay, and Mrs. Pipchin very
seldom sweetening. the equable acidity of her nature in
favor of anybody, she was held to be an old lady of re-
markable firmness, who was quite scientific in her knowl-
edge of the childish character. On this reputation, and
on the broken heart of Mr. Pipchin, she had contrived,
taking one year with another, to eke out a tolerably suf-
ficient living since her husband's demise. Within three
days after Mrs. Chick's first allusion to her, this excel-
lent old lady had the satisfaction of anticipating a hand-
some addition to her current receipts, from the pocket of
Mr. Dombey ; and of receiving Florence and her little
brother Paul, as inmates of the castle.
Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox, who had brought them
down on the previous night (which they all passed
at an hotel), had just driven away from the door, on
their journey home again ; and Mrs. Pipchin, with her
back to the fire, stood, reviewing the new-comers, like
an old soldier. Mrs. Pipchin's middle-aged niece, her
good-natured and devoteu slave, but possessing a gaunt
and iron-bound aspect, and much afflicted with boils on
her nose, was divesting Master Bitherstone of the clean
collar he had worn on parade. Miss Pankey, the only
other little boarder at present, had that moment been
walked off to the castle dungeon (an empty apartment
at the back, devoted to correctional purposes), for having
tniffed thrice, in the presence of visitors.
_ " Well, sir," said Mrs. Pipchin to Paul, " how do you
think you shall like me ? "
" I don't think I shall like you at all," replied 'Paul
' I want to go away. This isn't my house."
" No. It's mine," retorted Mrs. Pipchin.
"It's a very nasty one," said Paul.
DOMBEf AND SON. 153
" There's a worse place in it than this, though, ' said
Mrs. Pipchin, " where we shut up our bad boys."
" Has he ever been in it ? " asked Paul : pointing out
Master Bitherstone.
Mrs. Pipchin nodded assent ; and Paul had enough to
do, for the rest of that day, in surveying Master Bitlier
stone from head to foot, and watching all the workings
of his countenance, with the interest attaching to a boj
of mysterious and terrible experiences.
At one o'clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the far
inaceous and vegetable kind, when Miss Pankey (a mild
little blue-eyed morsel of a child, who was shampooed
every morning, and seemed in danger of being rubbed
away, altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress
herself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed before
visitors ever went to Heaven. When this great truth
had been thoroughly impressed upon her, she was re-
galed with rice ; and subsequently repeated the form of
grace established in the castle, in which there was a
special clause, thanking Mrs. Pipchin for a good dinner.
Mrs. Pipchin's niece, Berinthia, took cold pork. Mrs.
Pipchin, whose constitution required warm nourishment,
made a special repast of mutton-chops, which were
brought in hot and hot, between two plates, and smelt
very nice.
As it rained after dinner, and they couldn't go out
walking on the beach, and Mrs. Pipchin's constitution
required rest after chops, they went away with Berry
(otherwise Berinthia) to the dungeon ; an empty room
looking out upon a chalk wall and a water-butt, and
made ghastly by a ragged fireplace without any stove
u it. Enlivened by company, however, this was the
best place after all ; for Berry played with them there,
1 54 DOMBEY AND SON.
and seemed to enjoy a game at romps as much as they
did ; until Mrs. Pipchin knocking angrily at the wall,
like the Cock-lane ghost revived, they left off, and Berry
told them stories in a whisper until twilight.
For tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread
and butter, with a little black teapot for Mrs. Pipchin
and Berry, and buttered toast unlimited for Mrs. Pip-
chin, which was brought in, hot and hot, like the chops.
Though Mrs. Pipchin got very greasy, outside, over this
dish, it didn't seem to lubricate her, internally, at all ;
for she was as fierce as ever, and the hard gray eye
knew no softening.
After tea, Berry brought out a little work-box, with
the Royal Pavilion on the lid, and fell to working bus-
ily ; while Mrs. Pipchin, having put on her spectacles
and opened a great volume bound in green baize, began
to nod. And whenever Mrs. Pipchin caught herself
falling forward into the fire, and woke up, she filliped
Master Bitherstone on the pose for nodding too.
At last it was the children's bedtime, and after prayers
they went to bed. As little Miss Pankey was afraid of
sleeping alone in the dark, Mrs. Pipchin always made a
point of driving her up-stairs herself, like a sheep ; and
it was cheerful to hear Miss Pankey moaning long after-
wards, in the least eligible chamber, and Mrs. Pipchin
now and then going in to shake her. At about half-past
nine o'clock the odor of a warm sweet-bread (Mrs. Pip-
chin's constitution wouldn't go to sleep without sweet-
bread) diversified the prevailing fragrance of the house,
which Mrs. Wickam said was " a smell of building ; *
and slumber fell upon the castle shortly after.
The breakfast next morning was like the tea over-
vight, except that Mrs. Pipchin took her roll instead of
DOMBEY AND SOX. 155
toast, and seemed a little more irate when it was over
Master Bitherstone read aloud to the rest a pedigree
from Genesis (judiciously selected by Mrs. Pipchin),
getting over the names with the ease and clearness of
a person tumbling up the treadmill. That done, Mis*
Pankey was borne away to be shampooed ; and Mastei
Bitherstone to have something else done to him with
salt water, from which he always returned very blue and
dejected. Paul and Florence went out in the mean time
on the beach with Wickam who was constantly in
tears and at about noon Mrs. Pipchin presided over
some Early Readings. It being a part of Mrs. Pipchin'a
system not to encourage a child's mind to develop and
expand itself like a young flower, but to open it by force
like an oyster, the moral of these lessons was usually of
a violent and stunning character: the hero a naughty
boy seldom, in the mildest catastrophe, being finished
off by anything less than a lion, or a bear.
Such was life at Mrs. Pipchin's. On Saturday Mr.
Dombey came down ; and Florence and Paul would go
to his hotel, and have tea. They passed the whole of
Sunday with him, and generally rode out before dinner ;
and on these occasions Mr. Dombey seemed to grow,
like Falstaff's assailants, and instead of being one man
in buckram, to become a dozen. Sunday evening was
the most melancholy evening in the week ; for Mrs.
Pipchin always made a point of being particularly cross
on Sunday nights. Miss Pankey was generally brought
back from an aunt's at Rottingdean, in deep distress ;
and Master Bitherstone, whose relatives were all in
India, and who was required to sit, between the services,
In an erect position with his head against the parlor wall
ueither moving hand nor foot, suffered so acutely in his
i56 DOMBEY AND SON.
young spints that he once asked Florence, on a Sun-
day night, if she could give him any idea of the way
back to Bengal.
But it was generally said that Mrs. Pipchin was a
woman of system with children ; and no doubt she was.
Certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, aftei
sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof.
It was generally said, too, that it was highly creditable
of Mrs. Pipchin to have devoted herself to this way of
life, and to have made such a sacrifice of her feelings,
and such a resolute stand against her troubles, when
Mr. Pipchin broke his heart in the Peruvian mines.
At this exemplary old lady, Paul would sit staring
in his little arm-chair by the fire, for any length of
time. He never seemed to know what weariness was,
when he was looking fixedly at Mrs. Pipchin. He was
not fond of her ; he was not afraid of her ; but in those
old old moods of his, she seemed to have a grotesque
attraction for him. There he would sit, looking at her,
and warming his hands, and looking at her, until he
sometimes quite confounded Mrs. Pipchin, ogress as she
was. Once she asked him, when they were alone, what
he was thinking about.
" You," said Paul, without the least reserve.
" And what are you thinking about me ? " asked Mrs.
Pipchin.
' I'm thinking how old you must be," said Paul.
" You mustn't say such things as that, young gentle-
can," returned the dame. " That'll never do."
"Why not?" asked Paul.
" Because it's not polite," said Mrs. Pipchin, snappishly
"Not polite?" said Paul.
"No-"
DOMBEY AND SON. 157
"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?" inquired Paul.
" Never you mind, sir," retorted Mrs. Pipchin. " Re-
member the story of the little boy that was gored to
death by a mad bull for asking questions."
" If the bull was mad," said Paul, " how did he know
that the boy had asked questions ? Nobody can go and
whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don't believe that
story."
" You don't believe it, sir ? " repeated Mrs. Pipchin,
amazed.
"No," said Paul.
" Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull,
you little infidel ? " said Mrs. Pipchin.
As Paul had not considered the subject in that light,
and had founded his conclusions on the alleged lunacy
of the bull, he allowed himself to be put down for the
present. But he sat turning it over in his mind, with
such an obvious intention of fixing Mrs. Pipchin pres-
ently, that even that hardy old lady deemed it prudent
to retreat until he should have forgotten the subject.
From that time, Mrs. Pipchin appeared to have some-
thing of the same odd kind of attraction towards Paul,
as Paul had towards her. She would make him move
his chair to her side of the fire, instead of sitting op-
posite ; and there he would remain in a nook between
Mrs. Pipchin and the fender, with all the light of his
little face absorbed into the black bombazine drapery,
studying every line and wrinkle of her countenance, and
aeering at the hard gray eye until Mrs. Pipchin wfs
158 DOMBEY AND SOJN.
sometimes fain to shut it, on pretence of dozing. Mrs.
Pipchin had an old black cat, who generally lay coiled
upon the centre foot of the fender, purring egotistically
and winking at the fire until the contracted pupils of
his eyes were like two notes of admiration. The good
old lady might have been not to record it disrespect-
fully a witch, and Paul and the cat her two familiars,
as they all sat by the fire together. It would have been
quite in keeping with the appearance of the party if
they had all sprung up the chimney in a high wind c^e
night, and never been heard of any more.
This, however, never came to pass. The cat, and
Paul, and Mrs. Pipchin, were constantly to be found in
their usual places after dark ; and Paul, eschewing the
companionship of Master Bitherstone, went on studying
Mrs. Pipchin, and the cat, and the fire, night after
night, as if they were a book of necromancy, in three
volumes.
Mrs. Wiekam put her own construction on Paul's ec-
centricities ; and being confirmed in her low spirits by a
perplexed view of chimneys from the room where she
was accustomed to sit, and by the noise of the wind, and
by the general dulness (gashliness was Mrs. Wickam's
strong expression) of her present life, deduced the most
dismal reflections from the foregoing premises. It was
a part of Mrs. Pipehin's policy to prevent her own
"young hussy" that was Mrs. Pipehin's generic name
for female servant from communicating with Mrs.
Wickam : to which end she devoted much of her time to
concealing herself behind doors, and springing out on that
devoted maiden, whenever she made an approach tow-
ards Mrs. Wickam's apartment. But Berry was free
to hold what converse she could in that quarter con-
DOMBEY AND SON 159
?istently with the discharge of the multifarious duties at
which she toiled inces-antly from morning to night; and
to Berry Mr.-:. \Vickam unburdened her mind.
" What a pretty fellow /ie is when he's asleep ! " said
Kerry, stopping to look at Paul in bed, one night when
she took up Mrs. Wickam's supper.
" Ah ! " sighed Mrs. Wickarn. " lie need be."
"Why, he's not ugly when he's awake," observed
I Jerry.
" No, sr.a'am. Oh. no. No more was my unclt's
Betsey Jane," said Mrs. Wiekam.
Berry looked as if she would like to trace the connec-
tion of ideas between Paul Dombey and Mrs. Wickani's
uncle's Betsey Jane.
"My uncle's wife," Mrs. Wiekam went on to say,
"died just like his mama. My uncle's child took on jus 1 .
HS Master Paul do. My uncle's child made people's
blood run cold, sometimes, she did ! "
"How?" asked Berry.
" I wouldn't have sat up all night alone with Betsey-
Jane ! " said Mrs. W r ickam, " not if you'd have put
Wijkain into business next morning for himself. J
couldn't have done k Miss Berry."
Miss Berry naturally asked, why not? But Mrs.
Wiekam, agreeably to the usage of some ladies in her
condition, pursued her own branch of the subject without
any compunction.
" Betsey Jane," said Mrs. Wiekam, " was as -sweet a
child as 1 could wish to see. I couldn't wish to see a
sweeter. Everything that a child could have in the way
af illnesses, Betsey Jane had come through. The cramps
w&s as common to Her," said Mrs. Wiekam, " as biles is
to yourself, Miss Berry." Miss Berry involuntarily
wrinkled her nose.
160 DOMBEY AND SON.
" But Betsey Jane," said Mrs. Wickam, lowering hei
voice, and looking round the room, and towards Paul in
bed, " had been minded, in her cradle, by her departed
mother. I couldn't say how, nor I couldn't say when,
nor I couldn't say whether the dear child knew it or not,
but Betsey Jane had been watched by her mother, Miss
Berry ! You may say nonsense ! I a'n't offended, miss.
I hope you may be able to think in your own conscience
that it is nonsense ; you'll find your spirits all the better
for it in this you'll excuse my being so free in this
burying-ground of a place ; which is wearing of me
down. Master Paul's a little restless in his sleep. Pat
his back, if you please."
" Of course you think," said Berry, gently doing what
she was asked, " that he has been nursed by his mother,
too?"
"Betsey Jane," returned Mrs. Wickam, in her most
solemn tones, " was put up,on as that child has been pu*
upon, and changed as that child has changed. I have
seen her sit, often and often, think, think, thinking, like
him. I have seen her look, often and often, old, old, old,
like him. I have heard her, many a time, talk just like
him. I consider that child and Betsey Jane on the same
footing entirely, Miss Berry."
"Is your uncle's child alive ? " asked Berry.
a Yes, miss, she is alive," returned Mrs. Wickam with
an air of triumph, for it was evident Miss Berry ex
pccted the reverse ; " and is married to a silver-cbsser
Oh yes, miss, SHE is alive," said Mrs. Wickam, laying
strong stress on her nominative case.
It being clear that somebody was dead, Mrs. Pipchin's
niece inquired who it was.
u I wouldn't wish to make you uneasy," returned Mra
Wickam, pursuing her supper. " Don't ask me."
DOMBEY AND SON. 161
This was ilie surest way of being asked again. Miag
Berry repeated her question, therefore ; and after some
resistance, and reluctance, Mrs. Wickam laid down her
knife, and again glancing round the room and at Paul,
i i bed, replied :
" She took fancies to people ; whimsical fancies, scrao
ci them ; others, affections that one might expect to see
only stronger than common. They all died."
This was so very unexpected and awful to Mrs. Pip-
chin'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 tow-
ards the bed where Florence lay ; then turned it upside
down, and made several emphatic points at the floor;
immediately below which was the parlor in which Mrs.
Pipchin habitually consumed the toast.
" Remember my words, Miss Berry," said Mrs.
Wickam, " and be thankful that Master Paul is not too
fond of you. I am, that he's not too fond of me, I as-
sure you ; though there isn't much to live for you'll
excuse my being so free in this jail of a house ! "
Miss Berry's emotion might have led to her patting
Paul too hard on the back, or might have produced a
cessation of that soothing monotony, but he turned iu
bis bed just now, and, presently awaking, sat up ir it
with his hair hot and wet from the effects of some cLild-
i h dream, and asked for Florence.
She was out of her own bed at the first sound of hia
foice ; and bending over his pillow immediately, sung
dim to sleep again. Mrs. Wickam shaking her head,
ind letting fall several tears, pointed out the little group
.o Berry, and turned her eyes up to the ceiling.
\..i.. i. li
162 DOMBEY AND SOX.
"Good-night, miss!" said Wickani, softly. "Good-
night ! Your aunt is an old lady, Miss Berry, and it's
what you must have looked for, often."
This consolatory farewell, Mrs. Wickam accompanied
trith a look of heartfelt anguish ; and being left alone
with tl e two children again, and becoming conscious that
the wind was blowing mournfully, she indulged in mel-
ancholy that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries
until she was overpowered by slumber.
Although the niece (Jf Mrs. PipcUn did not expect to
Cud t'.at exemplary dragon prostrate on the hearth-rug
when she went down-stairs, she was relieved to find her
unusually fractious and severe, and with every present
appearance of intending to live a long time to be a com-
fort to all who knew her. Nor had she any symptoms
of declining, in the course of the ensuing week, when the
constitutional viands still continued to disappear in reg-
ular succession, notwithstanding that Paul studied her as
attentively as ever, and occupied his usual seat between
the black skirts and the fender, with unwavering con-
stancy.
But as Paul himself was no stronger at the expiration
of that time than he had been on his first arrival, though
DC looked much healthier in the face, a little carriage
was got for him, in which he could lie at his ease, with
*n alphabet and other elementary works of reference,
iJid be wheeled down to the sea-side. Consistent in his
odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad who was
proposed as the drawer of this carriage, and selected,
instead, his grandfather a weazen, old, crab-faced
7)an, in a suit of battered oilskin, who had got tough and
stringy from long pickling in salt water, and who smell
like a weedy sea-beach when the tide is out
DOMBEY AND SON. 163
With this notable attendant to pull him along, and
Florence always walking by his side, and the despondent
Wickam bringing up the rear, he went down to the
margin of the ocean every day ; and there he would sit
or lie in his carriage for hours together : never so dis-
tressed as by the company of children Florence alone
excepted, always.
" Go away, if you please," he would say to any child
who carae to bear him company. " Thank you, but I
don't want you."
Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he
was, perhaps.
" 1 am very well, I thank you," he would answer.
u But you had better go and play, if you please."
Then he would turn his head, and watch the child
away, and say to Florence, " We don't want any others,
do we ? Kiss me, Floy."
He had even a dislike, at such times, to the company
of Wickam, and was well pleased when she strolled
away, as she generally did, to pick up shells and ac-
quaintances. His favorite spot was quite a lonely one,
far away from most loungers ; and with Florence sitting
by his side at work, or reading to him, or talking to him,
and the wind blowing on his face, and the water coming
up among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing
Wore.
" Floy," he said one day, " where's India, where that
boy's friends live ? "
" Oh, it's a long, long distance off," said Florence, rais-
ing her eyes from her work.
" Weak* off?" asked Paul.
" Yes, dear. Many weeks' journey, night and day."
" If you w^re in India, Floy," said Paul, after being t
164 DOMBEY AND SON.
silent for a minute, " I should what is that mama did ?
I forget."
" Loved me ! " answered Florence.
" No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy ? What is U ?
Died. If you were in India, I should die, Floy."
She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her beau
down on his pillow, caressing him. And so would she,
she said, if he were there. He would be better soon.
" Oh ! I am a great deal better now ! " he answered,
14 1 don't mean that. .. I mean that I should die of being
BO sorry and so lonely, Floy ! "
Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep, and
slept quietly for a long time. Awaking suddenly, he
listened, started up and sat listening.
Florence asked him what he thought he heard.
" I want to know what it says," he answered, looking
steadily in her face. " The sea, Floy, what is it that it
keeps on saying ? "
She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling
waves.
" Yes, yes," be said. " But I know that they are al-
ways saying something. Always the same thing. What
place is over there ? " He rose up, looking eagerly at
the horizon.
She told him that there was another country opposite,
but he said he didn't mean that ; he meant 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 saying ; and would rise up in his
much to look towards that invisible region far away.
DOMBEY AND SON 166
CHAPTER IX.
IJs WHICH THE WOODEN MIDSHIPMAN GETS INTO I HOI! BLR
THAT spice of romance and love of the marvellous,
of which there was a pretty strong infusion in the nature
of young Walter Gay, and which the guardianship of
his uncle, old Solomon Gills, had not very much weak-
ened by the waters of stern practical experience, was the
occasion of his attaching an uncommon and delightful
interest to the adventure of Florence with Good Mrs.
Brown. He pampered and cherished it in his memory,
especially that part of it with which he had been associ-
ated : until it became the spoiled child of his fancy, and
took its own way, and did what it liked with it.
The recollection of those incidents, and his own share
in them, may have been made the more captivating, per-
haps, 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
these worthy chums to Richard Whittington ; and the
latter gentleman had even gone so far as to purchase a
ballad of considerable antiquity, that had long guttered
among many others, chiefly expressive of maritime sen-
Sments, on a dead wal\ in the Commercial-road : which
poetical performance set forth the courtship and nuptials
of a promising young coal-whipper with a certain " love-
y Peg," the accomplished daughter of the master and
ICG DOMBEY AND SON.
part-owner of a Newcastle collier. In this stirring lo
gend, Captain Cuttle descried a profound metaphysical
bearing on the case of Walter and Florence ; and it
excited him so much, that on very festive occasions, as
birthdays and a few other non-Dominical holidays, he
would roar through the whole song in the little back-par-
lor ; making an amazing shake on the word Pe e eg
with which every verse concluded, in compliment to the
heroine of the piece.
But a frank, free-spirited, open-hearted boy, is not
much given to analyzing the nature of his own feel-
ings, however strong their hold upon him : and Walter
would have found it difficult to decide this point. He
had a great affection for the wharf where he had en-
countered Florence, and for the streets (albeit not en-
chanting in themselves) by which they had come home.
The shoes that had so often tumbled off by the way, he
preserved in his own room ; and, sitting in the little back-
parlor of an evening, he had drawn a whole gallery of
fancy portraits of Good Mrs. Brown. It may be that
he became a little smarter in his dress, after that memo-
rable occasion ; and he certainly liked in his leisure time
to walk towards that quarter of the town where Mr.
Dombey's house was situated, on the vague chance of
passing little Florence in the street. But the sentiment
of all this was as boyish and innocent as could be.
Florence was very pretty, and it is pleasant to admire a
pretty face. Florence was defenceless and weak, and it
was a proud thought that he had been able to render
her any protection and assistance. Florence was the
most grateful little creature in the world, and it was de-
lightful to see her bright gratitude beaming in her face.
Florence was neglected and coldly looked upon, and bis
DOMBEY AND SON". 167
Dmibt was full of youthful interest for the slighted child
in her dull, stately home.
Thus it came about that, perhaps some half a dozen
times in the course of the year, Walter pulled off his bat
to Florence in the street, and Florence would stop to
shake hands. Mrs. Wickam (who with a characteristic
alteration of his name invariably spoke of him as
" Young Graves ") was so well used to this, knowing
the story of their acquaintance, that she took no heed of
it at all. Miss Nipper, on the other hand, rather looked
out for these occasions : her sensitive young heart being
secretly propitiated by Walter's good looks, and inclining
to the belief that its sentiments were responded to.
In this way, Walter, so far from forgetting or losing
sight of his acquaintance with Florence, only remem-
bered it better and better. As to its adventurous begin-
ning, and all those little circumstances which gave it a
distinctive character and relish, he took them into ac-
count, more as a pleasant story very agreeable to his im-
agination, and not to be dismissed from it, than as a part
of any matter of fact with which he was concerned.
They set off Florence very much, to his fancy ; but
not himself. Sometimes, he thought (and then he walked
very fast) what a grand thing it would have been for
him to have been going to sea on the day after that first
meeting, and to have gone, and to have done wonders
\here, and to have stopped away a long time, and to have
tome 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 beautiful
voung woman) in spite of Mr. Dombey's teeth, cravat,
and watch-chain, and borne her away to the blue shores
of somewhere or other, triumphantly. But these flight*
168 DOMBEY AND SON.
of fancy seldom burnished the brass plate of Domboj
and Son's offices into a tablet of golden hope, or shed a
brilliant lustre on their dirty skylights ; and when the
captain and Uncle Sol talked about Richard Whittington
and masters' daughters, Walter felt that he understood
his time position at Dombey and Son's, much better than
they did.
So it was that he went on doing what he had to do
from day to day, in a cheerful, pains-taking, merry
spirit; and saw through the sanguine complexion of
Uncle Sol and Captain Cuttle; and yet entertained a
thousand indistinct and visionary fancies of his own. to
which theirs were work-a-day probabilities. Such was
his condition at the Pipchin period, when he looked a
little older than of yore, but not much ; and was the
same light-footed, light-hearted, light-headed lad, as when
he charged into the parlor at the head of Uncle Sol and
the imaginary boarders, and lighted him to bring up the
Madeira.
"Uncle Sol," said Walter, "I don't think you're
well. You haven't eaten any breakfast. I shall bring
a doctor to you, if you go on like this."
" He can't give me what I want, my boy," said Uncle
Sol. " At least he is in good practice if he can and
then he wouldn't."
u What is it, uncle ? Customers ? "
" Ay," returned Solomon, with a sigh. " Customers
would do."
u Confound it, uncle ! " said Walter, putting down his
breakfast-cup with a clatter, and striking his hand on the
table : " when I see the people going up and down the
street in shoals all day, and passing aud repassing the
shop every minute by scores, I feel half tempted to rusb
DOMBEY AND SON. 169
out. collar somebody, bring him in, and make him buy
fifty pounds' worth of instruments for ready money.
What are you looking in at the door for ? " con-
tinued Walter, apostrophizing an old gentleman with a
powdered head (inaudibly to him of course), who was
staring at a ship's telescope with all his might and
main " That's no use. I could do that. Come i'l
and buy it ! "
The old gentleman, however, having satiated his curi-
osity, walked calmly away.
" There he goes ! " said Walter. " That's the way
with 'em all. But uncle I say, Uncle Sol " for the
old man was meditating, and had not responded to hia
first appeal. " Don't be cast down. Don't be out of
spirits, uncle. When orders do come, they'll come in
such a crowd, you won't be able to execute "em."
" I shall be past executing 'em, whenever they come,
my boy," returned Solomon Gills. " They'll never
jome to this shop again, till I am out of it."
" I say, uncle ! You mustn't really, you know ! "
urged Walter. "Don't!"
Old Sol endeavored to assume a cheery look, and
smiled across the little table at him as pleasantly as he
could.
" There's nothing more than usual the matter ; is
there, uncle ? " said Walter, leaning his elbows on the
>.ea-tray, and bending over, to speak the more confiden-
tially and kindly. " Be open with me, uncle, if there ia,
and tell me all about it "
" No, 110, no," returned Old Sol. " More than usual
No, no. What should there be the matter mor than
asual ? "
Walter answered with an incredulous shake of hi
170 noMBEY AND SON.
head. "That's what I want to know," he aid, a and
you ask me ! I'll tell you what, uncle, when I see you
like this, I am quite sorry that I live with you."
OKI Sol opened his eyes involuntarily.
" Yes. Though nobody ever was happier than I &m
and always have been with you, I am quite sorry bat J
live with you, when I see you with anything on your
mind."
" I am a little dull at such times, I know," observed
Solomon, meekly rubbing his hands.
" What I mean, Uncle Sol," pursued Walter, bending
ever a little more to pat him on the shoulder, " is, that
then I feel you ought to have, sitting here and pouring
out the tea, instead of me, a nice little dumpling of a
wife, you know a comfortable, capital, cosey old lady,
who was just a match for you, and knew how to manage
you, and keep you in good heart. Here am I, as loving
a nephew as ever was (I am sure I ought to be !) but I
am only a nephew, and I can't be such a companion to
you when you're low and out of sorts as she would have
made herself, years ago, though I'm sure I'd give any
money if I could cheer you up. And so I say, when I
see you with anything on your mind, that I feel quite
sorry you haven't got somebody better about you than a
blundering young rough-and-tough boy like me, who has
got the will to console you, uncle, but hasn't got the way
hasn't got the way," repeated Walter, reaching ovei
farther 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 parlor five-
and-forty years ago, I never could have been fonder of
her than I am of you."
" / know that. Uncle Sol," returned Walter. " Lord
DOMBEY AND SOX. 171
bless you, I know that. But you wouldn't have had the
whole weight of any uncomfortable secrets if she had
been with you, because she would have known how to
relieve you of 'em, and I don't."
" Yes, yes, you do," returned the instrument-maker.
" Well then, what's the* matter, Uncle Sol ? " said
Walter, coaxingly. "Come! What's the matter?"
Solomon Gills persisted that there was nothing tho
matter ; and maintained it so resolutely, that his nephew
had no resource but to make a very indifferent imitation
of believing him. >
" All I can say is, Uncle Sol, that if there is "
" But there isn't," said Solomon.
" Very well," said Walter. " Then I've no more to
pay ; and that's lucky, for my time's up for going to busi-
ness. I shall look in by and by when I'm out, to see
how you get on, uncle. And mind, uncle ! I'll never
believe you again, and never tell you anything more
about Mr. Carker the Junior, if I find out that you have
been deceiving me ! "
Solomon Gills laughingly defied him to find out any-
thing of the kind ; and Walter, revolving in his thoughts
all sorts of impracticable ways of making fortunes and
placing the wooden midshipman in a position of inde-
pendence, betook himself to the offices of Dombey and
Son with a heavier countenance than he usually carried
there.
There lived in those days, round the corner in
Bishopsgate-street Without one Brogley, sworn broker
and appraiser, who kept a shop where every description
of second-hand furniture was exhibited in the most un-
comfortable aspect, and under circumstances and in com-
binations the most completely foreign to its purpose.
172 DOMBEY AND SON.
Dozens of chairs hooked on to washing-stands, which
with difficulty poised themselves on the shoulders of
sideboards, which in their turn stood upon the wrong
side of dining-tables, gymnastic with their legs upward
on the tops of other dining-tables, were among its most
reasonable arrangements. A banquet array of dish-
covers, wine-glasses, and decanters, was generally to be
seen spread forth upon the bosom of a four-post bed-
stead, for the entertainment of such genial company as
half a dozen pokers, and a hall lamp. A set of window
curtains, with no windows belonging to them, would be
seen gracefully draping a barricade of chests of drawers,
loaded with little jars from chemists' shops ; while a
homeless hearth-rug, severed from its natural 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, wasting away, a string a
day, and faintly resounding to the noises of the street in
its jangled and distracted brain. Of motionless clocks
that never stirred a finger, and seemed as incapable of
being successfully wound up, as the pecuniary affairs of
their former owners, there was always great choice in
Mr. Brogley's shop ; and various looking-glasses, acci-
dentally placed at compound interest of reflection and
refraction, presented to the eye an eternal perspective
of bankruptcy and ruin.
Mr. Brogley himself was a moist-eyed, pink-complex-
ioned, crisp-haired man, of a bulky figure and an easy
temper for that class of Caius Marius who sits upon
the ruins of other people's Carthages, can keep up his
spirits well enough. He had looked in at Solomon's
shop sometimes, to ask a question about articles in Solo-
jnon's way of business ; and Walter knew him sufficiently
DOMBEY AND SON. 173
to give him good-day when they met in the street, but
as that was the extent of the broker's acquaintance with
Solomon Gills also, Walter was not a little surprised
when he came back in the course of the forenoon, agree-
' O
ably to his promise, to find Mr. Brogley sitting in the
back-parlor with hi.-; hands in his pockets, and his hat
hanging up behind the door.
" Well, Uncle Sol ! " said Walter. The old man was
sitting ruefully on the opposite side of the table, with his
spectacles over his eyes, for a wonder, instead of on bis
forehead. " How are you now ? "
Solomon shook his head, and waved one hand towards
the broker, as introducing him.
" Is there anything the matter ? " asked Walter, with
a catching in his breath.
" No, no. There's nothing the matter," said Mr.
Brogley. " Don't let it put you out of the way."
Walter looked from the broker to his uncle in mute
amazement.
" The fact is," said Mr. Brogley, " there's a little pay-
ment on a bond debt three hundred and seventy odd,
overdue : and I'm in possession."
" In possession ! " cried Walter, looking round at the
shop.
"Ah!" said Mr. Brogley, in confidential assent, and
nodding his head as if he would urge the advisability of
their all being comfortable together. " It's an execution.
That's what it is. Don't let it put you out of the way
J come myself because of keeping it quiet and sociable.
Vou know me. It's quite private."
" Uncle Sol ! " faltered Walter.
" Wally, my boy," returned his uncle. " It's the first
time. Such a calamity never happened to me before.
174 DOMBEF AND SON.
I'm an old man to begin." Pushing up his spectacles
again (for they were useless any longer to conceal his
emotion), he covered his face with his hand, and sobbed
aloud, and his tears fell down upon his coffee-colored
waistcoat.
"Uncle Sol! Pray! oh don't!" exclaimed Walter,
who really felt a thrill of terror in seeing the old man
areep. " For 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 sure ! " cried Walter, catching at anything.
<! Certainly ! Thankee. Captain Cuttle's the man, un-
cle. Wait till I run to Captain Cuttle. Keep your eye
upon my uncle, will you, Mr. Brogley, and make him as
comfortable as you can while I am gone ? Don't de-
spair, Uncle Sol. Try and keep a good heart, there's a
dear fellow ! "
Saying this 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 hur-
ried round to the office to excuse himself on the plea of
his uncle's sudden illness, set off, full speed, for Captain
Cuttle's residence.
Everything seemed altered as he ran along the streets.
There was the usual entanglement and noise of carts,
drays, omnibuses, wagons, and foot-passengers, but the
misfortune that had fallen on the wooden midshipman
made it strange and new. Houses and shops were dif-
ferent from what they used to be, and bore Mr. Brog
ley's warrant on their fronts in large characters. The
broker seemed to have got hold of the very churches ;
for their spires rose int~ the sky with an unwonted air
DOMBEY AND SON. 175
Even the sky itself was changed, and had an execution
in it plainly.
Captain Cuttle lived on the brink of a little canal neai
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 levi-
athan. 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 appurtenances
to public-houses ; then came slop-sellers' shops, with
Guernsey shirts, sou'wester hats, and canvas pantaloons,
at once the tightest and the loosest of their order, hang-
ing up outside. These were succeeded by anchor and
chain-cable forges, where sledge-hammers were dinging
upon iron all day long. Then came rows of houses,
with little vane-surmounted masts uprearing themselves
from among the scarlet beans. Then, ditches. Then,
pollard willows. Then, more ditches. Then, unac-
countable patches of dirty water, hardly to be descried,
for the ships that covered them. Then, the air was per-
fumed with chips ; and all other trades were swallowed
up in mast, oar, and block-making, and boat-building.
Then, the ground grew marshy and unsettled. Then,
there was nothing to be smelt but rum and sugar.
Then, Captain Cuttle's lodgings at once a first floor
and a top 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 impos-
sible for the liveliest imagination to separate from any
part of their dress, however insignificant. Accordingly,
when Walter knocked at the door, and the captain in-
stantly poked his head out of one of his little front-
windows, and hailed him, with the hard glazed hat al-
178 DOMBEY AND SON.
" How's Gills ? " inquired the captain.
Walter, who had by this time recovered his breath,
and lost his spirits or such temporary spirits as his
rapid journey had given him looked at his questioner
for a moment, said " Oh, Captain Cuttle ! " and burst
into tears.
No words can describe the captain's consternation at
this sight. Mrs. MacStinger faded into nothing before
it. He dropped the potato and the fork and would
have dropped the knife too if he could and sat gazing
at the boy, as if he expected to hear next moment that
a gulf had opened in the city, which had swallowed up
his old friend, coffee-colored suit, buttons, chronometer,
spectacles, and all.
But when Walter told him what was really the mat-
ter, Captain Cuttle, after a moment's reflection, started
up into full activity. He emptied out of a little tin can-
ister on the top shelf of the cupboard, his whole stock
of ready money (amounting to thirteen pounds and half
a crown), which he transferred to one of the pockets of
his square blue coat ; further enriched that repository
with the contents of his plate chest, consisting of two
withered atomies of 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 assure himself that that valuable was sound and
whole ; re-attached the hook to his right wrist ; and
seizing the stick covered over with knobs, bade Walter
come along.
Remembering, however, in the midst of his virtuous
excitement, that Mrs. MacStinger might be lying in
wait below, Captain Cuttle hesitated at last, not without
glancing at the window, as if he had some thought of
DOMBEY AND SON. 179
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 wink, "go
ftfore, my lad. Sing out, ' good-by, 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 tactics, for when Walter got
down-stairs, Mrs. MacStinger glided out of the little
back-kitchen, like an avenging spirit. But not glid-
ing out upon the captain, as she had expected, she
merely made a further allusion to the knocker, and
glided in again.
Some five minutes elapsed before Captain Cuttle could
summon courage to attempt his escape ; for Walter
waited so long at the street-corner, looking back at
the house, before there were any symptoms of the
hard glazed hat. At length the captain burst out of
the door with the suddenness of an explosion, and com-
ing 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 cap-
tain, as they were walking along.
" I am afraid so. If you had seen him this morning,
you would never have forgotten it."
" Walk fast, Wal'r, my lad," returned the captain,
msnding Ins pace ; " and walk the same all the days
of your life. Overhaul the catechism for that advico,
and keep it ! "
The captain was too busy with his own thoughts of
Solomon Gills, mingled perhaps with some reflections on
180 DOMBEY AND SON.
his late escape from Mrs. MncStinger, to offer any fur-
ther quotations on the way for Walter's moral improve-
ment. They interchanged no other word until they ar-
rived at old Sol's door, where the unfortunate wooden
midshipman, with his instrument at his eye, seemed to
be surveying the whole horizon in search of some fiiend
to help him out of his difficulty.
" Gills ! " said the captain, hurrying into the back-par-
lor, and taking him by the hand quite tenderly. " Lay
your head well to the wind, and we'll fight through it.
All you've got to do," said the captain, with the solem-
nity of a man who was delivering himself of one of the
most precious practical tenets ever discovered by human
wisdom, " is to lay your head well to the wind, and we'll
fight through it ! "
Old Sol returned the pressure of his hand, and thanked
him.
Captain Cuttle, then, with a gravity suitable to the
nature of the occasion, put down upon the table the two
tea-spoons and the sugar-tongs, the silver watch, and the
ready money ; and asked Mr. Brogley, the broker, what
the damage was.
" Come ! What do you make of it ? " said Captain
Cuttle.
" Why, Lord help you ? " returned the broker ; " you
don't suppose that property's of any use, do you ? "
" Why not ? " inquired the captain.
" Why ? The amount's three hundred and seventy,
Ddd," replied the broker.
"Never mind," returned the captain, though he waa
evidently dismayed by the figures : " all's fish that ccmes
to your net, I suppose ? "
" Certainly," said Mr. Brogley. " But sprats a'n'l
whales, you know."
DOMBEY AND SON. 181
The philosophy of this observation seemed to strike
Jhe captain. He ruminated for a minute ; eying the
broker, meanwhile, as a deep genius : and then called
tb.3 instrument-maker aside.
" Gilk," said Captain Cuttle, " what's the bearings of
this business r Who's the creditor ? "
" Hush ! " returned the old man. " Come away. Don't
Bpeak before Wally. It's a matter of security for "W al-
ly's father an old bond. I've paid a good deal of it,
Ned, but the times are so bad with me that I can't do
more just now. I've foreseen it, but I couldn't help it
Not a word before Wally, for all the world."
" You've got some money, haven't you ? " whispered
the captain.
" Yes, yes oh yes I've got some," returned old
Sol, first putting his hands into his empty pockets, and "
then squeezing his Welsh wig between them, as if be
thought he might wring some gold out of it ; " but I
the little I have got, isn't convertible, Ned ; it can't be
pot at. I have been trying to do something with it for
Wally, and I'm old-fashioned, and behind the time. It's
here and there, and and, in short, it's as good as no-
where," said the old man, looking in bewilderment about
him.
He had so much the air of a half-witted person who
had been hiding his money in a variety of places, and
had forgotten where, that the captain followed his eyes,
not without a faint hope that he might remember some
few hundred pounds concealed up the chimney, or down
m the cellar. But Solomon Gills knew better than that.
"I'm behind the time altogether, my dear Ned," said
Sol, in resigned despair, " a long way. It's no use my
Ijtorp-inor on so far behind it. The stock had better be
180 DOMBEY AND SON.
his late escape from Mrs. MacStinger, to offer any fur-
ther quotations on the way for Walter's moral improve-
ment. They interchanged no other word until they ar-
rived at old Sol's door, where the unfortunate wooden
midshipman, with his instrument at his eye, seemed to
be surveying the whole horizon in search of some fiiend
to help him out of his difficulty.
" Gills ! " said the captain, hurrying into the back-par-
lor, and taking him by the hand quite tenderly. " Lay
your head well to the wind, and we'll fight through it.
All you've got to do," said the captain, with the solem-
nity of a man who was delivering himself of one of the
most precious practical tenets ever discovered by human
wisdom, " is to lay your head well to the wind, and we'll
fight through it ! "
Old Sol returned the pressure of his hand, and thanked
him.
Captain Cuttle, then, with a gravity suitable to the
nature of the occasion, put down upon the table the two
tea-spoons and the sugar-tongs, the silver watch, and the
ready money ; and asked Mr. Brogley, the broker, what
the damage was.
" Come ! What do you make of it ? " said Captain
Cuttle.
" Why, Lord help you ? " returned the broker ; " yon
don't suppose that property's of any use, do you ? "
" Why not ? " inquired the captain.
" Why ? The amount's three hundred and seventy,
add," replied the broker.
" Never mind," returned the captain, though he wai
evidently dismayed by the figures : " all's fish that comes
to your net, I suppose ? "
" Certainly," said Mr. Brogley. " But sprats a'n'l
whales, you know."
DOMBEY AND SON. 181
Tlit philosophy of this observation seemed to strike
Jhe captain. He ruminated for a minute ; eying the
broker, meanwhile, as a deep genius : and then called
tho instrument-maker aside.
u Gilk," said Captain Cuttle, " what's the bearings: of
this business ? Who's the creditor ? "
" Hush ! " returned the old man. " Come away. Don't
speak before Wally. It's a matter of security for TV al-
ly's father an old bond. I've paid a good deal of it,
Ned, but the times are so bad with me that I can't do
more just now. I've foreseen it, but I couldn't help it.
Not a word before Wally, for all the world."
" You've got some money, haven't you ? " whispered
the captain.
" Yes, yes oh yes I've got some," returned old
Sol, first putting his hands into his empty pockets, and
then squeezing his Welsh wig between them, as if be
thought he might wring some gold out of it ; " but I
the little I have got, isn't convertible, Ned ; it can't be
got at. I have been trying to do something with it for
Wally, and I'm old-fashioned, and behind the time. It's
here and there, and and, in short, it's as good as no-
where," said the old man, looking in bewilderment about
him.
He had so much the air of a half-witted person who
had been hiding his money in a variety of places, and
had forgotten where, that the captain followed his eyes,
not without a faint hope that he might remember some
few hundred pounds concealed up the chimney, or down
in ths cellar. But Solomon Gills knew better than that.
* I'm behind the time altogether, my dear Ned," said
Sol, in resigned despair, " a long way. It's no use my
tosKin" on so far behind it. The stock had better be
182 DOMBEY AND SON.
sold it's worth more than this debt and I had better
go and die somewhere on the balance. I haven't any
energy left. I don't understand things. This had better
be the end of it. Let 'em sell the stock and take hint
down," said the old man, pointing feebly to the wooden
midshipman, " and let us both be broken lip together "
u And what d'ye mean to do with Wal'r ? " said the
captain. " There, there ! Sit ye down, Gills, sit ye
down, and let me think o' this. If I warn't a man on
a small annuity, that was large enough till to-day, I
hadn't need to think of it. But you only lay your
head well to the wind," said the captain, again admin-
istering that unanswerable piece of consolation, "and
you're all right ! "
Old Sol. thanked him from his heart, and went and laid
it against the back-parlor fireplace instead.
Captain Cuttle walked up and down the shop for some
time, cogitating profoundly, and bringing his bushy black
eyebrows to bear so heavily on his nose, like clouds
settling on a mountain, that Walter was afraid to offer
any interruption to the current of his reflections. Mr.
Brogley, who was averse to being any constraint upon
the party, and who had an ingenious cast of mind,
went, softly whistling, among the stock ; rattling weather
glasses, shaking compasses as if they were physic, catch-
ing up keys with loadstones, looking throifgh telescopes,
endeavoring to make himself acquainted with the use of
the globes, setting parallel rulers astride on to his nose,
and amusing himself with other philosophical transac-
tions.
" Wal'r ! " said the captain at last " I've got it."
" Have you, Captain Cuttle ? " cried Walter, with
animation.
DOMBEY AND SON. 183
" Come this way, my lad," said the captain. " The
stock's one security. I'm another. Your governor's th
man to advance the money."
* Mr. Dombey ! " faltered Walter.
The captain nodded gravely. " Look at him," he saiiL
u Look at Gills. If they was to sell off these things
uow, he'd die of it. You know he would. We mustn't
leave a stone unturned and there's a stone for you."
" A stone ! Mr. Dombey ! " faltered Walter.
" You run round to the office, first of all, and see if
he's there,"- said Captain Cuttle, clapping him on the
back. " Quick ! "
Walter felt he must not dispute the command a
glance at his uncle would have determined him if he
had felt otherwise and disappeared to execute it. He
Boon returned, out of breath, to say that Mr. Dombey*
was not there. It was Saturday, and he had gone to
Brighton.
"I tell you what, Wal'r!" said the captain, who seemed
to have prepared himself for this contingency in his ab-
sence. " We'll go to Brighton. I'll ba<;k you, my boy,
I'll back you, Wal'r. We'll go to Brighton by the after-
noon's coach."
If the application must be made to Mr. Dombey at all,
which was awful to think of, Walter felt that he would
rather prefer it alone and unassisted, than backed by the
personal influence of Captain Cuttle, to which he hardly
thought Mr. Dombey would attach much weight. But
us the captain appeared to be of quite another opinion,
nd was bent upon it, and as his friendship was too zeal-
^us and serious to be trifled with by one so much younger
than himself, he forbore to hint the least objection. Cut-
tle, therefore, taking a hurried leave of Solomon Gills,
184 DOMBEY AND SON.
nnd returning the ready money, the teaspoons, the sugar-
tongs, and the silver watch, to his pocket with a view,
t\3 Walter thought, with horror, to making a gorgeous
impression on Mr. Dombey bore him off to the coach-
i dice, without a minute's delay, and repeatedly assured
him. on the road that he would stick by him to th lasf
AAD SON. 1B5
CHAPTER X.
CONTAINING THE SEQUEL OF THE MIDSHIPMAN'S' DIS-
ASTER.
MAJOR BAGSTOCK, after long and frequent observa-
tion of Paul, across Princess's-place, through his double
barrelled opera glass ; and after receiving many minute
reports, daily, weekly, and monthly, on that subject,
from the native, who kept himself in constant com-
munication with Miss Tox's maid for that purpose ;
came to the conclusion that Dombey, sir, was a man
to be known, and that J. B. was the boy to make his
acquaintance.
Miss Tox, however, maintaining her reserved beha-
vior, 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
fsin to leave the accomplishment of his desire in some
measure to chance, " which," as he was used to observe
with chuckles at his club, " has been fifty to one in
favor of Joey B., sir, ever since his elder brother died of
Yellow Jack in the West Indies."
It was some time coming to his aid in the present
instance, but it befriended him at last. When the dark
servant, with full particulars, reported Miss Tox absent
on Brighton service, the major was suddenly touched
186 DOMBEY AND SON.
with affectionate reminiscences of his friend Bill Bither-
stone of Bi'iigal, 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 P^ngland 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 hap-
pened to be then laid up, that he threw a footstool at
the dark servant in return for his intelligence, and swore
he would be the death of the rascal before he had done
with him : which the dark servant was more tban half
disposed to believe.
At length the major being released from his fit, went
one Saturday growling down to Brighton, with the na-
tive behind him : apostrophizing Miss Tox all the way,
and gloating over the prospect of carrying by storm the
distinguished friend to whom she attached so much mys-
tery, and for whom she had deserted him.
" Would you, ma'am, would you ! " said the major,
straining with vindictiveness, and swelling every already
swollen vein in his head. " Would you give Joey B.
the go-by, ma'am ? Not yet, ma'am, not yet ! Damme,
not yet, sir. Joe is awake, ma'am. Bagstock is alive,
sir. J. B. knows a move or two, ma'am. Josh has
Uis weather-eye open, sir. You'll find him tough,
ma'am. Tough, sir, tough is Joseph. Tough, and dc-
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 complexion like a Stilton
cheese, and his eyes like a prawn's, went roving about,
DOMBEY AND SON. 187
perfectly indifferent to Master Bitherstone's amusement,
and dragging Master Bitherstone along, while he looked
about him high and low for Mr. Dombey and his
children.
In good time the major, previously instructed by
Mrs. Pipchin, spied out Paul and Florence, and bore
down upon them ; there being a stately gentleman (Mr.
Dombey, doubtless) in their company. Charging with
Master Bitherstone into the very heart of the little
squadron, it fell out, of course, that Master Bitherstone
spoke to his fellow-sufferers. Upon that the major
stopped to notice and admire them ; remembered with
amazement that he had seen and spoken to them at
his friend Miss Tox's in Princess's-place ; opined that
Paul was a devilish fine fellow, and his own little friend;
inquired if he remembered Joey B. the major; and
Gnally, with a sudden recollection of the conventionali-
ties of life, turned and apologized to Mr. Dombey.
" But my little friend here, sir," said the 'major,
"makes a boy of me again. An old soldier, sir Major
Bagstock, at your service is not ashamed to confess
it." Here the major lifted his hat. " Damme, sir," cried
the major with sudden warmth, " I envy you." Then
he recollected himself, and added, "Excuse my fi-ee-
dora."
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,
i>ir, was not afraid of being condemned for his whim by
a man like Mr. Dombey. I have the honor of address-
.ng Mr. Dombey, I believe ? "
" I am the present unworthy representative of that
name, major," returned Mr. Dombey.
188 DOMBEY AND SON.
u By G , sir," said the major, " it's a great name.
It's a name, sir," said the major firmly, as if he defied
Mr. Dombey to contradict him, and would feel it his
painful duty to bully him if he did, " that is known
and honored in the British possessions abroad. It is a
name, sir, that a man is proud to recognize. There is
nothing adulatory in Joseph Bagstock, sir. His Royal
Highness the Duke of York observed on more than
one occasion ' there is no adulation in Joey. He is a
plain old soldier is Joe. He is tough to a fault is Jo-
seph : ' but it's a great name, sir. By the Lord, it's A
great name ! " said the major, solemnly.
" You are good enough to rate it higher than it de-
serves perhaps, major," returned Mr. Dorabey.
" No, sir," said the major. ' My little friend here, sir,
will certify for Joseph Bagstock that he is a thorough-
going, down-right, plain-spoken, old Trump, sir, and
nothing more. That boy, sir," said the major in a lower
tone, u will live in history. That boy, sir, is not a com-
mon production. Take care of him, Mr. Dombey."
Mr. Dombey seemed to intimate that he would en-
deavor to do so.
" Here is a boy here, sir," pursued the major, con-
fidentially, and giving him a thrust with his cane. " Son
of Bitherstone of Bengal. Bill Bitherstone formerly of
ours. That boy's father and myself, sir, were sworn
friends.. Wherever you went, sir, you heard of nothing
but Bill Bitherstone and Joe Bagstock. Am I blind to
that boy's defects ? By no means. He's a fool, sir."
Mr. Dombey glanced at the libelled Master Bither-
gtone 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 189
fooL Joe Bagstock never minces matters. The son of
my old friend Bill Bitherstone of Bengal is a born fool,
sir." Here the major laughed till he was almost black
" My little friend is destined for a public school, I pre-
sume, Mr. Dombey ? " said the major when he had r*
covered.
" I am not quite decided," returned Mr. Dombey.
" I think not. He is delicate."
" If he's delicate, sir," said the major, " you are right.
None but the tough fellows could live through it, sir,
at Sandhurst. We put each other to the torture there,
sir. We roasted the new fellows at a slow fire, and
hung 'em out of a three pair of stairs window, with
their heads downwards. Joseph Bagstock, sir, was held
out of the 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 his shirt-frill. " We were iron, sir, and it forged
us. Are you remaining here, Mr. Dombey ? "
" I generally come down once a week, major," re-
turned that gentleman. "I stay at the Bedford."
"I shall have the honor of calling at the Bedford,
sir, if you'll 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 gracious 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, i/
190 DOMBEY AND SON.
you come to that," added the major, chuckling very
much stirred up Master Bitherstone with his walk-
ing-stick, and departed with that young gentleman, at
a kind of half-trot ; rolling his head and coughing with
great dignity, as he staggered away, with his legs very
wide asunder.
In fulfilment of his promise, the major afterwards
called on Mr. Dombey ; and Mr. Dombey, having re-
ferred 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. Dom-
bey. In short, Mr. Dombey and the major got on un-
commonly well together, and uncommonly fast : and Mr.
Dombey observed of the major, to his sister, that be-
sides being quite a military man he was really some-
thing more, as he had a very admirable idea of the
importance of things unconnected with his own pro-
fession.
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 Miss Tox highly, beforehand, on her
neighbor and acquaintance. Notwithstanding the palpi-
tation 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 unwilling to display. The major gave
her abundant opportunities of exhibiting this emotion :
being profuse in his complaints, at dinner, of her deser-
tion of him and Princess's-place : and as he appeared to
derive great enjoyment from making them, they all got
i>n very well.
DOMBEY AND SON. 191
None the worse; on account of the majoi taking charge
ftf the whole conversation, and showing as great an ap-
petite in that respect as in regard of the various dainties
on the table, among which he may be almost said to have
wallowed: greatly to the aggravation of his inflammatory
tendencies. Mr. Dombey's habitual silence and reserve
yielding readily to this usurpation, the major felt that he
was coming out and shining : and in the How of spirits
thus engendered, rang such an infinite number of new
changes on his own name that he quite astonished him-
self. In a word, they were all very well pleased. The
major was considered to possess an inexhaustible fund
of conversation ; and when he took a late farewell, alter
si long rubber, Mr. Dombey again complimented tiie
blushing Miss Tox on her neighbor and acquaintance.
But all 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 chair, and fell into a silent fit of laughter, with
which he was sometimes seized, and which was always
particularly awful. It held him 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 him 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, noth-
ing but a heaving mass of indigo. At length he burst
into a violent paroxysm of coughing, and when that waa
a little better burst into such ejaculations as the follow-
ing :
' Would you, ma'am, would you ? Mrs. Dombey, eh,
ina'am? I think not, ma'am. Not while Joe B can
Dut a spoko in your wheel, ma'am. J. B.'s even witb
192 DOMBEY AND SON.
you now, ma'am. He isn't altogether bowled out, yet,
eir, isn't Bagstock. She's deep, sir, deep, but Josh ia
deeper. Wide awake is old Joe broad awake, and
staring sir!" There was no doubt of this last assertion
being true, and to a very fearful extent ; as it continued
10 lie during the greater part of that night, which the
major chiefly passed in similar exclamations, diversified
with fits of coughing and choking that startled the whole
house.
It was on the day after this occasion (being Sunday)
when, as Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Chick,, and Miss Tox were
sitting at breakfast, still eulogizing the major, Florence
came running in : her face suffused with 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 with too much familiar-
ity. " Who found me when I was lost."
" Does she mean young Gay, Louisa ? " inquired Mr
Dombey, knitting his brows. " Really, this child's man-
ners have become very boisterous. She cannot mean
young 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, accom-
panied by a very strange-looking person ; and thai
young Gay said he would not take the liberty of com-
ing in, hearing Mr. Dombey was at breakfar:, but would
wait until Mr. Dombey should signify that he might ap-
proach.
"Tell the boy to come in now," said Mr. Dombey
DOMBEY AND SON. 198
"Now, Gay, what is the mailer? 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 6n my
[iwn account, which I hope you'll pardon when I mtii-
lion the cause."
But Mr. Dombey, without attending to what he said,
WRS looking impatiently on either side of him (as if he
were a pillar in his way) at some object behind.
" What's that ? " said Mr. Dombey. " Who is that ?
[ think you have made some mistake in the door,
Bir."
" Oh, I'm very sorry to intrude with any one, sir,"
cried Walter, hastily ; " but this is this is Captain
Cuttle, sir."
" 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 politely to
the ladies, with the hard glazed hat in his one hand, and
a red equator round his head which it had newly im-
printed there.
Mr. Dombey regarded this phenomenon with amaze-
ment and indignation, and seemed by his looks to appeal
to Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox against it. Little Paul,
' ho had come in after Florence, backed towards Misa
Vox as the captain waved his hook, and stood en the
" Now, Gay," said Mr. Dombey. " What have you
got to say to me ? "
Aeain the captain observed, as a opueral opening of
13
194 DOMBEY AND SON.
the conversation that could not fail to propitiate all nar-
lies, " Wal'r, stand by ! "
" I am afraid, sir," began Walter, trembling, and look-
ing down at the ground, " that I take a very great liberty
in coming indeed, I am sure I do. I should hardly
have had the courage to ask to see you, sir, even after
coining down, I am afraid, if I had not overtaken Misa
Dombey "
" Well ! " said Mr. Dombey, following his eyes as he
glanced at the attentive Florence, and frowning uncon-
sciously as she encouraged him with a smile. " Go on,
if you please."
" Ay, ay," observed the captain, considering it incum-
bent on him, as a point of good breeding, to support Mr.
Dombey. " Well said ! Go on, Wal'r."
Captain Cuttle ought to have been withered by the
look which Mr. Dombey bestowed upon him in acknowl-
edgment 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 little bashful at first, and might be
expected to come out shortly.
" It is entirely a private and personal matter that lias
brought me here, sir," continued Walter, faltering, " and
Captain Cuttle"
" Here ! " interposed the captain, as an assurance that
lie was at hand, and might be relied upon.
" Who is a very old friend of my poor uncle's, and i
most excellent man, sir," pursued Walter, raising Lia
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.
DOMBEY AND SON. 195
' Of course not. No call for refusing. Go on,
Wal'r."
" And therefore, sir," said Walter, venturing to meet
Mr. Dombey's eye, arid proceeding with better courage
in the very desperation of the case, now that there was
no avoiding it, "therefore I have come with him, sir, to
Bay that my poor old uncle is in very great aflliction and
distress. 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
execution in his house, and is in danger of losing all he
has, and breaking his heart. And that if you would, in
your kindness, and in your old knowledge of him as a
respectable man, do anything to help him out of his diffi-
culty, 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 glistening,
though he appeared to look at Walter only.
" It is a very large sum, sir," said Walter. " More
than three hundred 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 relief. 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 sU/ck, on which I
believe I may say, confidently, there are no other de-
mands, and there is Captain Cuttle, who would wish to
De security too. I I hardly like to mention," said
Walter, " such earnings as mine ; but if you would allow
-hem accumulate payment advance uncle
nilgai, honorable old man." Waltci trailed off through
196 DOMBEY AND SON.
these broken sentences, into silence; and stood, with
downcast head, before his employer.
Considering this a favorable moment for the display
of the valuables. Captain Cuttle advanced to the table ;
and clearing a space among the breakfast-cups at Mr.
Dombey's elbow, produced the silver watch, the ready
money, the teaspoons, and the sugar-tongs ; and piling
them up in a heap that they might look as precious as
possible, delivered himself of these words :
" Half a loaf's better than no bread, and the same re-
mark holds good with crumbs. There's a few. Annuity
of one hundred pound prannum also ready to be made
over. If there is a man chock full of science in the
world, it's old Sol Gills. If there is a lad of promise
one flowing," added the captain, in one of his happy
quotations, " with milk and honey it's his nevy ! "
The captain then withdrew to his former place, where
lie stood arranging his scattered locks with the air of a
man who had given the finishing touch to a difficult per-
formance.
When Walter ceased to speak, Mr. Dombey's eyes
were attracted to little Paul, who, seeing his sister hang-
ing down her head and silently weeping in her commis-
eration for the distress she had heard described, went
ovsr 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 ad-
dress, which he regarded with lofty indifference, Mr.
Dombey again turned his eyes upon his son, and sat
steadily regarding tlie child, for some moments, in si'
lence.
" What was this debt contracted for ? '' asked Mr
I3ombey, at length. "Who is the creditor?"
DOM BEY AND SON. 19<
" He don't know," replied the captain, putting bis
hand on Walter's shoulder. " I do. It came of helping
a man that's dead now, and that's cost my friend Gills
many a hundred pound already. More particulars in
private, if agreeable."
" People who have enough to do to hold their own
ttay," said Mr. Dombey, unobservant of the captain's
mysterious signs behind Walter, and still looking at hid
son, " had better be content with their own obligationa
and difficulties, and not increase them by engaging for
other men. It is an act of dishonesty, and presumption
too," said Mr. Dombey, sternly ; " great presumption ;
for the wealthy could do no more. Paul, come here ! "
The child obeyed : and Mr. Dombey took him on hia
knee.
" If you had money now " said Mr. Dombey.
" Look at me ! "
Paul, whose eyes had wandered to his sister, and to
Walter, looked his father in the face.
" If you had money now," said Mr. Dombey; "as
tnuc-h money as young Gay has talked about ; what
would you do?"
" Give it to his old uncle," returned Paul.
" Lend it to his old uncle, eh ? " retorted Mr. Dombey.
" Well ! When you are old enough, you know, you will
phare my money, and we shall use it together."
"Dombey and Son," interrupted Paul, who had been
tutored early in the phrase.
" Dombey and Son," repeated his father. " Would
YOU like to begin to be Dombey and Son, now, and lend
'Jiis money to young Gay's uncle ? "
" Oh ! if you please, papa ! " said Paul ; " and -w
vould Florence."
198 DOMBET AND SON.
" Girls," said Mr. Dombey, " have nothing to do with
Dornbey and Son. Would you like it ? "
" Yes, papa, yes ! "
" Then you shall do it," returned his father. u And
you see, Paul," he added, dropping his voice, " how pow-
erful money is, and how anxious people are to get it-
Young Gay comes all this way to beg for money, and
you, who arc so grand and great, having got it, are going
to let him have it, as a great favor and obligation."
Paul turned up the old face for a moment, in which
there was a sharp understanding of the reference con-
veyed in these words ; but it was a young and childish
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. During the interval, Paul and Flor-
ence whispered to Walter, and Captain Cuttle beamed
on the three, with such aspiring and ineffably presump-
tuous thoughts as Mr. Dombey never could have be-
lieved in. The note being finished, Mr. Dombey turned
round to his former place, and held it out to Walter.
" Give that," he said, " the first thing to-morrow morn-
ing, to Mr. Carker. He will 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 con-
sistent with your uncle's circumstances. You will con-
sider that this is done for you by Master Paul."
Walter, in the emotion of holding in his hand th
means of releasing his good uncle from his trouble,
Would have endeavored to express something of his
DOMBEY AND SON. 199
gratitude and joy. But Mr. Dombey stopped him
chort.
" You will consider that it is done," he repeatrd, " by
Ma>ter Paul. I have explained that to him, and he un*
derstands it. I wish no more to be said."
As he motioned towards the door, Walter cculd only
bow liis head and retire. Miss Tox, seeing that the cap-
tain appeared about to do the same, interposed.
" My dear sir," she said, addressing Mr. Dombey, at
whose munificence both she and Mrs. Chick were shed-
ding 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, u has left upon
the table, at your elbow "
" Good Heaven ! " said Mr. Dombey, sweeping the
captain's property from him, as if it were so much
crumb indeed. '' Take these things away. I am obliged
to you, Miss Tox ; it is like your usual discretion.
Have the goodness to take these things away, sir ! "
Captain Cuttle felt he had no alternative but to com-
ply. 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 lowered the great watch down slo*.vly
into its proper vault, he could not refrain from seizing
that gentleman's right hand in his own solitary left, and
while he held it open with his powerful fingers, bringing
the hook d:>wn upon its palra in a transport of admi-
200 DOMHEY AND SOX.
ration. At this touch of warm feeling and cold iron.
Mr. Dombey shivered all over.
Captain Cuttle then kissed bis hook to the ladies sev-
eral time?, with great elegance and gallantry ; and hav-*
ing taken a particular leave of Paul and Florence, ac-
companied Walter out of the room. Florence was run-
ning after them in the earnestness of her heart, to send
some message to old Sol, when Mr. Dorabcy called her
back, and bade her stay where she was.
" Will you never be a Dombey, my dear child ! " said
Mrs. 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 his
neck if she had dared; but as she did not dare, she
glanced with thankful eyes towards him, as he sat mus-
ing ; sometimes bestowing an uneasy glance on her, but
for the most part, watching Paul, who walked about the
room with the new-blown dignity of having let young
Gay have the money.
And young Gay Walter what of him ?
He was overjoyed to purge the old man's hearth from
bailiffs and brokers, and to hurry back to his uncle with
the good tidings. He was overjoyed to have it all ar-
ranged and settled next day before noon ; and to sit
down at evening in the little back parlor with old Sol
Mid Captain Cuttle; and to see the Instrument-maker
already reviving, and hopeful for the future, and feeling
that the wooden midshipman was his own again. But
without the least impeachment of his gratitude to Mr.
Dombey, it must lie confessed that Walter was humbled
ni:d cast down. It is when our budding hopes are nipped
beyond recovery by some rough wind, that we are the
DOMBEY AND SON. 201
most disposed (o picture to ourselves what flowers they
might have borne, if they had flourished ; and now.
when Walter felt himself cut off from that great Dorabej
height, by the depth of a new and terrible tumble, and
felt that all his old wild fancies had been scattered to the
winds in the fall, he began to suspect that they migfa
have led him on to harmless visions of aspiring to Flor
ence in the remote distance of time. *
The captain viewed the subject in quite a different
light. He appeared to entertain a belief that the inter-
view at which he had assisted was so very satisfactory
and encouraging, 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, it
not thoroughly established, the Whittingtonian hopes
Stimulated by this conviction, and by the improvement
in the spirits of his old friend, and by his own conse-
quent gayety, he even attempted, in favoring them with
the ballad of " Lovely Peg " for the third time in one
evening, to make an extemporaneous substitution of the
name " Florence ; " but finding this difficult, on account
of the word Peg invariably rhyming to leg (in which
personal beauty the original was described as having
excelled all competitors), he hit upon the happy thought
of changing it to Fie e eg ; which' he accordingly did,
with an archness almost supernatural, and a voice quite
vociferous, notwithstanding that the time was close at
hand when he must seek the abode of the dreadful
MacStinger
202 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XI.
PAUL'S INTRODUCTION TO A NEW SCENE.
MRS. PIPCDIN'S constitution was made of such hard
metal, in spite of its liability to the fleshly weaknesses
of standing in need of repose after chops, and of requir-
ing to be coaxed to sleep by the soporific agency of
sweetbreads, that it utterly set at nought the predictions
of Mrs. Wickam, and showed no symptoms of decline.
Yet, as Paul's rapt interest in the old lady continued
unabated, Mrs. Wickam would not budge an inch from
the position she had taken up. Fortifying and entrench-
ing herself on the strong ground of her uncle's Betsey
Jane, she advised Miss Berry, as a friend, to prepare
herself for the worst ; and forewarned her that her aunt
might, at any time, be expected to go off suddenly, like
a powder-mill.
Poor Berry took it all in good part, and drudged and
slaved away as usual ; perfectly convinced that Mrs.
"^ipchin was one of the most meritorious persons in the
world, and making every day innumerable sacrifices of
herself upon the altar of that noble old woman. But
all these immolations of Berry were somehow carried to
die credit of Mrs. Pipchin, by Mrs. Pipchin's friends and
admirers ; and were made to harmonize with, and carry
out, that melancholy fact of the deceased Mr. Pipchin
having broken his heart in the Peruvian mines.
DOMBEY AND SON. 203
For example, there was an honest grocer and general
dealer in the retail line of business, between whom and
Mrs. Pipchiu there was a <mall memorandum book, with
a greasy red cover, perpetually in question, and concern,
ing which divers secret councils and conferences were
continually being held between the parties to the regis-
ter, on the mat in the passage, and with closed doors in
the parlor. Nor were there wanting dark hints from
Master Bitherstone (whose temper had been made re-
vengeful 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 surface for beauty, had once made hon-
orable offers for the hand of Berry, which Mrs. Pipchin
had, with contumely and scorn, rejected- Everybody
said how laudable this was in Mrs. Pipchin, relict of a
man who had died of the Peruvian mines; and what
a stanch, high, independent spirit, the old lady had.
But nobody said anything about poor Berry, who cried
for six weeks (being soundly rated by her good aunt all
the time), and lapsed into a state of hopeless spinster-
hood.
" Berry's very fond of you, a'n't she ? " Paul once
A3ked Mrs. Pipciiin when they were sitting by the fire
\vith the cat.
" Yes," said Mrs. Pipchin.
" Why ? " asked Paul.
" Why ! " returned the disconcerted old lady. " How
can you ask such things, sir ! why are you fond of yout
sfster Florence ? "
"Because she's very good,' said Paul. "There's no-
body ''ike Florence." .
204 DOMBEY AND SON.
* Well ! " retorted Mrs. Pipchin, shortly, * and there's
nobody like me, I suppose."
'* A'n't there really though ? " asked Paul, leaning for-
ward in his chair, and looking at her very hard.
" No," said the old lady.
" I am glad of that," observed Paul, rubbing his hands
thoughtfully. " That's a very good thing."
Mrs. 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 bedtime, that he
began that very night to make arrangements for an over-
land return 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 provision
to support him on the voyage.
Mrs. Pipchin had kept watch and ward over little
Paul and his sister for nearly twelve months. They
had been home 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 grown stronger,
and had become able to dispense with his carriage ;
though he still looked thin and delicate ; and still re-
mained the same old, quiet, dreamy child, that he had
been when first consigned to Mrs. Pipchin's care. One
Saturday afternoon, at dusk, great consternation was oc-
casioned in the castle by the unlooked-for announcement
of Mr. Dombey as a visitor to Mrs. Pipchin. The pop
ulation of the parlor was immediately swept up-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 blaclr
DOMBEY AND SON. 205
bombazine garments of the worthy old lady darkened
tlie audience-chamber where Mr. Dombey was contem-
plating the vacant arm-chair of his son and heir.
" Mrs. Pipchin," said Mr. Dombey, " how do you
do?"
" Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Pipchiu, " I am pretty
well, considering."
Mrs. Pipchin always used that form of words. It
w?ant, considering her virtues, sacrifices, and so forth.
" I can't expect, sir, to be very well," said Mrs.
Pipehin, taking a chair, and fetching her breath ; " but
luch 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
dlence he went on to say :
" Mrs. Pipchin, I have taken the liberty of calling, to
consult you in reference to my sen. I have had it in
my mind to do so for some time past ; but have deferred
it from time to time, in order that his health might be
thoroughly reestablished. You have no misgivings on
that subject, Mrs. Pipchin ? "
" Brighton has proved very beneficial, sir,'* returned
Mrs. Pipchin. " Very beneficial, indeed."
" 1 purpose," said Mr. Dombey, " his remaining at
Brighton."
Mrs. Pipchin rubbed her hands, and bent her gray
eyes on the fire.
" But," pursued Mr. Dombey, stretching out his fore-
dngcr, " but possibly that he should now make a change,
and lead a different kind of life here. In short, Mrs,
Pipchin, that is the object of my visit. My son is get-
ting on, Mrs. Pipchin. Really, ho is getting on."
206 DOMBEY AND SON.
There was something melancholy in the triumphant
air witli which Mr. Dombey said this. It showed how
long Paul's childish life had been to 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 neck-
cloth perhaps to hide an irrepressible 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 will be changed to sixteen,
before we have time to look about us."
" Ten years," croaked the unsympathetic Pipchin, with
a frosty glistening of her hard gray eye, and a dreary
shaking of her bent head, " is a long time."
" It depends on circumstances," returned Mr. Dom-
bey ; "at all 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
Mr. Dombey, quickly answering what he mistrusted was
A shrewd twinkle of the frosty eye, "his youth is a more
appropriate expression. Now, Mrs. Pipehin, instead of
being behind his peers, my son ought to be before them :
far before them. There is an eminence ready for him 10
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 edu-
sation of such a young gentleman must not be delayed
It must not be left imperfect. It must be very steadily
dnd seriously undertaken, Mrs. Pipchin."
" Well, sir," said Mrs. Pipchin, " I can say nothing to
the contrary."
DOMBEY AND SON. 207
"I waa quite sure, Mrs. Pipchin," returned Mr. Dom-
bey, approvingly, " that a person of your good sense
could not, and would not."
" There is a great 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,"
eaid Mrs. Pipchin, impatiently rubbing her hooked nose.
" Jt never was thought of in my time, and it has no busi-
ness 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 believe, Mrs. Pipchin, that I am more than satis-
fied with your excellent system of management, and shall
have the greatest pleasure in commending it whenever
my poor commendation" Mr. Dombey's loftiness when
he affected to disparage his own importance, passed all
bounds "can be of any service. 1 have been think-
ing of Doctor Blimber's, Mrs. Pipchin."
" My neighbor, sir ? " said Mrs. Pipchin, " I believ
the doctor's is an excellent establishment. I've hear/
that it's very strictly conducted, and that there's noth
ing 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 oraittea
one of its leading merits.
" I have had some communication with the doctor,
Mrs Pipchin," said Mr. Dombey, hitching his chair nnx-
iously a little nearer to the fire, " and he does not con-
sider Paul at all too young for his purpose. He men-
tioned several instances of boys in Greek at about the
tamo age. If I have any little uneasiness in my own
208 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 affection on his sister. Whether their separa-
tion " Mr. Dombey said no more, but sat silent.
" Hoity-toity ! " exclaimed Mrs. Pipchin, shaking o;it
her black bombazine skirts, and plucking up all the
ogress within her. " If she don't like it, Mr. Dombey,
she must be taught to lump it." The good lady apolo-
gized immediately afterwards for using so common a
figure of speech, but said (and truly) that that was the
way she reasoned with 'em.
Mr. Dombey waited until Mrs. Pipchin had done
bridling and shaking her head, and frowning down a
iegion of Bitherstones and Pankeys ; and then said
quietly, but correctively, " He, my good madam, he."
Mrs. Pipchin's system would have applied very much
the same mode of cure to any uneasiness on the part of
Paul, too ; but as the hard gray eye was sharp enough
to see that the recipe, however Mr. Dombey might ad-
mit its efficacy in the case of the daughter, was not a
sovereign remedy for the son, she argued the point ; and
contended that change, and new society, and the differ-
ent form of life he would lead at Doctor Blimber's, and
the studies he would have to master, would very sonn.
prove sufficient alienations. As this chimed in with Mr.
Dorabey's own hope and belief, it gave that gentleman n
still higher opinion of Mrs. Pipchin's understanding ;
and as Mrs. Pipchin, at the same time, bewailed thj
loss of her dear little friend (which was not an over-
whelming 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 equaUj
DOMBEY AND SON. 201
good opinion of Mrs. Pipchin's disinterestedness. It was
plain that lit; had given the subject anxious considera-
tion, for he had formed a plan, which he announced to
the ogress, of sending Paul to the docior's as a weekly
boarder for the first half year, during which time Flor
ence would remain at the castle, that she might receive
her brother there, on Saturdays. This would wean bin.
by degrees. Mr. Dombey said : probably with a recollec-
tion of his not having been weaned by degrees on ?
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 Either-
stone in his collar of state, and made Miss Pankey cry
by patting her on the head (in which region she was un-
commonly tender, on account of a habit Mrs. Pipchin
had of sounding it with her knuckles, like a cask), he
withdrew to his hotel and dinner : resolved that Paul,
now that he was getting so old and well, should begin a
vigorous course of education forthwith, to qualify him
for the position in which he was to shine ; and that
Doctor Blimber should take him in hand immediately.
Whenever a young gentleman was taken in hand by
Doctor Blimber, he might consider himself sure 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 hundred, 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 which there was a forcing apparatus inces
VOL. I. 14
210 DOMBEY AND SON.
santly at work. All the boys blew before their time.
Mental green-peas were produced at Christmas, and in-
tellectual asparagus all the year round. Mathematical
gooseberries (very sour ones too) were common at un-
timely 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. Na-
ture was of no consequence at all. No matter what a
young gentleman was intended to bear, Doctor Blimbet
made him bear to pattern, somehow or other.
This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the sys-
tem of forcing was attended with its usual disadvantages.
There was not the right taste about the premature pro-
ductions, and they didn't keep well. Moreover, on
young gentleman, with a swollen nose and an exces-
sively large head (the oldest of the ten who had " gone
through " everything), suddenly left off blowing one day,
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
waistcoat pocket to put on his little finger by stealth,
when the pupils went out walking; constantly falling in
love by sight with nursery-maids, who had no idea of his
exist3nce ; 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 bedtime, like a greatlj
overgrown cherub who had sat up aloft much too long.
The doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black
DOMBET AND SON. 211
with strings at his knees, and stockings below them. He
had a bald head, highly 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 paii
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 hand behind him, and a scarcely perceptible
wag of his head, made the commonest observation to
a nervous stranger, it was like a sentiment from the
sphinx, 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 con-
trary. Sad-colored 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 wells, and a visitor
represented the bucket ; the dining-room seemed the last
place in the world where any eating or drinking waa
likely to occur ; there was no sound through all the
house but the ticking of a great clock in the hall,
which made itself audible in the very garrets; and
sometimes a dull crying of young gentlemen at their
lessons, like the murmurings of an assemblage of mel-
ancholy pigeons.
Miss Blimber, too, although a slim and graceful maid,
did no soft violence to the gravity of the house. There
was no light nonsense about Miss Blimber. She kept
ner hair short and crisp, and wore spectacles. She waa
try and sandy with working in the graves of deceased
212 DOMBEY AND SON.
languages. None of your live languages for Miss Blim-
ber. They must be dead stone dead and then Miss
Blimber dug them up like a Ghoul.
Mrs. Blimber, her mamma, was not learned herself
but she pretended to be, and that did quite as well. 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 all other young gen-
tlemen, in the largest possible shirt-collars 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 favorable ; 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 gentle-
men were prematurely full of carking anxieties. Thej
knew no rest from the pursuit of stony-hearted verbs,
savage noun-substantives, inflexible syntactic passages,
and ghosts of exercises that appeared to them in their
dreams. Under the forcing system, a young gentleman
usually took leave of his spirits in three weeks. He
had all the cares of the world on his head in three
months. He conceived bitter sentiments against his par-
ents or guardians in four ; he was an old misanthrope,
in five ; envied Curtius that blessed refuge in the earth,
in six ; and at the end of the first twelvemonth had
arrived at the conclusion, from which he never after-
wards departed, that all the fancies of the poets, and
DOMBEY AND SON. 213
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'?
hot-house, all the time ; and the doctor's glory and rep-
utation 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 with his small right hand in his
father's. His other hand was locked in that of Florence.
How tight the tiny pressure of that one ; and how loose
and cold the other!
Mrs. Pipchin hovered behind the victim, with her sa-
ble plumage and her hooked beak, like a bird of ill-omen.
She was out of breath for Mr. Dombey, full of great
thoughts, had walked fast and she croaked hoarsely as
sh< 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 almost a man already."
" 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
feint streaks or early dawn of a grin on his countenance,
It was mere imbecility ; but Mrs. Pipchin took it into
214 DOMBEY AND SON.
her head that it was impudence, and made a snap at
him directly.
" How dare you laugh behind the gentleman's back?'
said Mrs. Pipchin. "And what do you take me for?"
" I a'n't a-laughing at nobody, and I'm sure I don't
take you for nothing, ma'am," returned the young iran,
in consternation.
u A pack of idle dogs ! " said Mrs. Pipchin, " only fit
to be turnspits. Go and tell your master that Mr. Don*-
bey's here, or it'll be worse for you ! "
The weak-eyed young man went, very meekly, to dis-
charge himself of this commission ; and soon came back
to invite them to the doctor's study.
" You're laughing again, sir," said Mrs. Pipchin, when
it came to her turn, bringing up the rear, to pass him in
the hall.
" I a'n't" returned the young man, grievously op-
pressed. " I never see such a thing as this ! "
" What is the matter, Mrs. Pipchin ? " said Mr. Dom-
bey, 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 fellow " 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 could
wonder at it, after the Peruvian mines !
Tht; doctor was sitting in his portentous study, wilh a
^lobe at each knee, books all round him, Homer over the
door, and Minerva on the mantel-shelf. "And hew do
you, sir," he said to Mr. Dombey, "and how is my little
friend ? " Grave as an organ was the doctor's speech ;
\nd when he ceased, the great clock in the hall seemed
DOMBEY AND SON. 215
(V Paul at least) to take him up, and to go on saying,
"how, is, my, lit, tie, friend, how, is, my, lit, tlo, 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
view of him round the legs ; which Mr. Dombey per-
ceiving, relieved 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 witb
his hand in Ins breast. " Now I see my little friend.
How do you do, my little friend ? "
The clock in the hall wouldn't subscribe to this al-
teration in the form of words, but continued to repeat
" how, is, my, lit, tie, friend, how, is, my, lit, tie, friend ! "
" Very well, I thank you, sir," returned Paul, answer-
ing 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.
" Shall we make a man of him ? " repeated the
doctor.
" I had rather be a child," replied Paul.
" Indeed ! " said the doctor. " Why ? "
The child sat on the table looking at him, with a
carious expression of suppressed emotion in his fine,
and beating one hand proudly on his knee as if he had
the rising tears beneath it, and crushed them. But his
other hand strayed a little way the while, a little farthei
fartnei from him yet until it lighted on the neck
216 DOMBEY AND SON.
of Florence. " This is why," it seemed to say, and
rhcn the steady look was broken up and gone ; the
working lip was loosened ; and the tears came streaming
forth.
" Mrs. Pipchin," said his father, in a querulous man-
ner, " I am really 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. Pipchin back. " Ne-ver mind ; we
shall substitute new cares and new impressions, Mr.
Dombey, very shortly. You would still wish my 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
miimal he was going to stuff. " Yes, exactly. Ha !
We shall impart a great variety of information to' our
lii tie 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
Oiis lady," replied Mr. Dombey, introducing Mrs. Pip-
.hin, who instantly communicated a rigidity to her whole
aiuscular system, and snorted defiance beforehand, in case
;ho doctor should disparage her ; " except so far, Paul
has, as yet, applied himself to no studies at all."
Doctor Blimber inclined his head, in gentle tolerance
of such insignificant poaching as Mrs. Pipchin's, and
said he was glad to hear it. It was much more satisfac-
tory, he observed, rubbing his hands, to begin at the foun
DOM BEY AND SON. 217
flation. 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 inter-
view I have already had the pleasure of holding with
you, renders any further explanation, and consequently,
any further intrusion on your valuable time, so unneces-
sary, that "
" Now T , Miss Dombey ! " said the acid Pipchin.
"Permit, me," said the doctor, "one moment. Allow
me to present Mrs. Blimber and my daughter, who will
be associated with the domestic life of our young Pilgrim
to Parnassus. Mrs. Blimber," for the lady, who had
perhaps been in waiting", opportunely entered, followed
by her daughter, 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 excess of politeness, of which
Mr. Dombey was the object, apparently did not, for she
was backing against the little friend, and very much en-
dangering his position on the table. But, on this hint,
she turned to admire his classical and intellectual linea-
ments, 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. Virgil,
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 &
husband "
218 DOMBEY AND SON. .
" Hush, hush," said Doctor Blimber. Fie for
shame."
" Mr. Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife."
said Mrs. Blimber, with an engaging smile.
Mr. Dombey answered "Not at all:" applying those
words, it is to be presumed, to the partiality, and not to
the forgiveness.
"And it may seem remarkable in one who is a
mother also," resumed Mrs. Blimber.
" And such a mother," observed Mr. Dombey, bowing
with some confused idea of being complimentary to Cor-
nelia.
" But really," pursued Mrs. Blimber, " I think if I
could have known Cicero, and been his friend, and
talked with him in his retirement at Tusculum (beau-ti-
ful Tusculum !) I could have died contented."
A learned enthusiasm is so very contagious, that Mr.
Dombey half believed this was exactly his case ; and
even Mrs. 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
would 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 through her spec-
tacles, as if she would have liked to crack a few quota-
tions with him from the authority in question. But thia
design, if she entertained it, was frustrated by a knock
at the room-door.
"Who is that?" said the doctor. "Oh! Come in,
Toots; come in. Mr. Dombey, sir." Toots bowed.
"Quite a coincidence!" said Doctor Blimbei-. "Here
DOMBEY AND SON. 21 *
we have (he 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 him
self among strangers, and chuckled aloud.
" An addition to our little Portico, Toots," paid the
doctor ; " Mr. Dombey's son."
Young Toots blushed again ; and finding, from a
solemn silence which prevailed, that he was expected
to say something, 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 convenient seat for
study. My dear, I believe Mr. Dombey has not seen
the dormitories."
" If Mr. Dombey will walk up-stairs," said Mrs. Blim-
ber, " I shall be more than proud to show him the do-
minions of the drowsy god."
With that, Mrs. Blimber, who was a lady of great
suavity, and a wiry figure, and who wore a cap com-
posed of sky-blue materials, proceeded up-stairs with
Mr. Dombey and Cornelia ; Mrs. Pipchin following, and
looking out sharp for her enemy the footman.
While they were gone, Paul sat upon the table hold-
ing Florence by the hand, and glancing timidly from thf
doctor round and round the room, while the doctor, lean-
ing 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 something very awful in this manner of read-
ing. It was such a determined, unimpa-;-ion"d, inflexible.
220 DOMBEY AND SOX.
cold-blooded way of going to work. It left the doctor's
countenance exposed to view ; and when the doctor
smiled auspiciously at his author, or knit his brows, or
shook his head and made wry faces at him as much aa
to say, " Don't tell me, sir. I know better," it was ter-
rific.
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
Doctor 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 pres-
ently they reentered 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.
u I think," said Mr. Dombey, " I have given all the
trouble I need, and may take my leave. Paul, my
thild," he went close to him, as he sat upon the tal>U;
' Good-by."
" Good-by, papa."
The limp and careless little hand that Mr. Dombey
took in his, was singularly out of keeping with the wist-
DOMBEY AND SON. 221
fill 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 his hate, even such an enemy might have received
the pang that wrung his proud heart then, as compenea-
ticn for his injury.
He bent down over his boy, and kissed him. If his
sight were dimmed as he did so, by something that for a
moment blurred the little face, and made it indistinct to
him, his mental vision may have been, for that short
time, the clearer perhaps.
" I shall see you soon, Paul. You are free on Satur-
days and Sundays, you know."
' Yes, papa," returned Paul : looking at his sister.
u On Saturdays and Sundays."
" And youll txy and learn a great deal here, and be
a clever man,' said Mr. Dombey ; " won't you ? "
"I'll try," returned the child wearily.
" And you'll soon be grown up now ! " said Mr. Dom-
bey.
" Oh ! very soon ! " replied the child. Once more
the old, old look, passed rapidly across his features, like
a strange light. It fell on Mrs. Pipchin, and extin-
guished itself in her black dress. That excellent ogress
stepped forward to take leave and to bear off Florence,
\vhich she had long been thirsting to do. The move on
her part roused Mr. Dombey, whose eyes were fixed on
Paul. After patting him on the head, and pressing his
Email hand again, he took leave of Doctor Blimber, Mrs.
Blimber, and Miss Blimber, with his usual polite frigid-
ity, and walked out of the study.
222 DOMBEY AND SON.
Despite his entreaty that they would not think of stir-
ring, Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, and Miss Blimber
nil pressed forward to attend him to the hall ; and thus
Mrs. Pipchin got into a state of entanglement with Miss
Blimber and the doctor, and was crowded out of the
study before she could clutch Florence. To which
happy accident Paul stood afterwards indebted for the
dear remembrance, that Florence ran back tc throw her
arms round his neck, and that hers was the last face in
the door-way : turned towards him with a smile of en-
couragement, 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, blind Homer
and Minerva, svimming round the room. But they
stopped, all of a , c udden ; and then he heard the loud
clock in the hall still gravely inquiring " how, is, my, lit,
tie, friend, how, is, my, Jit, 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
Btrange, Paul sat as if he had taken life unfurnished at*)
the upholsterer were never coming.
/-,
CHAPTER XII.
PAUL'S EDUCATION.
I^ the lapse of some minutes, which appeared ail
immense time to little Paul Dombeyon the table, Dcrlor
Blimber came back. The doctor's walk was stately, and
calculated to impress the juvenile mind with solemn feel-
ing:-. It was a sort of march ; but when the doctor put
out his right toot, he gravely turned upon his axis, with
a semicircular sweep towards the left; and when lie put
out his left foot, he turned in the same manner towards
the right. So that he seemed, at every stride lie took, to
look about him as though he were saying, " Can anybody
have the goodness to indicate any subject, in any direc-
tion, on which I am uninformed ? I rather think not."
Mrs. Blimber 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.
" Cornelia," said the doctor, " Dombey will be your
charge at first. Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on."
Miss Blimber received her young ward from the doo-
lor's hands ; and Paul, feeling 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 like a boy.
224 DOMBEY AND SON.
" How much do you know of your Latin Grammar,
Dora bey ? " said Miss Blimber.
" None of it." answered Paul. Feeling that the an-
wer was a shock to Miss Blimber's sensibility, he
looked up at the three faces that were looking down
at him, and said :
*' I haven't been well. I have been a weak child. I
couldn't learn a Latin Grammar when I was out, every
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. Blimber.
K Unclassical 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
Paul.
" What ! " cried the doctor, in a terrible voice. " Ay,
ay, ay ? Ah ! 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. " Ho
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 :he
water again when they're startled, blowing and splashing
90, 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 Florence knows, that pretend to be in distress ; and
when a man goes near them, out of compassion, they
open their great jaws, and attack him. But all he has
got to do," said Paul, boldly tendering this information
to the very doctor himself, " is to keep on turning as he
DOM BEY AND SON. 225
runs away, and then, as they tarn slowly, because they
are so long, and can't bend, he's sure to beat them. And
though old-Glubb don't know why the sea should make
me think of rny mama that's dead, or what it is that it is
always .-ay ing always saying ! he knows a great deal
hbont it. And I wish," the child concluded, with a sud-
den falling of his countenance, and failing in his anima-
tion, as he Icoked like one forlorn, upon the three 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 his head ; " this is
bad, but study will do much."
Mrs. Blimber opined, with something like a shiver,
that he was an unaccountable 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 familiarize him with his new sphere. Go
with that young lady, Dombey."
Dombey obeyed; giving his hand to the abstruse
Cornelia, and looking at her sideways, with timid curi-
osity, as they went away together. For 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
all behind them.
Cornelia took him first to the school-room, which was
ituated at the back of the hall, and was approached
through two baize doors, which deadened and muflled
<5 '
the young gentlemen's voices. Here, there were eight
Voung gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration,
sll very hard at work, and very grave indeed. Toots,
as an old hand, had a desk to himself in one corner : and
VOL i. 15
226 DOMBEY AND SON.
a magnificent man, of immense age, he looked, in Paul's
young eyes, behind it.
Mr. Feeder, B. A., who sat at another little desk, had
his Virgil stop on, and was slowly grinding that tune to
four young gentlemen. Of the remaining four, t\\c, who
grasped their foreheads convulsively, were engaged in
6< ilring mathematical problems ; one with his face like
a dirty window, from much crying, was endeavoring to
flounder through a hopeless number of lines before din-
ner ; and one sat looking at his task in stony stupefaction
and despair which it seemed had been his condition
ever since breakfast time.
The appearance of a new boy did not create the sen-
sation that might have been expected. Mr. Feeder, B. A.
(who was in the habit of shaving his head for coolness,
arid had nothing but little bristles on it), gave him a
bony hand, and told him he was glad to see him which
Paul would have been very glad to have told him, if he
could have done so with the least sincerity. Then Paul,
instructed by Cornelia, shook hands with the four young
gentlemen at Mr. Feeder's desk ; then with the two
young gentlemen at work on the problems, who 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 wa?
flabby and quite cold.
Paul having been already introduced to Toots, that
pupil merely chuckled and breathed hard, as his custom
<ras, and pursued the occupation in which he was en-
qnged. 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 off
blowing in his prime, Toots now had license to pursue
DOMBEY AND SON. 227
nis own coui-se 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 house ; which was rather a slow jour-
ney, on account of Paul being obliged to land both feet
on every stair, before he mounted another. But they
reached their journey's end at last ; and there, in a
front room, looking over the wild sea, Cornelia showed
him a nice little bed with white hangings, close to the
window, on which there was already beautifully written
on a card in round text down strokes very* thick, and
up strokes very fine DOMBEY; while two other little
bedsteads in the same room were announced, through
like means, as respectively appertaining unto BRIGGS
and TOZER.
Just as they got down-stairs again into the hall, Paul
saw the weak-eyed young man who had given that mor-
tal offence 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 off unchecked, after having
made a tlreadful noise. Then Cornelia Blimber said
to Dombey that dinner would be ready in a quarter of
an hour, and perhaps he had better go into the school-
room among his " friends."
So Dombey, dsferentially passing the great clock
which was still as anxious as ever to know how he
found himself, opened the school-room door a very little
way, and strayed in like a lost boy : shutting it after
Vim with some difficulty. His friends were all dispersed
228 DOMBEY AND SON.
about the room except the stony friend, who remained
immovable. Mr. Feeder was stretching himself in hia
gray gown, as if, regardless of expense, he were resolved
to pull the sleeves off.
" Heigh ho hum ! " cried Mr. Feeder, shaking him
self like a cart-horse, " Oh dear me, dear me ! Ya-a-a-
ah!"
Paul was quite alarmed by Mr. Feeder's yawning;
it was done on such a great scale, and he was so ter-
ribly in earnest. All the boys too (Toots excepted)
seemed knocked up, and were getting ready for dinner
some newly tying their neck-cloths, which were very
stiff indeed ; and others washing their hands or brush-
ing their hair, in an adjoining ante-chamber as if
they didn't think they should enjoy it at all.
Young Toots who was ready beforehand, and had
therefore nothing to do, and had leisure to bestow upon
Paul, said, with heavy good nature :
" Sit down, Dombey."
" Thank you, sir," said Paul.
His endeavoring to hoist himself on to a very high
window-seat, and his slipping down again, appeared
to prepare Toots's mind for the reception of a dis-
covery.
u You're a very small chap," said Mr. Toots.
' Yes, sir, I'm small," returned Paul. " Thank you,
gir."
For Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done il
kindly too.
" Who's your tailor ? " inquired Toots, aftor looking
at him for some moments.
" It's a woman that has made my clothes as yet," said
Paul. "My sister's dress-maktr."
DOMBEY AND SON. 229
" My tailor's Burgess and Co.," said Toots. * Fash'-
nnble. But very dear."
Paul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he
would have said it was easy to see that ; and indeed he
thought so.
" Your father's regularly rich, a'n't he ? " inquired M.
Toots.
" Yes, sir," said Paul. " He's Dombey and Son."
"And which?" demanded Toots.
" And Son, sir," replied Paul.
Mr. Toots made one or two attempts, in a low voice,
to fix the firm in his mind; but not quite succeeding,
said he would get Paul to menfion the name again
to-morrow morning, as it was rather important. And
indeed he purposed nothing less than writing himself
a private and confidential letter from Dombey *"d Son
immediately.
By this time the other pupils (always excepting tho
stony boy) gathered round. They were polite, but pale ;
and spoke low ; and they were so depressed in their
spirits, -that in comparison with the general tone of that
company, Master Bitherstone was a perfect Miller, or
complete Jest Book. And yet he had a sense of in-
jury upon him too, had Bitherstone.
" You sleep in my room, don't you ? " asked a solemn
young gentleman, whose shirt-collar curled up the lobes
of his cars.
" Master Briggs ? " inquired Paul.
" Tozer," said the young gentleman.
Paul answered yes ; and Tozer pointing out the stony
pupil, said that was Briggs. Paul had already felt cor-
lain that it must be either Briggs or Tozer, though be
didn't know why.
230 DOMBEY AND SON.
" Is yours a strong constitution ? " inquired Tozer.
Paul 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 then asked Paul if he
were going to begin with Cornelia ; and on Paul's say-
ing r> yes," all the young gentlemen (Briggs excepted)
gave a low groan.
It was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gong,
*hieh sounding again with great fury, there was a
general move towards the dining-room ; still excepting
Briggs the stony 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 cross-
wise on the top of it. Doctor Blimber was already in
his place in the dining-room, at the top of the table,
with Miss Blimber and Mrs. Blimber on either side of
him. Mr. Feeder in a black coat was at the bottom.
Paul's chair was next to Miss Blimber ; but it being
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 occasions, like
a little elephant and castle.
Grace having been said by the doctor, dinner began,
There was some nice soup ; also roast meat, boileJ meat,
vegetables, pie, and cheese. Every young gentleman
had a massive silver fork, and a napkin ; and all the
arrangements were stately and handsome. In particti-
AT, there was a butler in a blue coat and bright but-
tons, who gave quite a winey flavor to the table beer:
be poured it out so superbly.
DOMBEY AND SON. 231
Nobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor Blira-
ber, Mrs. Blimber, and Miss Bliinber, who conversed
occasionally. Whenever a young gentleman was not
actually engaged with his knife and fork or spoon, his
eye, with an irresistible attraction, sought the eye of
Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, or Miss Bliinber, and
modestly rested there. Toots appeared to be the only
exception to this "rule. He sat next Mr. Feeder on
Paul's side of the table, and frequently looked behind
and before the intervening boys to catch a glimpse of
Paul.
Only once during dinner was there any conversation
that included the young gentlemen. It happened at
the epoch of the cheese, when the doctor, having taken
a glass of port wine, and hemmed twice or thrice,
said :
" It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder, that the Romans "
At the mention of this terrible people, their implac-
able enemies, every young gentleman fastened his gaze
upon the doctor, with an assumption of the deepest in-
terest. One of the number who happened to be drink-
ing, and who caught the doctor's eye glaring at him
through the side of his tumbler, left off so hastily that
he was convulsed for some moments, and in the sequel
ruined Doctor Blimber's point.
" It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder," said the doctor,
beginning again slowly, "that the Romans, in those
gorgeous and profuse entertainments of which we read
in the days of the Emperors, when luxury had attained
A height unknown before or since, and when whole prov-
inces were ravaged to supply the splendid means of
one imperial banquet"
Here the offender, who had been swelling and strain-
232 DOMBEY AND SON.
ing, and waiting in vain for a full stop, broke out
violently
" Johnson," said Mr. Feeder, in a low reproachful
voice, " take some water."
The doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until
the svater was brought, and then resumed :
" And when, Mr. Feeder "
But Mr. Feeder, who saw that- Johnson must break
out again, and who knew that the doctor would never
come to a period before the young gentlemen until he
had finished all he meant to say, couldn't keep his eye
off Johnson ; and thus was caught in the fact of not
looking at the doctor, who consequently stopped.
u I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Feeder, redden-
ing. " I beg your pardon, Doctor Blimber."
" And when," said the doctor, raising his voice,
u 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
Feoder.
" 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,
M called, from its enormous dimensions, the Shield of
Minerva, 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 scan,"
DOMBEY AND SON. 283
'You'll 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 entertainments such as
these, and still remember, that we have a Titus,"
** What would be your 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 Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and
many more," pursued the doctor ; " it is, Mr. Feeder
if you are doing me the honor 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 immediate neighbors
thumped him on the back, and Mr. Feeder himself
held a glass of water to his lips, and the butler walked
l.im 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, and then there^waa
a profound silence.
"Gentlemen," said Doctor Blimber, "rise for Grace I
Cornelia, lift Dorabey down " nothing of whom but
his scalp was accordingly seen above the table-cloth.
u Johnson will repeat to me to-morrow morning before
breakfast, without book, and from the Greek Testament,
the first chapter of the Epistle of Saint Paul to the
Ephesians. We will resume our studies, Mr. Feeder,
rn half an hour."
The young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr.
Feeder did likewise. During the half-hour, the younp
234 POMBEY AND SON.
gentlemen, broken into pairs, loitered ai n-in-arm up
p.nd down a small piece of ground behind the house*
or endeavored to kindle a spark of animation in the
breast of Briggs. But nothing happened so vulgar i\$
play. Punctually at the appointed time, the gong was
Bounded, 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 ac-
count, 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 and
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 already looming tasks
of to-morrow. In the mean time Mr. Feeder withdrew
to his own room ; and Paul sat in a corner wondering
whether Florence was thinking of him, 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 Paul out
after a time ; and having looked at him for a long while,
;-is before, inquired if he was fond of waistcoats.
Paul said " Yes, sir."
' So am I," said Toots.
No word more spake Toots that night ; but he stood
ooking at Paul as if he liked him ; and as there was
DOMBEY AND SON. 235
company in that, and Paul was not inclined to talk, it
answered his 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 a-
desired to partake of those refreshments. The cere-
monies concluded by the doctor's saying, " Gentlemen,
we will resume our studies at seven to-morrow ; " and
then, for the first time, Paul saw Cornelia Blimber'a
eye, and saw that it was upon him. When the doctor
had said these words, " Gentlemen, we will resume our
studies at seven to-morrow," the pupils bowed again,
and went to bed.
In the confidence of their own room up-stairs, Brigga
said his head ached ready to split, and that he should
wish himself dead if it wasn't for his mother, and a
blackbird he had at home. Tozer didn't say much, but
he sighed a good deal, and told Paul to look out, for his
turn would come to-morrow. After uttering those pro-
phetic 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 pleas
ant dreams. But his benevolent wishes were in vain,
as far as Briggs and Tozer were concerned ; for Paul,
who lay awake for a long while, and often woke after-
wards, fo-md that Briggs was ridden by his lesson as
a nightman ; and that Tozer, whose mind was affected
In his sleep by similar causes, in a minor degree, talked
unknown tongues, or scraps of Greek and Latin it
;vas all one to Paul which, in the silence of night, had
an inexpressibly wicked and gailty effect.
236 DOMBEY AND SON.
Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that
be was walking hand in hand with Florence through
beautiful gardens, when they came to a large sunflower
which suddenly expanded itself into a gong, and began
to sound. Opening his eyes, he found that it was a
dark, windy morning, with a drizzling rain ; and that
the real gong was giving dreadful note of preparation,
down in the hall.
So he got up directly, and found Briggs with hardly
any eyes, for nightmare and grief had made his face
puffy, putting his boots on : while Tozer stood shiver-
ing and rubbing his shoulders in a very bad humor.
Poor Paul couldn't dress himself easily, not being used
to it, and asked them if they wbuld have the goodness
to tie some strings for him ; but as Briggs merely said
" Bother ! " and Tozer, " Oh yes ! " he went down when
ie was otherwise ready, to the next story, where he
saw a pretty young woman in leather gloves, cleaning
K stove. The young 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 certainly would,
He then proceeded softly on his journey down-stairs,
towards the room in which the young gentlemen re-
gumed their studies, when, passing by a door that stood
njar, 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
UOMBEY AND SON. 237
Miss Blimber presented exactly the appearance she
Had presented yesterday, except that she wore a shawl.
Her little light curls were as crisp as ever, and sh. had
already her spectacles on, which made Paul wonder
whether she went to bed in them. She had a cool lit-
tle sitting-room of her own up there, with some books
in it, and no fire. But Miss Blimber was 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
Fend the footman out to get it in such unfavorable
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 recentl}
engaged.
" These are yours, Dombey," said Miss Blimber.
" All of 'em, ma'am ? " said Paul.
" 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 while 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 books,
and to tell me if you quite understand what you havo
got to learn. Don't lose time, Dombey, for you have
lone 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 hnnd
238 DOMBEY AND SON.
and his chin on the top book, and hugged ti.em all
closely, the middle book slipped 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 up afresh for him ; and
this time, by dint of balancing them with great nicety,
Paul got out of the room, and down a few stairs be-
fore 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 off 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 inter-
ruption 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 Miss Blimber. " How have
you got on with those books ? "
They comprised a little English, and a deal of Latin
names of things, declensions of articles and substan-
tives, exercises thereon, and preliminary rules a trifle
of orthography, a glance at ancient history, a wink OJ
two at modern ditto, a few tables, two or three weights
and measures, and a little general information. When
poor Paul had spelt out number two, he found he had no
idea of number one ; fragments whereof afterwards ob-
truded themr-elves into number three, which slided into
number four, which grafted itself on to number two.
So that whether twenty Romuluses made a Remus, or
hie haec hoc was troy weight, or a verb always agreed
DOMBEY AND SON. 23j
with an ancient Briton, or three times four was Taurus
B bull, were open questions with him.
" Oh, Doinbey, Dombey ! " said Miss Blimber, " this
is very shocking."
" If you please," said Paul, " I think if I might some-
times talk a little to old Glubb, 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 down, 1 suppose,
Dombey, one by one, and perfect yourself in the day's
instalment of subject A, before you turn at all to sub-
ject B. And now take away the top book, if you
please, Dombey, and return when you are master of
the theme.''
Miss lilirnber expressed her opinions on the subject
of Paul's uninstructed 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 labored
away at it, down below : sometimes remembering every
word of it, and sometimes forgetting it all, and every-
thing 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 sayirig, "Goon, Dombey !"
a proceeding so suggestive of the knowledge inside of
Tier, that Paul looked upon the young lady with con-
sternation, as a kind of learned Guy Faux, or artificial
Bogle, stuffed full of scholastic straw.
lie acquitted himself very well, neveitheless ; and
Miss Blimber, commending him as giving promise of
gett ng on fast, immediately provided him with subject
240 DOMBET AND SON.
B ; from which he passed to C, and even D before din-
ner. It was hard work, resuming his studies, soon after
dinner; and he felt giddy and confused, and drowsy and
dull. But all the other young gentlemen had similai-
sensations, and were obliged to resume their studies too,
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 inquiry, never said, " Gentlemen, we will now
resume our studies," for that phrase was often enough
repeated in its neighborhood. 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 resumption of the studies
which took place in dreams, were rest and sweet forge t-
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 growled,
and worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays were Sab-
baths 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 ligLt
on Sunday mornings could mar those precious Satur-
days. Whether it was the great sea-shore, where tiny
sat, and strolled together ; or whether it was only Mrs.
Pipchin's dull back room, in which she sung to him - )
softly, with his drowsy head upon her arm ; Paul never
eared. It was Florence. That was all he thought of.
Ro, on Sunday nights, when the doctor's dark door stood
DOMBEY AND SON. 241
agape to swallow him up for another week, the time wao
come for taking leave of Florence ; no one else.
Mrs. Wickam had been drafted home to the house io
town, and Miss Nipper, now a smart young woman, had
come down. To many a single combat with Mrs. Pip*
chin, did Miss Nipper gallantly devote herself; and if
ever Mrs. Pipchin in all her life had found her match,
tiis had found it now. Miss Nipper threw away the
scabbard the first morning she arose in Mrs. Pipchin's
house. She asked and gave no quarter. She said it
must be 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 boun-
cing in upon her from the passage, even in unguarded
moments of chops, and carried desolation to her very
toast.
Miss Nipper had returned 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 Paul brings home to do those
long exercises with, when he is so tired. I copied them
last night while he was writing."
" Don't show 'em to me, Miss Floy, if you please,"
returned Nipper, " I'd as soon see Mrs. 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
Miss Nipper, " how can you talk like that, when you have
books upon books already, and masierses and missessej
B-teaching of you everything continual, though my belief
VOL. t. 16
242 DOMBEY AND SON.
is that your pa, Miss Dombey, never would have learnt
you nothing, never would have thought of it, unless you'd
asked him 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.
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 ; and you will,
when you know I want them."
" Well, miss, 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 purse
in her pocket without reply, and trotted out at once
upon her errand.
The books were not easy to procure ; and the answer
at sevcial 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 b
DOMBEY AND SON. 243
exerted himself to the utmost, if it were only to get
lid of her; and finally enabled her to return home in
triumph.
With these treasures then, after her own daily les-
sons were over, Florence sat down at night to track
Paul's footsteps through the thorny ways of learning;
Bnd 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 all 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 gray ; and when the candles were burnt
down and guttering out ; Florence tried so hard to
be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her forti-
tude and perseverance might have almost won her a
free right to bear the name herself.
And high was her reward, when^one Saturday even
ing, as little Paul was sitting down as usual to " resume
his studies," she sat down by his side, and showed him
all that was so rough, made smooth, and all that was
BO 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 lore you !
How I love you, Floy ! "
" And I you, dear ! "
Oh ! I am sure of that, Floy."
244 DOMBEY AND SON.
He said no more about it, but all that evening sat
close by her, very quiet ; and in the night lie called
out from his little room within hers, three or four times,
that he loved her.
Regularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit
down with Paul on Saturday night, and patiently as-
sist him through so much as they could anticipate to-
gether, of his next week's work. The cheering thought
that he was laboring on where Florence had just toiled
before him, would, of itself, have been a stimulant to
Paul in the perpetual resumption of his studies; but
coupled with the actual lightening of his load, conse-
quent on this assistance, it saved him, possibly from sink-
ing underneath the burden which the fair Cornelia Blim-
ber piled upon his back.
It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard
upon him, or that Doctor Blimber meant to bear too
heavily on the young gentlemen in general. Cornelia
merely held the faith in which she had been bred ; and
the doctor, in some partial confusion of his ideas, re-
garded the young 'gentlemen as if they were all doc-
tors, and were born grown up. Comforted by the ap-
plause of the young gentlemen's nearest relations, and
urged on by their blind vanity and ill-considered haste,
it would have been strange if Doctor Blimber had dis-
covered his mistake, or trimmed his swelling sails to
any other tack.
Thus in the case of Paul. "When Doctor Blimbtjr
fcaid 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
ss yet, and was not natarally clever, Briggs se
DOMBEY AND SON. 243
nior was inexorable in the same purpose. In short,
however high and false the temperature at which the
doctor kept his hot-house, the owners of the plants were
always ready to lend a helping-hand at the bellows^
Bnd to stir the fire.
Such spirits as he had in the outset, Paul soon lost
of course. But he retained all that was strange, and
old, and thoughtful in his character: and under cir-
cumstances so favorable 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 thoughtful and reserved,
every day ; and had no such curiosity in any living mem-
ber of the doctor's household, as he had had in Mrs.
Pipchin. He loved to be alone ; and in those short in-
tervals when he was not occupied with his books, liked
nothing so well 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
patternr. ; found out miniature tigers and lions running
up the bedroom walls, and squinting faces leering ic
the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth.
The solitary child lived on, surrounded by this ara-
besque work of his musing fancy, and no one understood
him. Mrs. Blimber thought him " odd," and sometimes
the servants said among themselves that little Dombey
'' moped;" but that was all.
Unless young Toots had some idea on the subject, to
ihe expression of which he was wholly unequal. Ideas,
like ghosts (according to the common notion of ghosts),
tiiist be spoken to a little before they will txplain
216 DOMBEY AND SON.
themselves ; and Toots had long left off a>kmg any
questions of his own mind. Some mist there may have
been, issuing from that leaden casket, his cranium,
ehich, if it could have taken shape and form, would
have become a genie ; but it could not ; and it only
BO far followed the example of the smoke in the Ara-
bian story, as to roll out in a thick cloud, and 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," Paul would an-
swer. u Shake hands, " would be Toots's next advance.
Which Paul, of course, would immediately do. Mr.
Toots generally said again, after a long interval of
staring and hard breathing, " How are you ? " To
ivhich Paul again replied, " Quite well, sir, thank you."
One evening Mr. Toots was sitting at his desk, op-
pressed by correspondence, when a great purpose seemed
to flash upon him. He laid down his pen, and went off*
to seek Paul, whom he found at last, after a long search,
looking through the window of his little bedroom.
" I say ! " cried Toots, speaking the inoment he en-
tered the room, lest he should forget it ; '" what do you
think about ? "
" Oh ! I think about a great many things," replied
Paul.
" Do you, though ? " said Toots, appearing to consider
that fact in itself surprising.
M If you had to die," said Paul, looking up into his
face Mr. Toots started, and seemed much disturl>ed.
" Don't you think you would rather die on a moon
light night when the sky was quite clear, and the
blowing, as it did last night ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. 247
Mr. Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shak-
ing his head, that he didn't know about that.
"Not blowing, at least, ' said Paul, "but sounding it
the air like the sea sounds in the shells. It was a
beautiful night. When I had listened to the water lor
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 Prevenlive."
" A boat with a sail," repeated Paul, " in the full light
of the moon. The sail like 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 this
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 lie stood at his window, kissing and clapping his
bands: and the way in which the light retreated from
his features as she passed out of his view, and left a
patient melancholy on the little face : were too remark-
able wholly to escape even Toots's notice. Their in-
terview being interrupted al this moment by a visit
248 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 occa
gion ; but it left so marked an impression on his mind,
that he twice returned, after having exchanged the usual
salutations, to ask Mrs. Pipchin how she did. This the
irascible old lady conceived to be a deeply-devised and
long-meditated insult, originating in the diabolical ini en
tion of the weak-eyed young man down-stairs, 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 obliged to part with him.
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 mutual recognition was a gleam
of sunshine in Paul's daily life. Often after dark, or.e
other figure walked alone before the doctor's house.
lie rarely joined them on the Saturday now. He
could not bear it. He would rather come unrecog-
nized, and look up at the windows where his son was
qualifying for a man ; and wait, and watch, and plan,
and hope.
Oh ! could he but have seen, or seen as others did,
(he slight spare boy above, watching the waves and
clouds at twilight, with his earnest eyes, and breasting
tne window of his solitary cage when birds flew by.
ns if he would have emulated them, and soared away.
DOMBEY AND SON. 249
CHAPTER XIII.
BH1TP1NG INTELLIGENCE AND OFFICE BUSINESS.
MR. DOMBEY'S offices were in a court where there was
an old-established stall of choice fruit at the comer:
where perambulating merchants, of both sexes, offered
for sale at any time between the hours of ten and five,
slippers, pocket-books, sponges, dogs' collars, and Windsor
soap ; and sometimes a pointer or an oil-painting.
The pointer always came that way, with a view to the
Stock Exchange, where a sporting taste (originating
generally in bets of new hats) is much in vogue. The
other commodities were addressed to the general public ;
but they were never offered by the vendors to Mr. Dom-
bey. "When he appeared, the dealers in those wares fell
off respectfully. The principal slipper and dogs' collar
man who considered himself a public character, and
whose portrait was screwed on to an artist's door in
Cheapside threw up his forefinger to the brim of his
hat as Mr. Dombey went by. The ticket-porter, if he
were not absent on a job, always ran officiously before,
to open Mr. Dombey's office-door as wide as possible,
and hold it open, with his hat off, while he entered.
The clerks within were not a whit behindhand in
their demonstrations of respect. A solemn hush pre-
vailed, as Mr. Dombey passed through the outer office.
The wit of the Counting-House became in a moment as
250 DOMBEY AND SON.
mute, as the row of leathern fire-buckets, hanging up
behind him. Such vapid and flat daylight as filtered
through the ground-glass windows, and skylights, leaving
a black sediment upon the panes, showed the books and
papers, and the figures bending over them, enveloped
in a studious gloom, and as much abstracted in appear-
ance, from the world without, as if they were assembled
at the bottom of the sea ; while a mouldy little strong
room in the obscure perspective, where a shaded lamp
was always burning, might have represented the cavern
of some ocean-monster, looking on with a red eye at
these mysteries of the deep.
When 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 he
hurried into Mr. Dombey's room, stirred the fire, quar-
ried fresh coals from the bowels of the coal-box, hung
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 two in his
hands before the fire, and laid it, deferentially, at Mr.
Dorabey's elbow. And so little objection had Perch to
loing deferential in the last degree, that if he might
have laid himself at Mr. Dombey's feet, or might have
railed him by some such title as used to be bestowed
upon the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, he would have been
all the better pleased.
As this honor would have been an innovation and
an experiment, Perch was fain to content himself by
3X pressing as well as he could, in his manner, You
DOMBEY AND SON. 251
are the light of my Eyes. You are the Breath of
my Soul. You are the commander of the Faithful
Perch ! With this imperfect happiness to cheer 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 Mussulman in the morning, and covered
after eleven o'clock in the day, with luxuriant hair and
whiskers in the latest Christian fashion, showed him the
wrong side of its head forever.
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 gentlemen 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 Sul-
tan. Mr. Morfin, as an officer of inferior state, inhab-
ited the room that was nearest to the clerks.
The gentleman last mentioned was a cheerful-looking
hazel-eyed elderly bachelor: gravely attired, as to hia
upper man, in black ; and as to his legs, in pepper and
salt color. His dark hair was just touched here and
there with specks of gray, 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 wholly at his ease Uat stately
252 DOMBEY AND SON.
presence, he was disquieted by no jealousy of the many
conferences enjoyed by Mr. Carker, and felt a secret
satisfaction in having duties to discharge, which rarely
exposed him to be singled out for such distinction. He
was a great musical amateur in his way after busi-
ness ; and had a paternal affection for his violoncello
which was once in every week transported from Isling-
ton, 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 gentle-
man thirty-eight or forty years old, of a florid com-
plexion, and with two unbroken rows of glistening teeth,
whose regularity and whiteness were quite distressing.
It was impossible to escape the observation of them,
for he showed them whenever he spoke ; and bore 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 expressed. He was familiar
with him, in the very extremity of his sense of the
distance between them. "Mr. Dornbey, 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 should think sufficient.- I frankly
teli you, sir, I give it up altogether. I feel that I could
not satisfy my own mind; and Heaven knows, Mr. Dom-
bey, you can afford to dispense with the endeavor." If
he had carried these words about with him, printed on a
placard, and had constantly offered it to Mr. Dombey's
DOMBEY AND SON. 258
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, entering Mr. Dombey's room soon after his
arrival one day : with a bundle of papers in his hand.
" How do you do, Carker ? " said Mr. Dombey rising
from his chair, and standing with his back to the fire.
" Have you anything there for me ? "
" T 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."
u And one at three, three quarters," added Mr. Dom-
bey.
" Catch you forgetting anything ! " exclaimed Carker,
still turning over his papers. " If Mr. Paul inherits
your memory, he'll be a troublesome customer in the
House. One of you is enough."
u 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 dis-
pleased, as he stood leaning against the chimney-pieoe,
254 DOMBEY AND SON.
Burve\ ing his (of course unconscious) clerk, from head
to foot. The stiffness and nicety of Mr. 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 which Mr. Carker had been fluttering his
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 rec-
ollections of his last night's quartette party, I suppose
through the walls between us, and driving me half
mad. I wish he'd mak . a bonfire of his violoncello, and
burn his music-books ir. it."
" You respect nobody, Carker, I think," 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 danger-
ous one, if feigned. But Mr. Dombey hardly seemed
to think so, as he still stood with his back to the fii^,
drawn up to his full height, and looking at his hcod-
clerk with a dignified composure, in which there seemed
to lurk a stronger latent sense of power than usi al.
" Talking of Morfin," resumed Mr. Carker, taking oul
one paper from the rest, " he reports a junior dead in
the agency at Barbadoes and proposes to reserve a pas-
DOMBEY AND SON- 255
Rage in the Son nd Heir she'll sail in a month or so
for the successor. You don't care who goes, I sup-
pose ? We have nobody of that sort here."
Mr. Dorubey shook his head with supreme imlifler-
ence.
"It's no very precious appointment," observid M'.
Carker, taking up a pen, with which to indorse a mem-
orandum on the back of the paper. " I hope he may
bestow it on some orphan nephew of a musical friend.
It may perhaps stop his fiddle-playing, if he has a gift
that way. Who's that ? Come in ! "
" I beg your pardon, Mr. 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 {he man-
ager was, or affected to be, touched to the quick with
shame and humiliation. He cast his eyes full on Mr.
Dombey with an altered and apologetic look, abased
them on the ground, and remained for a moment with-
out speaking/
" I thought, sir," he said suddenly and angrily, turn-
ing on Walter, " that you had been before requested not
to drag Mr. Carker the junior into your conversation."
"I beg your pardon," returned Walter. "I was only
going to say that Mr. Carker the junior had told me he
believed you \vere gone out, or I should not have knocked
nt the door when you were engaged with Mr. Dombey
These are letters for Mr. Dombey, sir."
" Very well, sir," returned Mr. Carker the manager,
plucking them sharply from his hand. " Go about your
business."
But in taking them with so little ceremony, Mr. Car
256 DOMBET AND SON.
ker dropped one on the floor, and did not ^ee what ho
had done ; neither did Mr. Dombey observe the letter
lying near his feet. Walter hesitated for a moment,
thinking that one or other of (hem 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
etters 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 indifferent pen-
woman by Florence, Mr. Dombey having his atten-
tion silently called to this letter by Walter, started, and
looked fiercely at him, as if he believed that he had
purposely selected it from all the rest.
" You can leave the room, sir ! " said Mr. Dombey.
haughtily.
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 surprise, and taking up the
pen to reindorse the letter, as coolly as he had done be*
fere. "' Send young Gay.'"
u Call him back," said Mr. Dombey.
Mr. Carker was quick to do so, and Walter was qiick
to return.
a 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
rtretched to the utmost.
DOMBEY AND SON. 257
" In the West Indies. Al Barbadoes. I am going to
send you," said Mr. Dombey, scorning to embellish the
bare truth, " to fill a junior situation in the counting-
house at Barbadoes. Let your uncle know from me,
that I have chosen you to go to the West Indies."
Walter's breath was so completely taken away b} hia
astonishment, that he could hardly find enough for th
repetition of the word* " West Indies."
" Somebody must go," said Mr. Doinbey, " and you
are young and healthy, and your uncle's circumstances
are not good. Tell your uncle that you are appointed.
You will not go yet. There will be an interval of a
month or two perhaps."
"Shall I remain there, sir?" inquired Walter.
" Will you remain there, sir ! " repeated Mr. 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.
u That's all," said Mr. Dombey, resuming his letters.
" You will explain to him in good time about the usual
outfit and so forth, Carker, of course. He needn't wait,
Carker."
" You needn't wait, Gay," observed Mr. Carker: bare
to the gums.
" Unless," said Mr. Dombey, stopping in his reading
/ithout looking off the letter, and seeming to listen.
'Unless he has anything to say."
" No, sir," returned Waller, agitated and confused, and
almost stunned, as nn infinite variety of pictures pre-
sented themselves to his mind ; among which Captain
Cuttle, in his glazed hat, transfixed with astonishment
V M. I. 17
258 DOMBEY AND SON.
at Mrs. MacStinger's, and his uncle bemoaning his Uws
in the little back-parlor, held prominent places. u I
hardly know I I am much obliged, sir."'
" He needn't wait, Carker," said Mr. Dombey.
And as Mr. Carker again echoed the words, and al;o
collected his papers as if he were going awjiy too
Walter felt that his lingering any longer would be an
unpardonable intrusion especially as he had nothing
to say and therefore walked out quite confounded.
Going along the passage, with the mingled conscious-
ness and helplessness of a dream, he heard Mr. Dom-
bey's door shut 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 errand, who accordingly came
out from behind a partition where he sat alone in one
corner, and returned with him to the room of Mr. Car-
ker the manager.
That 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 him
nelf 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 <lo>
the door.
"John Carker," said the manager, when this was done
turning suddenly upon his brother, with his two rows of
iftclh bristling as if he would have bitten him, "what
\n the league between you and this young man, in vir-
tue of which I am haunted and hunted by the mention
f your name ? Is it not enough for you, John Carker.
DOMBET AND SON. 259
tha. 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 reason, say disgrace."
" From that disgrace," assented his brother, with kcan
emphasis, " but is the fact to be blurted out and trump-
eted, and proclaimed continually in the presence of tho
very House ! In moments of confidence too ? Do you
think your name is calculated to harmonize in this place
with trust and confidence, John Carker ? "
"No," returned the other. "No, James. God knows
I have no such thought."
" What is your thought, then ? " said his brother, " and
why do you thrust yourself in my way? Haven't you
injured me enough already?"
" I have never injured you, James, wilfully."
" You are my brother," said the manager. " That's
injury enough."
*' I wish I could undo it, James."
"I wish you could and would."
During this conversation, Walter had looked from onft
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 slightly raising his right hand in a deprecatory man-
ner, as if he would have said " Spare me ! " So, had
they been blows, and he a brave man, under strong
260 DOMBEY AND SON.
constraint, and weakened by bodily suffering, 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 man-
ager. " Indeed, indeed, this is my fault solely. In a
kind of heedlessness for which I cannot blame myself
enough, I have, I have no doubt, mentioned Mr. Carker
the junior much oftener than was necessary ; and have
allowed his name sometimes to slip through my lips,
when it was against your express wish. But it has been
my own mistake, sir. "We have never exchanged one
word upon the subject very few, indeed, on any sub-
ject. And it has not been," added Walter, after a mo-
ment'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 honor. For he looked upon the bowed head,
and the downcast eyes, and upraised hand, and thought,
u 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 disappointmenf and
regret. When I first came here, and ever since, I am
sure I have tried to be as much your friend as oue of
my age couid presume to be ; but it has been of no use."
" And observe," said the manager, taking him up
quickly, " it will be of stiU less use, Gay, if you persist
DOMBEY AND SON. 261
in forcing Mr. John Carker's name on people's attention
That is not the way to befriend Mr. John Carker. Ask
him if he thinks it is."
" It is no service to me," said the brother. " It only
leads to such a conversation as the present, which I need
not say I could have well spared. No one can be a bet-
ter 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 un-
noticed."
u Your memory not being retentive, Gay, of what you
are told by others," said Mr. Carker the manager, warm-
ing himself with great and increa>ed satisfaction, " I
thought it well that you should be told this from the
best authorit}'," 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 voices of the brothers
again, and also the mention of his own name, he stood
irresolutely, with his hand upon the lock, and the door
ajar, uncertain whether to return or go away. In this
po.-ition he could not help overhearing what followed.
" Think of me more leniently, if you can, James,"
Baid John Carker, " when I tell you I have had how
could I help having, with my history, written 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
MJlf."
" Your other self! " repeated the manager, disdain-
hilly.
" Not as I a u, but as I was when I first came here
262 DOMBEY AND SON.
too ; as sanguine, giddy, youthful, inexperienced ; flushed
with the same restless and adventurous fancies ; and full
of the same qualities, fraught with the same capacity cf
leading on to good or evil."
* I hope not," said his brother, with some hidden and
sarcastic meaning in his tone.
** You strike me sharply ; and your hand is steady,
find your thrust is very deep," returned the other, speak-
ing (or so Walter thought) as if some cruel weajxm
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 un-
seen gulf where so many others walk with equal gayety,
and from which "
" The old excuse," interrupted his brother 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 little and a lit-
tle lower, and went on stumbling still, until he fell head-
long, and found himself below a shattered man. Think
what I suffered when I watched that boy."
" You have only yourself to thank for it," returned
the brother.
" Only myself," he assented with a sigh. " I don"t
seek to divide the blame or shame."
"You have divided the shame," James Carker mut-
tered through his teeth. And through so many and
such close teeth, he could mutter well.
44 Ah James," returned his brother, speaking for the
first time in an accent of reproach, and seeming, by tht!
Sound of his voice, to have covered h ; s face with his
DOMBET AND SON. 26S
'iand-. ' I Iiavc been, since then, a useful foil to you
Tou have trodden on me freely, in your climbing U[x
Don't spurn me with your heel ! "
A silence ensued. After a time, Mr. Carker the mrm-
ngiT was heard rustling among his papers, as if he had
resolved to bring the interview to a conclusion. At the
Kime time his brother withdrew nearer to the door.
u That's all," he said. " I watched him with such
trembling and such fear, as was some little punishment
lo me, until he passed the place where I first fell ; and
then, though I had been his father, I believe I never
could have thanked God more devoutly. I didn't dare
to warn him, and advise him ; but if 1 had seen direct
cause 1 , I would have shown him my example. I was
afraid to be seen speaking with him, lest it should b!
thought I did him harm, and tempted him to evil, and
corrupted him : or lest I really should. There may be
such contagion in me ; I don't know. Piece out my his-
tory, in connection with young Walter Gay, and what
he has made me feel ; and think of me more leniently,
James, if you can."
With these words he came out to where Walter waa
standing. He turned 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 soy
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 ! How
rery, very much, I feel obliged to you and pity you ! '
said Walter, squeezing both his hands, and hardly know-
ing, in his agitation, what he did or said.
Mr. Morfin's room being close at hand and empty, and
264 DOMBEY AND SOW.
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 al-
most 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
rou know what I am ? "
u What you are ! " appeared to hang on Walter's lips,
RS he regarded him attentively.
" It was begun," said Carker, " before my twenty-first
birthday led up to, long before, but not begun till
\ near that time. I had robbed them when 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 Wal-
ter's lips, but he could neither utter them, nor any of his
own.
" The House was very good to me. May Heaven re-
ward the old man for his 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 pres-
ent 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 expi-
ation ; and I think, except the three heads of the House,
.. there is no one here who knows my story rightly. Be-
fore the little boy grows up, and lias it told to him, my
corner may be vacant. I would rather that it might be
DOMBEY AND SON. 265
go! This is the only change to me since that day, when
I left all youth, and hope, and good men's company, be-
hind 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 font
as if with excessive cold, and of his bursting into tears t
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 should 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 was 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 all 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 ma-
hogany bracket, and jogging his elbow, begged hi.s par-
don, but wished -to say in his ear, Did he think he could
arrange to send home to England a jar of preserved
ginger, cheap, for Mrs. Perch's own eating, in (he course
af her recovery from her next confinement ?
266 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XIV.
FAIL GROWS MORE AND MORE OLD-FASHIONED, AND GOES
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS.
KN the Midsummer vacation approached, no inde-
cent manifestations of joy were exhibited by the leaden-
eyed young gentlemen assembled at Doctor Blimber's.
Any such violent expression as " breaking up," would
have been quite inapplicable to that polite establishmrnt
The young gentlemen oozed away, semiannually, to
their own homes ; but they never broke up. They
would have scorned the action.
Tozer, who was constantly galled and tormented by a
starched white cambric neckerchief, which he wore at
the express desire of Mrs. Tozer, his parent, who, de-
signing 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 ap-
pear 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 Roman general, flushed with a
recent victory over the Iceni, or laden with Carthaginian
spoil, advancing within a few hours' march of the Capi
DOMBEY AND SON. 267
tol, presupposed, for the purposes of the simile, to be the
dwelling-place of Mrs. Tozer, still it was very sincerely
made. For jt seemed that Tozer had a dreadful uncle,
who not only volunteered examinations of him, in the
holidays, on abstruse points, but twisted innocent events
and things, and wrenched them to the same fell purpose
So that if this uncle took him to the play, or, on a simi
lar pretence of kindness, carried him to see a giant, or a
dwarf, or a conjurer, or anything, Tozer knew he had
read up some classical allusion to the subject beforehand,
ftn<l 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, his 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 surface, 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 holidays was to witness his separation from
Florence, but who ever looked forward to the end of
holidays whose beginning was not yet come ! Not Paul,
assuredly. As the happy time drew near, the lions and
tigers climbing up the bedroom walls, became quait? tame
268 DOMBEY AND SON.
and frolicsome. The grim sly faces in the squares and
diamonds of the floor-cloth, relaxed and peeped out at him
with less wicked eyes. The grave old clock had more of
personal interest in the tone of its formal inquiry , and
the restless sea went rolling on all night, to the sound-
ing of a melancholy strain yet 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 Doc-
tor 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 Mr. Toots breathed harder
and stared oftener in Paul's society, than he had done
before, Paul knew that he meant he was .sorry they
were going to lose sight of each other, and felt very
much obliged to him for his patronage and good opinion.
It was even understood by Doctor Blimber, Mrs.
Blimber, and Miss Blimber, as well as by the young
gentlemen in general, that Toots had somehow consti-
tuted himself protector and guardian of Dombey, and
the circumstance became so notorious, even to Mrs.
Pipchin, that the good old creature cherished feelings
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
.-.rath, than he had of any other definite possibility OJ
DOMBEY AND SON. 269
proposition. On the contrary, he was disposed to con-
sider 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 course of her visits to little PsiuU
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 himself or any
other puppy then existing : at which unexpected ac-
knowledgment 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 Mrs.
Pipchin, under Doctor Blimber's roof.
They were within two or three 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 ? " in-
quired Miss Blimber, looking hard at him through the
spectacles.
"No, ma'am," said Paul.
" Dombey, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, " I begin to
be afraid you are a sad boy. When you don't know the
meaning of an expression, why don't you seek for infoi-
mation?"
" Mrs. Pipchin told me I wasn't to ask questions," itv
turned Paul.
" J must beg you not to mention Mrs. Pipchin to me,
on any account, Dombey," returned Miss Blimber. " 1
couldn't think of allowing it. The course of study here,
is very far removed from anything of that sort. A repe-
tition of such allusions would make it necessary for me
270 POMBEY AND SON.
to request to hear without a mistake, before trtiakfast-
time to-ruorrow morning, from Verbum persoruJe down
lo simittima cygno"
" I didn't mean, ma'am,'' began little Paul.
" I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn't
uean, if you please, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, who
preserved an awful politeness in her admonition:.
" That is a line of argument, I couldn't dream of per-
mitting."
Paul felt it safest to say nothing at all, so he only
looked at Miss Blimber's spectacles. Miss Blimber hav-
ing 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 de
fined 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
o\ er 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
slated 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 foo
DOMBEY AND SON. 271
three, or throe quarters past six, or six somethings thai
he hadn't learnt jet, with three unknown something elses
over, Puu! rubbed his hands and looked straight at
Miss Blimber. It happened to answer as well as
anything else he could have done ; and Cornelia pro-
ceeded.
" ' Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low
company, as evinced in the case of a person named
Glubb, originally seven, but since reduced. Gentle-
manly demeanor four, and improving with advancing
years.' Now what I particularly wish to call your at-
tention to, Dombey, is the general observation at tho
close of this analysis."
Paul set himself to follow it with great care.
"'It may be generally observed of Dombey,'" sail
Miss Blimber, reading in a loud voice, and at every
second word directing her spectacles towards the lit'tle
figure before her: "'that his abilities and inclinations
are good, and that he has made as much progress as
under the circumstances could have been expected.
But it is to be lamented of this young gentleman that
he is singular (what is usually termed old-fashioned) in
his character and conduct, and that, without presenting
anything in either which distinctly calls for reprobation,
he is often very unlike other young gentlt men of his
age and social position.' Now Dombey,'' said JMiss
Blimber, laying down the paper, " do you understand
that > "
" I think I do, ma'arn," said Paul.
" This analysis, you see, Dombey," Miss Blimber
continued, " is going to be sent home to your respected
parent. It will naturally be very painful to him to find
that you are singular in your character and conduct. I(
272 DOMBEY AND SON.
is naturally painful to us; for we can't like you, you
know, Dorabey, as well as we could wish."
She touched the child upon a tender point. He had
secretly become more and more solicitous from day w
day, as the time of his departure drew more near, that
all the house should like him. For some hidden rea-
son, very imperfectly understood by himself if under
stood at all he felt a gradually increasing impulse of
affection, towards almost everything and everybody in
the place. He could not boar to think that they would
be quite indifferent to him when he was gone. He
wanted them to remember him kindly ; and he had
made it his business even to conciliate a great hoarse
shaggy 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
difference between himself and his compeers, poor tiny
Paul set it forth to Miss Blimber as well as he could,
and begged her, in despite of the official analysis, to
have the goodness to try and like him. To Mrs. Blim-
ber, who had joined them, he preferred the same peti-
tion: 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 tl ;it
he was sure she was quite right ; that he thought it
must* be his bones, but he didn't know ; and that 1 a
hoped she would overlook it, for he was fond of thorn
all.
" Not so fond," said Paul, with a mixture of timid-
ity and perfect frankness, which was one of the most
peculiar and most engaging qualities of the child,
' not so fond as I am of Floren;e, of course ; that
DOMBEY AND SON. 2/3
nevei be You couldn't expect that, could you
ma'arn? "
" Oh ! the old-fashioned little scul !" cried Mrs. Blim-
ber, in a whisper.
" But I like everybody here very much," pursued
Paul, " and I should grieve to go away, and think th
any one was glad that I was gone, or didn't care."
Mrs. Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the
widest 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 would do much ; and he also said,
as he had said on that occasion, " Bring him on, Cor-
nelia ! Bring him on ! "
Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously
as she could ; and Paul had had a hard life of it. Bui
over and above the getting through his tasks, he had
long had another purpose always present to him, and
to which he still held fast. It was, to be a gentle, use-
ful, quiet little fellow, always striving to secure the love
and attachment of the rest; and though he was yet
often to be seen at his old post on the stairs, or watch-
ing 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 Doctor Bliraber, 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. Bui
be could not change his nature or rewrite the analysis ,
and so they all agreed that Dombey was old-fashioned.
There were some immunities, however, attaching to
VOL. i. 18
274 DOMBFY AND SON.
the character enjoyed by no one else. They could have
hetter spared a newer-fashioned child, and that alone
was much. When 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 impending punish*
ment, Paul 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 rumored that the butler, regarding him with fa-
vor such as that stern man had never shown before to
mortal boy, had sometimes mingled porter with his table-
L-eer to make him strong.
Over and above these extensive privileges, Paul had
freo. right of entry to Mr. Feeder'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 alive, by the
Custom House. It was a snug room, Mr. Feeder's,
with his bed in another little room inside of it ; and a
lute, which Mr. Feeder couldn't play yet, but was going
to make a point of learning, he said, hanging up over
the fireplace. There were some books in it, too, and a
fishing-rod ; for Mr. Feeder said he should certainly
make a point of learning to fish, when he could 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
OOMBEY AND SON. 27*
materials, ai.d a pair of boxing-gloves. The art of
self-defence Mr. Feeder said he should undoubtedly make
a point of learning, as he considered it the duty of every
man to do ; for it might lead to the protection of a fe-
male in distress.
But Mr. Feeder's great possession was a large greet
jar of snuff, which Mr. Toots had brought down as a
present, at the close of the last vacation ; and for which
be had paid a high price, as having been the genuine
property of the Prince Regent. Neither Mr. Toots nor
Mr. Feeder could partake of this or any other snuff,
even in the most stinted and moderate degree, without
being seized with convulsions of sneezing. Neverthe-
less it was their great delight to moisten a box-full wiih
cold tea, stir it up on a piece of parchment with a pa-
per-knife, and devote themselves to its consumption tiieu
and there. In the course of which cramming of their
noses, they endured surprising torments with the con-
stancy 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 was a
dread charm in these reckless occasions ; and when Mr.
Feeder spoke of the dark mysteries of London, and
told Mr. Toots that he was going to observe it himself
closely in all its ramifications in the approaching holi-
days, and for that purpose had made arrangements to
board with two old maiden ladies at Peckham, Paul
regarded him as if he were the hero of some look of
travels or wild adventure, and was almost afraid of such
a slashing person.
Going into this room one evening, when the holidays
were very near, Paul found Mr. Feeder filling up the
DOMBEY AND SON.
blanks in some printed letters, while some others, already
filled up and strewn before him, were being folded and
sealed by Mr. Toots. Mr. Feeder said, " Aha, Dombey,
there you are, are you ? " for they were always kind
to him, and glad to see him and then said, tossing one
jf the letters towards him, " And there you are, loo
Dombey. That's yours."
" Mine, sir ? " said Paul.
" Your invitation," returned Mr. Feeder.
Paul, looking at it, found, in copperplate print, with
the exception of his own name and the date, which were
in Mr. Feeder's penmanship, that Doctor and Mrs.
Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr. P. Dombey's
company at an early party on Wednesday evening the
seventeenth instant ; and that the hour was half-past
seven o'clock ; and that the object was quadrilles. Mr.
Toots also showed him, by holding up a companion sheet
of paper, that Doctor and Mrs. 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'a
company, and of Mr. Tozer's company, and of every
young gentleman's company, was requested by Doctor
and Mrs. Blimber on the same genteel occasion.
Mr. Feeder then told him, to his great joy, that his
sister was invited, and that it was a half-yearly event,
and that, as the holidays began that day, he could go
away with his sister after the party, if he liked, which
Paul interrupted him to say he would like, very much.
Mr. Feeder then gave him to understand that he would
?A expected to inform Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, in so
DOMBEY AND SON. 277
perfine small-hand, that Mr. P. Dombey would be happy
to have the honor of waiting on them, in accordance
with their polite invitation. Lastly, Mr. Feeder said,
be had better not refer to the festive occasion, in the
hearing of Doctor and Mrs. Blimber ; as these prelimi-
naries, and the whole of the arrangements, were con-
ducted 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
their scholastic capacities, not to have the least idea
of what was in the wind.
Paul thanked Mr. Feeder for these hints, and pocket-
ing his invitation, sat down on a stool by the side of
Mr. Toots as usual. But Paul's head, which had long
been ailing more or less, and was sometimes very heavy
and painful, felt so uneasy 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
again.
That was no reason why he should be deaf; but he
must have been, he thought, for, by and by, he heard
Mr. Feeder calling in his ear, and gently shaking him to
rouse his attention. And when he raised his head, quite
scared, 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 all this had been done without his
knowledge, was very curious indeed.
" Ah ! Come, come ! That's well ! How is my li -
lie friend now ? " said Doctor Blimber, encouragingly.
" Oh, quite well, thank you, sir," said Paul.
But there seemed to be something the matter with tV
278 DOMBEY AND
floor, for he couldn't stand upon it steadily ; and with th*
walls too, for they were inclined to turn round and
round, and could only be stopped by being looked at
very hard indeed. Mr. Toots's head had the appearance
of being at once bigger and farther off than was quite
natural ; and when he took Paul in his arms, to carry
him up-stairs, Paul observed with astonishment that the
door was in quite a different place from that in which
he had expected to find it, and almost thought, at first,
that Mr. Toots was going to walk straight up the chim-
ney.
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 very 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 bony
hands, and then made believe to spar at Paul with great
science, on account of his being all right again, which
was so uncommonly facetious, and kird too in Mr.
Feeder, that Paul, not being able to make up his mind
whether it was best to lau^h or cry at him, did both f\t
once.
How Mr. Toots melted away, and Mr. Feeder changed
into Mrs. Pipchin, Paul never thought of asking ;
neither was he at all curious to know ; but when he
saw Mrs. Pipchin standing at the bottom of the bed in-
sle&d of Mr. Feeder, he cried out, " Mrs. Pipchin, don't
tell Florence ! "
" Don't tell Florence what, my little Paul ? " said Mrs
DOMBEY AND SON 27S
Pip<:liin, 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 grow up
Mrs. Pipchin ?" inquired Paul, turning his face town id*
her on his pillow, and resting his chin wistfully on his
folded hands.
Mrs. Pipchin couldn't guess.
" 1 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 darling 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 gray eye scanned his thoughtful face.
" If I grow up," said Paul. Then he went on imme-
iliatcly to tell Mrs. Pipchin all 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
hio being so fond of them, and about his being so glad
of it. Then he told Mrs. Pipchin about the analysis,
nd about his being certainly old-fashioned, and took
Alls. Pipchin's opinion on that point, and whether she
know why it was, and what it meant. Mrs. Pipchin
denied the fact altogether, as the shortest way of gelling
out of the difficulty ; but Paul was far from satisfied
with that reply, and looked so search! ugly at Mi's. Pip-
chin for a truer answer, that she was obliged to get up
and lot.k out of the window to avoid his eyes.
280 DOMBEY AND SON.
There was a certain calm apothecary, who attended at
the establishment when any of the young gentlemen
were ill, and somehow he got into the room and appeared
nt the bedside, witL Mrs. Blimber. How they came
here, or how long they had been there, Paul didn't
know ; but when he saw them, he sat up in bed, and
answered all the apothecary's questions at full length,
and whispered to him that Florence was not to know
anything about it if he pleased, and that he had set his
mind upon her coming to the party. He was very chat-
ty 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 dreamed it that there was a want of vital
power (what was that, Paul wondered !) and great con-
stitutional weakness. That as the little fellow had set
his heart on parting with his schoolmates on the seven-
teenth, it would be better to indulge the fancy if he grew
no worse. That he was glad to hear from Mrs. Pipchin
that the little fellow would go to his friends in London
on the eighteenth. That he would write to Mr. Bom-
bey, when he should have gained a better knowledge of
I he case, and before that day. That there was no im-
mediate 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 could that be, Paul wondered with
a palpitating heart, that was so visibly expressed in him ;
BC 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
with the doctor, but it was all a dream perhaps), and
DOMBEY AND SON. 281
presently a bottle and glass got info her hands magically,
mid 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 grumbled teriiblj
about his own analysis, which could hardly have discom-
posed 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
wrong, and they couldn't have analyzed a murderei
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 still, which Paul very gladly did.
Mrs. Pipchin reappeared a little before the apothecary,
and a little after the good young woman whom Paul had
seen cleaning the stove on that first morning (how long
ago it seemed now !) had brought him his breakfast
There was another consultation a long way off, or else
Paul dreamed it again ; and then the apothecary, com-
'ng back with Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, said :
" Yes, I think. Doctor Blimber, we may release thil
282 DOMBEY AND SON.
foung gentleman from his books just now ; the vacation
being so very near at hand."
" By all means," said Doctor Blimber. " My love,
you will inform Cornelia, if you please."
" Assuredly," said Mi's. Blimber.
The apothecary bending down, looked closely into
Paul's eyes, and felt his head, and his pulse, 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 apoth-
ecary.
Paul had begun to speculate, in his own odd way, on
he subject that might occupy the apothecary's mind just
at that moment ; so musingly had he answered the two
questions of Doctor Blimber. But the apothecary hap-
pening to meet his little patient's eyes, as the latter set
oiF on that mental expedition, and coming instantly out
of his abstraction with a cheerful smile, 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 was something the
x matter with the great clock ; and a workman on a pair
of steps had taken its face oif, and was poking instru
ruents into the works by the light of a candle ! Thi*
was a great event for Paul, who sat down on the bottom
stair, and watched the operation attentively : now and
Uien glancing at the clock face, leaning all askew, againsl
DOMBEY AND SON. 283
the wall hard by, and feeling a little confuted by a sus
picion that it was ogling him.
Tlie workman on the steps was very civil ; and as he
said, when he observed Paul, "How do you do, sir?''
Paul got into conversation with 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 people watched up in
the lonely church steeples by night to make them strike,
and how the bells 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 well in-
formed 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 would be the ruin of the clock trade if it was to come
up again. In fine, Paul looked on, until 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 moke
the people sorry ! What could it be !
Having nothing to learn now, he thought of this fre-
quently ; 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 Flor
284 DOMBEY AOT) SON.
ence 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 ho had become a little favorite
among them, and then she would always think of the
time he had passed there, without being very sorry.
Florence might be all the happier too for that, perhaj>a,
when he came back.
When he came back ! Fifty times a-day, his noisele?a
little feet went up the stairs to his own room, as he col-
lected every book, and scrap, and trifle that belonged to
him, and put them all together there, down to the minut-
est 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 connection with his
sister. On the contrary, he had to think of everything
familiar 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 would be when he was gone, and won-
der through how many silent days, weeks, months, and
years, they would continue just as grave and undisturbed.
Us had to think would any other child (old-fashioned,
like himself) stray there at any time, to whom the same
grot jsque distortions of pattern and furniture would
manifest themselves ; and would anybody tell that boy
of little Dombey, who had been there once.
He had to think of a portrait on the stairs, which
ilways looked earnestly after him as he went away,
tying it over his shoulder ; and which, when he passed
DOMBEY AND SON. 285
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 association 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 up-
ward.
At his own bedroom window, there were crowds of
thoughts that mixed with these, and came on, one UJ.OD
another, one upon another, like the rolling waves.
Where those wild birds lived, that were always hover-
ing out at sea in troubled weather ; where the clouds
rose, and first began ; whence the wind issued on ita
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 Blimber, Mrs.
Blimber, and Miss Blimber ; 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 gruff-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
Blimbcr's study, to Mrs. Blimber's private apartment, to
Miss Blimber's, and to the dog. For he was free of the
whole house now, to range it as he chose ; and, in his
desire to part with everybody on affectionate terms he
attended, in his way, to them all. Sometimes he found
places in books for Briggs, who was always losing them ;
286 DOMBEY ANT) SON.
sometimes be looked up words in dictionaries for othei
young gentlemen who were in extremity ; sometimes he
held skeins of silk for Mrs. Blimber to wind : sometimes
he put Cornelia's desk to rights ; sometimes he would
even creep into the doctor's study, and, sitting on the
carpet near his learned feet, turn the globes softly, nnd
go round the world, or take a flight among the far-off
Btars.
In those days immediately before the holidays, io
short, when the other young gentlemen were laboring
for dear life through a general resumption of the
studies of the whole half-year, Paul was such a privi-
leged 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 Dom-
bey was caressed by every one. Doctor Blimber was
so particular about him, that he requested Johnson to
retire from the dinner-table one day, for having thought-
lessly spoken to him as " poor little Dombey;" which
Paul thought rather hard and severe, though he had
flushed at the moment, and wondered why Johnsou
should pity him. It was the more questionable justice,
Paul thought, in the doctor, from his having certainly
overheard that great authority give his assent on the
previous evening, to the proposition (stated by Mrs.
Blimber) that poor dear little Dombey was more old-
fashioned than ever. And now it was that Paul began
to think it must surely be old-fashioned to be very thin,
and light, and easily tired, and soon disposed to Ke down
auy where and rest ; for he couldn't help feeling thet
Ihese were more and more his habits every day.
At last the party-day arrived ; and Doctor Blimber
said at breakfast, " Gentlemen, we will resume our
DOMBEY \XT) SON. 287
studies on the twenty-fifth of next month." Mr. Toots
immediately threw off his allegiance, and put on his
ring : and mentioning the doctor in casual conversation
shortly afterwards, spoke of him as " Blimber ! " This
net of freedom inspired the older pupils with admiration
and envy ; but the younger spirits were appalled, and
seemed to marvel that no beam fell down and eru.hed
hist.
No,* th? least allusion was made to the ceremonio
ol the evening, either at breakfast or at dinner; but
there was a bustle in the house all day, and in the
course of his perambulations, Paul made acquaintance
with various strange benches and candlesticks, and ir.rt
a harp in a green great-coat standing on the landing
outside the. drawing-room door. There was something
queer, too, about Mrs. Blimber's head at dinner-time,
n< if she had screwed her hair up too tight; and though
Miss Blimber showed a graceful bunch of plaited hair
on each temple, she seemed to have her own little curls
in paper underneath, and in a playbill too ; for Paul
read "Theatre Royal" over one of her sparkling spec-
tacles, 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 Doc-
tor 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 curling the young gentle-
men, and overheating his tongs in the ardor of business.
When Paul was dressed 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 draw-
ing-room; where he found Doctor Blimber pacing up
888 DOMBEY AND SOS.
ind down the room full dressed, but with a dignified
and unconcerned demeanor, as if he thought it barely
possible that one or two people might drop in by and
by. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Blimber appeared, look-
ing lovely, Paul thought ; and attired in such a number
of skirts that it was quite an excursion to walk round
hor. Miss Blimber came down soon after her mamma ;
a little squeezed in appearance but very charming.
Mr. Toots and Mr. 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 Bliraber said, "Ay,
ay, ay ! God bless my soul ! " and seemed extremely
glad to see them. Mr. Toots was one blaze of jewel-
ry and buttons ; and he felt the circumstance so strongly,
that when he had shaken hands with the doctor, and
had bowed to Mrs. Bliraber and Miss Blimber, he took
Paul aside, and said, " What do you think of this, Dom-
bey!"
But notwithstanding this modest confidence in himself,
Mr. Toots appeared to be involved in a good deal of
uncertainty whether, 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 wa?
best to wear his wristbands turned up or turned down
Observing that Mr. Feeder's were turned ifp, Mr Toots
turned his un ; but the wristbands of the next an iva)
jeing turned down, Mr. Toots turned his down. The
differences in point of waistcoat-buttoning, not ca.ly 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 289
to find the incessant execution it demanded, quite be-
wildering.
All the young gentlemen tightly cravatted, curled,
and pumped, and with their best hats in their hands,
having been at different times announced and introduced,
Mr. Baps, the dancing-master, came, accompanied by
Airs. Baps, to whom Mrs. Blimber was extremely kind
and condescending. Mr. Baps was a very grave gen-
tleman, with a slow and measured manner of speaking:
and before he had stood under the lamp five minutes,
he began to talk to Toots (who had been silently com-
paring pumps with him) about what you were to do
with your raw materials when they came into your
ports in return for your drain of gold. Mr. 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 cor-
ner 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 fort-
night, as he had remained at Doctor Blimber's on the
previous Saturday 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 ground to 'take Paul
round the neck and kiss him (for there was no one
fhcre but his friend and another young woman wait-
ing to serve out the tea), he could hardly make up
bis mind to let her go again, or take away her bright
and loving eyes from his face.
" But what is the matter, Floy ? " asked Paul, almost
sure that he saw a tear there.
VOL. I. 19
&90 DOMBEY AND SON.
* Nothing, darling, nothing," returned Florence.
Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger aiul
It was a tear ! " Why, Floy ! " said he.
" We'll go home together, and I'll nurse you, >v>ve,"
aid Florence.
" Nurse me ! " echoed Paul.
Paul couldn't understand what that had to do witl it,
nor why the two young women looked on so seriously,
nor why Florence turned away her face for a moment,
end 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 1 know they say so," returned Paul, " and
I want to know what they mean, Floy."
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 com-
forting her ; but a new arrival put that out of his head
speedily.
It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Mas-
ter 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 Com
aions, and of whom Mr. Feeder had said that when lie
did catch the Speaker's eye (which he had been ex-
pected to do for three or four years), it was anticipated
that he would rather touch up the Radicals.
" And what room is this now, for instance ? * said
Lady Skettles to Paul's friend, 'Melia.
DOMBEY AND SON. 291
* 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 "
" Yourg gentlemen, ma'am ; yes, ma'am," said Paul'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 honor of meeting Paul'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 tell your good
papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to hear that he
was very well, 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 him-
nelf 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 Flor-
pnce through her glass.
" My sister," said Paul, presenting her.
The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complete.
4iwl as Lady Skettles had conceived, at first sight, a
292 DOMBET AND SON.
liking for Paul, they all went up-stairs together Sii
Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence, and young
Barnet following."
Young Barnet did not remain long in the background
after they had reached the drawing-room, for Doctor
Blimber had him out in no time, dancing with Florer.ee.
He did not appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or
particularly anything but sulky, or to care much what
he was about ; but as Paul heard Lady Skettles say to
Mrs. Blimber, while 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 Sket-
tles junior was in a sta*te of bliss without showing it.
Little Paul thought it a singular coincidence that
nobody had occupied his place among the pillows ; and
that when he came into the room again, they should all
make way for him to go back to it, remembering it was
his. Nobody stood before him either, when they ob-
served that he liked to see Florence dancing, but they
left the space in front quite clear, so that he might fol-
low 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 obliged to
them for all their kindness and attention, and reclining
propped up in his corner, with Mrs. Blimber and Lady
Skettles on the same sofa, and Florence coming and sit-
ting by his side as soon as every dance was ended, he
looked on very happily indeed.
Florence would have sat by him all night, and would
not have danced at all of her own accord, but Paul made
her, by telling her how much it pleased him. And b?
DOMBEY AND SON. 293
told her the truth, too; for his small In art 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 everything that passed, as if the whole were
being cbne for his amusement. Among other little in-
cidents 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 Mr.
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
Russia stepped in with her tallows, which struck Sir Bar-
net almost dumb, for he could only shake his head after
that, and say, why then you must fall back upon your
cottons, he supposed.
Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr. Baps when he
went to cheer up Mrs. Baps (who, being quite deserted,
was pretending to look over the music-book of the gen
tleman who played the harp), as if he thought him a
remarkable kind of man ; and shortly afterwards he said
so in those words to Doctor 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 Blim
ber answered no, he believed not ; and that in lact he
was a , professor of
"Of something connected with statistics, I'll swear?
observed Sir Barnet Skettles.
SS94 DOMBEY AND SOX
" Why no, Sir Barnet," replied Doctor Blimber, rub-
bing his chin. " No, not exactly."
" Figures of some sort I would venture a bet," said
Sir Barnet Skettles.
" Why, yes," said Doctor 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 dan-
cing." *"
Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information
quite altered Sir Barnet Skettles's opinion of Mr. Baps,
und that Sir Barnet flew into a perfect rage, and glow-
ered at Mr. 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-sura-mate and con-foun-ded im-
pudence.
There was another tiling that Paul observed. Mr.
Feeder, after imbibing several custard-cups of negus,
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.
Feeder told Mr. Toots that he was going to throw a
little spirit into the thing. After that, Mr. Feeder not
only began to dance as if he meant dancing and noth-
ing else, but secretly to stimulate the music to perform
wild tunes. Further, he became particular in his at-
tentions to the ladies; and dancing with Miss Blimber
whispered to her whispered to her ! though not
10 softly but that Paul heard him say this remarkable
poetry,
" Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure Yoc! "
This Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies in
DOMBEY AND SON. 295
on. Well might Mr. Feeder say to Mr. Tiwts
tbrU he was afraid he should be the worse for it to-
morrow !
Mrs. Blimber was a little alarmed by this conipar
ntively speaking profligate behavior; and especially
by the alteration in the character of the music, which,
beginning to comprehend low melodies that were popu-
lar in the streets, might not unnaturally be supposed to
give offence to Lady Skettles. But Lady Skettles was
so very kind as to beg Mrs. Blimber not to mention it ;
and to" receive her explanation that Mr. Feeder's spirits
sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these occasions,
with the greatest courtesy and politeness; observing, that
he seemed a very nice sort o f erson for his situation,
and that she particularly likeu Jie unassuming style of
his hair which (as already hinted) was about a quar-
ter 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 Florence sing. Lady Skettles pres-
ently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have
that gratification ; and though Florence was at first very
much frightened at being asked to sing before so many
people, and begged earnestly to be excused, yet, on Paul
calling her to him, and saying, " Do, Floy ! Please 1
For me, my dear ! " she went 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 beautiful, and kind to him ; and
heard her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such
% golden link between him and all his life's love and
lappiness, rising out of the silence ; he turned his fac*
296 DOMBEY AND SON.
away, and hid his tears. Not, as he told them wheu
they spoke to him, not that the music was too plaintive or
too sorrowful, but it was so dear to him.
They all loved Florence ! How could they help it !
Paul had known beforehand that they must and would ;
and sitting in his cushioned corner, with calmly folded
hands, and one leg loosely doubled under him, few would
have thought what triumph and delight expanded his
childish bosom while he watched her, or what a sweet
tranquillity he felt. Lavish encomiums on " Dombty'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 accomplish-
ments floated past him, constantly ; and, as if borne in
upon the air of the summer night, there was a half-intel-
ligible sentiment diffused around, referring to Florence
and himself, and breathing sympathy for both, that
soothed and touched him.
He did not know why. For all that the child ob-
served, and felt, and thought, that night the present
and the absent ; what was then and what had been
were blended like the colors 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 sun 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
oroken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had
wondered at, when lying on his couch upon the beach,
DOMBEY AND SON. 297
he thought he still heard sounding through his sister I
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 fre-
quently came up to shake him by the hand. Through
the universal kindness he still thought he heard if,
speaking tc him ; and even his old-fashioned reputatic*
seemed to be allied to it, he knew not how. Thus little
Paul sat musing, listening, looking on, and dreaming;
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, with his best compliments, that he, Sir Bar-
net Skettles. had said he hoped the two young gentle-
men would become intimately acquainted. Lady Skettlea
kissed him, and parted his hair upon his brow, and held
him in her arms ; and even Mrs. Baps poor Mrs.
Baps ! Paul was glad of that came over from beside
the music-book of the gentleman who played the harp,
and took leave of him quite as heartily as anybody in
the room.
" Good-by, Doctor Blimber," said Paul, stretching out
his hand.
" Good-by, my little friend," returned the doctor.
" I'm very much obliged to you, sir," said Paul, look-
ing innocently up into his awful face. " Ask them to
lake care of Diogenes, if you please."
Diogenes was th& dog : who had never in his liffl
received a friend into his confidence, before Paul. The
ioctor promised that every attention should be paid to
Diogenes in Paul's absence, and Paul having again
298 DOMBET AND S IT.
thanked him, arid shaken hands with him, bade adieu to
Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia with such heartfelt earnest-
ness that Mrs. Blimber forgot from that moment to men-
tion Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had fully in-
tended it, all the evening. Cornelia taking both Paul's
hands in hers, said, "Dombey, Dombey, you have always
been my favorite pupil. God bless you ! " And it
showed, Paul thought, how easily one might do injustice
to a person ; for Miss Blimber meant it though she
was a Forcer and felt it.
A buzz then went round among the young gentlemen,
of " Dombey 's going ! " " Little Dombey 's going ! " and
there was a general move after Paul and Florence down
the staircase and into the hall, in which the whole Blim-
ber 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 dillicult 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
ftnd trunks to the coach that was to carry him and Flor-
ence 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
4 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 ?
she ever forget it ? Was she glad to know it ?
DOMBEY AND SON. 299
A.nd a lively delight was in his eyes as he spoke to
her.
Once, for a last look, he turned and gazed upo: the
faces thus addressed to him, surprised to see how shining
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
name back as he had seen it in this last view ; and it
never seemed to be a real place again, but always a
dream, full 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 egre-
gious 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 off, he as suddenly let down
the other window, and looking in with a precisely sim-
ilar chuckle, said in a precisely similar tone of voice, " la
Dombey there ? " and disappeared precisely as before.
How Florence laughed ! Paul often remembered it,
and laughed himself whenever he did so.
But there was much, soon afterwards next day, and
after that which Paul could only recollect confusedly.
Aa, why they stayed at Mrs. Pipchin's days and nights,
instead of going home ; why he lay in bed, with Flor-
ence sitting by his side ; whether that had been his father
\n the room, or only a tall shadow on the wall ; whether
he had heard his doctor say, of some one, that if they
800 DOMBEY AND SON.
had removed him before the occasion on which he had
built up fancies, strong in proportion to his own weak-
ness, 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 some-
times he had heard himself repeating, " Take me home,
Floy ! take me home ! "
But he could remember, when he got home, and was
carried up the well-remembered stairs, that there had
been the rumbling of a coach for many hours together,
while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still beside
him, and old Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remem-
bered his old bed too, when they laid him down in it :
his aunt, Miss Tox, and Susan : but there was something
else, and recent too, that still perplexed him.
" I want to speak to Florence, if you please," he said.
M To Florence by herself, for a moment ! "
She bent down over 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,
when he saw me coming in ? "
Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against
bis cheek.
I'm very glad he didn't cry," said little Paul " I
'bought he did. Don't tell them that I asked."
DOMBEY AND SON. 801
CHAPTER XV.
AMAZING ARTFULNESS OF CAPTAIN CUTTLE, AND A NEvV
PURSUIT FOR WALTER GAY.
. WALTER could not, for several days, decide what to
do in the Barbadoes 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 tell
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 lime was slipping by, and
he had none to lose, he felt that he must act, without
nesitating any longer.
Walter's chief difficulty was, how to break the change
in his affairs to Uncle Sol, to whom he was sensible it
would be a terrible blow. He had the greater difficulty
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 little back parlor was itself again. Uncle Sol
had paid the first appointed portion of the debt to Mr.
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 dis-
tressing necessity.
Yet it would never do to run away from him. He
must know of it beforehand ; and how to tell him was
802 DOMBEY ANP SON.
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. Dorabey hs-d truly tofd 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
cho>e, but not in his counting-house. His uncle and he
hiy under a great obligation to Mr. Dombey, which was
of Walter's own soliciting. He might have begun in
secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman's favor,
and might have thought that he was now and then dis-
posed to put a slight upon him, which was hardly just
But what would have been doly without that, was still
duty with it or Walter thought so and duty must
be done.
When Mr. Dombey had looked N *at him, and told him
he was young, and that his uncle'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, which stung the boy's generous soul. Determined
to assure 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 anx-
ious to show even more cheerfulness and activity after
the West-Indian interview, than he had shown before :
if that were possible, in one of his quick and zealous
disposition. He was too young and inexperienced to
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,
DOMBEY AND SON 303
whether it were right or wrong. But it may have been
it may have been that the great man thought him-
self defied in I his new exposition of an honest spirit, and
purposed to bring it down.
" Well ! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,"
thought Walter with a sigh. And as Walter was appre-
hensive that his voice might perhaps quaver a little, and
thnt 1 is countenance might not be quite as hopeful as he
could wish it to be, if he told the old man himself, and
saw the first effects of his communication on his wrinkled
face, he resolved to avail himself of the services of that
powerful mediator, Captain Cuttle. Sunday coming
round, he set off, therefore, after breakfast, once mere
to beat up Captain Cuttle's quarters.
It was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither,
that Mrs. MacStinger resorted to a great distance every
Sunday morning, to attend the ministry of the Reverend
Melehisedech Howler, who, having been one day dis-
charged from the West India Docks on a false suspicion
(got up expressly against him by the general enemy) of
screwing gimlets into puncheons, and applying his lips to
the orifice, had announced the destruction of the world
for that day two years, at ten in the morning, and opened
a front parlor for the reception of ladies and gentlemen
of the Ranting persuasion, upon whom, on the first occa-
sion of their assemblage, the admonitions of the Rever-
end Melehisedech had produced so powerful an effect,
that, in their rapturous performance of a sacred jig,
which closed the service, the whole flock broke through
Vito a kitchen below, and disabled a mangle belonging to
$>ne of the fold.
This the captain, in a moment of uncommon convivi-
ality, had confided to Walter and his uncle, between the
804 DOMBEY AND SON.
repetitions of lovely Peg, on the night when Brogley the
broker was paid out. The captain himself was punctual
in his attendance at a church in his own neighborhood,
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
be 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 antici-
pate his going out ; and he made such good speed, that
he had the pleasure, on turning into Brig Place, to be-
hold the broad blue coat and waistcoat hanging out of
the captain's open window, to air in the sun.
It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat
could be seen by mortal eyes without the captain ; but he
certainly was not in them, otherwise his legs the
houses in Brig Place not being lofty would have ob-
structed the street-door, which was perfectly clear.
Quite wondering at this discovery, Walter gave a sin-
gle knock.
" Stinger," he distinctly heard the captain say, up in
his room, as if that were no business of his. Therefore
Walter gave two knocks.
" Cuttle," he heard the captain say upon that ; and im-
mediately afterwards the captain, in his clean shirt am!
braces, with his neckerchief hanging loosely round h'n
throat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat on, ap-
peared at the window, leaning out over the broad Him
coat and waistcoat.
" Wal'r ! " cried the captain, looking down upon him
in amazement.
"Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle," returned Walter, onl)
me."
DOMBEY AND SON. 305
" What's the matter, my lad ? " inquired tLb captain,
with great concern, " Gills a'n't been and sprung nothing
again ? "
"No, no," ?aid Walter. "My uncle's all right, Cap-
tain 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, ey-
ing him still doubtfully, when they got up-.stairs.
" Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle," said Walter, sit-
ting 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," re-
turned 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 kind-
ness, would help him to smooth it away ; Captain Cut-
tle's infinite consternation and astonishment at the pros-
pect unfolded to him, gradually swallowing that gentle-
man up, until it left his face quite vacant, and the suit
of blue, the glazed hat, and the hook, apparently without
u owner.
" You see, Captain Cuttle," pursued Walter, " for my-
self, I am young, as Mr. Dombey said, and not to be
.'onsidered. I am to fight my way through the world, I
know ; but there are two points I was thinking, as I
same along, that I should be very particular about, ir
vot. i at)
806 DOMBEY AND SON.
respect to my uncle. I don't mean to say that I deserve
to be the pride and delight of his life you believe me,
I know but I am. Now, don't you think I am ? "
The captain seemed to make an endeavor to rise from
the depths of his astonishment, and get back to his face ,-
but the effort being ineffectual, the glazed hat merely
nodded with a mute unutterable meaning.
u 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 ; and besides, his life is a life of custom "
" Steady, Wal'r ! Of a want of custom ? " said the
captain, suddenly reappearing.
u Too true," returned Walter, shaking his head ; " but
I meant a life of habit, Captain Cuttle that sort of
custom. And if (as you very truly said, I am sure) he
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 his nevy," interposed the captain. " Right ! "
" Well then," said Walter, trying to speak gayly, " we
must do our best to make him believe that the separa-
tion 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 affec-
tion, and duty, and honor, I am afraid I should make
but a very poor hand at that, if I tried to persuade hire
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 Wal-
ter
DOMBET AND SON. 307
<* Stand by ! " returned the captain, thoughtfully.
Walter paused to ascertain if the captain had any paf
ticular 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 favorite with Mr. Dombey. I have
always triec 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 rep-
resent it as being better than it is ; and I doubt very
much if it will ever lead me to advancement in the
House whether it does not, on the contrary, dispose
of me forever, 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 favorable and promising
as we can ; and when I tell you what it really is, I only
do so, that in case any means should ever arise of lend-
ing 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 Prov-
erbs of Solomon you will find the following words,
May we never want a friend in need, nor a bottle to
give him!' When found, make a note of."
Here the captain stretched out his hand to Walter,
with an air of downright good faith that spoke volumes ;
at the same time repeating (for he felt proud of the ac-
curacy 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 filled, " next to my Uncle Sol, I love
808 DOMBEY AND SON.
you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more
safely trust, I am sure. 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
vrorld 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 w-as an end
of that. But what I feel, Captain Cuttle, is that we
have been a little mistaken all along, and that, so far us
any improvement in my prospects is concerned, I am no
better off now than I was when I first entered Dombey's
House perhaps a little worse, for the House may have
been kindly inclined towards me then, and it certainly is
not now."
" Turn again, Whittington," muttered the disconsolate
captain, after looking at Walter for some time.
"Ay ! " replied Walter, laughing, "and turn a great
many times, too, Captain Cuttle, I'm afraid, before such
fortune as his ever turns up again. Not that I com-
plain," 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. 1
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
jncle that I should be sent away ; for Mr. Dombey is a
raluabla friend to him, as he proved himself, you know
when, Captain Cuttle ; and I am persuaded be won't be
DOMBEY AND SON. 309
less valuable when he hasn't me there, every day, U.
awaken his dislike. So hurrah for the West Indies,
Captain Cuttle ! How does that tune go that the sailors
Ping?
" For the Port of Barbadoes, 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 sprung out of bed, threw up his window, and
joined in across the street, at the top of his voice, pro-
duced 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 friendly
greeting, and in part to show that he was not at ail
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
until 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 future
life and adventures of Walter so very differently, and so
rntirely to his own satisfaction ; he had felicitated him-
self so often on the sagacity and foresigl t displayed in
810 DOMBEY AND BON.
that arrangement, and had found it so complete and per-
fect 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 put-
ting on his coat and waistcoat with anything like the
impetuosity that could alone have kept pace with Wal-
ter's rnood, he declined to invest himself with those gar-
ments f>.t all at present ; and informed Walter that on
such a serious matter, he must be allowed to " bite his
naUs a bit."
" It's an old habit of mine, Wal'r," said the captain,
" any time these fifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle
bite his nails, Wal'r, then you may know that Ned Cut-
tJ.'s aground."
Thereupon the captain put his iron hook between his
teeth, as if it were a hand ; and with an air of wisdom
and profundity that was the very concentration and sub-
limation of all philosophical reflection and grave inquiry,
applied himself to the consideration of the subject in \ta
various branches.
" There's a friend of mine," murmured the captain, in
an absent manner, " but he's at present coasting round to
Whitby, that would deliver such an opinion on this sub-
ject, or any other that could be named, as would give
Parliament six and beat 'em. Beon knocked overboard
that man," said the captain, " twice, and none the worse
for it. Was beat in his apprenticeship, for three weeks
(off and on), about the head with a ringbclt. And yet
clearer- minded man don't walk."
DOMBEY AND SON". 811
In spite of bis 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 difficulties until they were
quite &3ttled.
" If you was to take and show that man the buoy at
the Nore," said Captain Cuttle in the same tone, ''and
ask him his opinion of it, Wal'r, he'd give you an opin-
ion that was no more like that buoy than your uncle's
buitons are. There a'u't a man that walks certainly
not on two legs that can come near him. Not near
him ! "
"What's his name, Captain Cuttle?" inquired Wal-
ter, determined to be interested in the captain's friend.
" His name's Bunsby," said the captain. " But Lord,
it might be anything 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 himself
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 while he eyed
him steadfastly from beneath his bushy eyebrows, he
evidently neither saw nor heard him, but remained im-
mersed in cogitation.
In fact, Captain Cuttle was laboring with such great
designs, that far from being aground, he soon got off into
the deepest of wafer, 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
undoubtedly much more likely to be Walter's mistake
812 DOMBEY AND SON.
than his ; that if there were really any West India
scheme afoot, it was a very different 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
hitch between 'em," thought the captain, meaning be-
tween 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 considerations was, that as he al-
ready enjoyed the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dombey,
from having spent a very agreeable half hour in his com-
pany at Brighton (on the morning when they borrowed
the money) ; and that, as a couple of men of the world,
who 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 triumphant.
As these reflections presented themselves to the cap
tain'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 cornel
DOMBLY AND SON. 313
of his mouth, and one at the corner of each eye -
gradually overspread his whole face, and rippling up
into his forehead, lifted the glazed hat : as if that too
bad been aground with Captain Cuttle, and were now,
like him, happily afloat again.
Finally the captain left off biting his nail?, and said,
" Now, Wal'r, my boy, you may help me on with them
slops." By which the captain meant his coat and waist-
coat.
Walter little imagined why the captain was so par-
ticular in the arrangement 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 de-
ceased 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 blinkers ; nor why he changed his shoes,
and put on an unparalleled pair of ankle-jacks, which
he only wore on extraordinary occasions. The captain
being at length attired to his own complete satisfaction,
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 waa
ready.
The captain's walk was more complacent than usuaJ
when they got out into the street ; but this, Walter sup-
posed to be the effect of the ankle-jacks, and took little
lu-ed of. Before they had gone very far, they encoun-
tered a woman selling flowers ; when the captain stopping
short, as if struck by a happy idea, made a purchaso
of the largest bundle in her basket ; a most glorioui-
uosegay, fan-shaped, some two feet and a half round
314 DOMBEY AND SON.
and composed of all the jolliest-looking flowers thai
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
whi.'Ji 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 farther, and
that he had better time his projected visit somewhat later
m the day.
" And you won't forget anything ? " said Walter.
" No," returned the captain. .
" I'll go upon my walk at once," said Walter, " and
then I shall be out of the way, Capjain Cuttle."
" 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 C3iild 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 moans of
getting at them than by passing Mr. 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 aiii-
mation 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
DOMBEY AND SON". 315
felt for the place since the adventure of the lost child
years ago ; and looked especially at those upper win
dows. 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 afterwanls
remembered this gentleman and his equipage together,
Walter had no doubt he was a physician ; and then he
wondered who was ill ; but the discovery did not occur
to him until he had walked some distance, thinking list-
lessly of other things.
Though still, of what the house had suggested to him ;
for Walter pleased himself with thinking that perhaps
the time might come, when the beautiful child who was
his 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 liked 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 alive then, he would be beyond the sea and
forgotten ; she married, rich, proud, happy. There was
no more reason why she should remember him with any
interest in such an altered state of things, than any play-
thing she ever had. No, not so much.
Yet Walter so idealized the pretty child whom he had
found wandering in the rough streets, and so identified
her with her innocent gratitude of that night and the
simplicity and truth of its expression, that he blushed
c or 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 : t</
816 DOMBEY AND SON.
think of her as anything but the same artless, gentle.
winning little creature, 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, waa
to become very unreasonable indeed ; and that he could
do no better than preserve her image in his mind as
something precious, unattainable, unchangeable, and in-
definite indefinite in all 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 murmur of the town breathing sweet scents ;
glancing sometimes at the dim horizon beyond which his
voyage and his place of destination lay ; then looking
round on the green English grass and the home land-
icape. But he hardly once thought even of going away,
distinctly ; and seemed to put off reflection idly, from
hour to hour, and from minute to minute, while he yet
went on reflecting all the time.
Walter had left the fields behind him, and was plod-
ding 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 con-
trary direction, had stopped at no great distance ; that
the coachman was looking back from his box, and mak-
ing signals to him with his whip ; and that a young
woman inside was leaning out of the window, and beck-
oning with immense energy. Running up to this coach,
he found that the young woman was Mis? Nipper, and
that Miss Nipper was in such a flutter as to be almost
beside hei'self,
DOMBEY AND SON. 817
*' 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 Gardens, 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 continivally backing out of no thorough-
fares, where she would drive up. I've had a many
fares in this coach, first and last, but never such a far*
as her."
" Do you want to go to Staggs's Gardens, Susan ? *
inquired Walter.
" Ah ! She wants to go there ! WHERE 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 poor darling Master Paul, on the very day
when you found Miss Floy in the city, for we lost her
coming home, Mrs. Richards and me, and a mad bull,
and Mrs. Richards' 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
roe, Staggs's Gardens, if you please ! Miss Floy's dar-
ling all our darlings little, meek, meek Master
Paul ! Oh Mr. 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's of Polly Toodle's Gardens, some on<
pray ! "
318 DOM BEY AND SON.
Greatly n oved by what he heard, and cafcning Susan'*
earnestness immediately. Waiter, now that he understood
the nature of ,her errand, dashed into iJ with such ardor
that the coachman had enough to do to follow closely aa
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 hail
vanished from the earth. Where the old rotten sum-
mer-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
wagon-ruts, formed towns within themselves, originating
wholesome comforts and conveniences belonging to them-
selves, and never tried nor thought of until they sprung
into existence. Bridges that had led to nothing, led to
villas, gardens, churches, healthy public walks. The
carcasses of houses, and beginnings of new thorough-
fares, had started off upon the line at steam's own speed,
and shot away into the country in a monster train.
As to the neighborhood which had hesitated to ac-
knowledge the railroad in its straggling days, that had
groVn wise and penitent, as any Christian might in such
R case, and now boasted of its powerful and prosperous
relation. There were railway patterns in its drapers'
shops, and railway journals in the windows of its news-
men. There were railway hotels, coffee-houses, lodg-
ing-houses, boarding-houses ; railway plans, maps, view*
DOM BEY AND SON. 819
wrappers, bottles, sandwich-boxes, and time-tables ; rail-
way hackney-coach and cab-stands ; railway omnibuses,
railway streets and buildings, railway hangers-on and
parasites, and flatterers out of all calculation. There
was even railway time observed in clocks, as if the sun
itself had given in. Among the vanquished was the
master chimney-sweeper, whilom 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 rail-
way chimneys by machinery.
To and from the heart of this great change, all day
and night, throbbing currents rushed and returned in-
cessantly 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 very houses seemed disposed to pack up and take
trips. Wonderful members of Parliament, who, little
more than twenty years before, had made themselves
merry with the wild railroad theories of engineers, and
given them the liveliest 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 con
quering engines rumbled at their distant work, or, ad-
vancing smoothly to their journey's end, and gliding like 1
lame dragons into the allotted corners 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 unsus-
pected in them, and strong purposes not yet achieved.
But Staggs's Gardens had been cut up root and branch
$20 DOMBET AND SON.
Oh woe the day ! when u not a rood of Engljsh 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,
arid knocking a double knock at his own door. II*
knowed Toodle, he said, well. Belonged to the rail
road, 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
turning to the right, down the yard, cross over, and
take the second on the right again. It was number
eleven ; they couldn't mistake it ; but if they did, they
had only to ask for Toodle, Engine Fireman, and any
one would show them which was his house. At this
unexpected stroke of success, Susan Nipper dismounted
from the coach with all speed, took Walter's arm,
and set off at a breathless pace on foot ; leaving the
coach there to await their return.
" Has the little boy been long ill, Susan ? " inquired
Walter, as they hurried 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,
Mr. Walter, " said Susan, " and when there's so much
lerious distress to think about, if I rested hard on any
one, especially on them that little darling Paul speaks
well of, but I may wish that the family was set to
DOMBEY AND SON. 821
ivork in a stony soil to make new roads, and thai
M<s Blimber went in front, and had the pickaxe!"
Mi-s Nipper then took breath, and went on fastei
limn before, as if this extraordinary aspiration had re-
lieved 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 parlor
full of children.
" Where's Mrs. Richards ! " exclaimed Susan Nipper,
looking round. " Oh Mrs. Richards, Mrs. Richards,
come along with me, my dear creetur!"
" Why, if it a'n't Susan ! " cried Polly rising with
her honest face and motherly figure from among the
group, in great surprise.
" Yes, Mrs. Richards, it's me, '' said Susan, <k and I
wish it wasn't, though I may not seem to flatter when
I say so, but little Master Paul is very ill, and told
his Pa to-day that he would like to see the face of
his old nurse, and him and Miss Floy hope you'll come
along with me and Mr. Walter, Mrs. Richards
forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to the sweet
dear that is withering away. Oh, Mrs. Richards, with-
uiing away!" Susan Nipper crying, Polly shed tears
to see her, and to hear what she had said ; and all
i.he 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 hid
wife's bonnet and shawl for her, which were hanging
ip behind the door; then tapped her on the back;
and said with more fatherly feeling than eloquence,
w Polly ! cut away ! "
\oi 21
522 DOMBEY AND SON.
So they got back to the coach, long befo.-e the coach-
man expected them ; and Walter putting Susan and
Mrs. Richards inside, took his seat on the box himself
(hat there might be no more mistakes, and deposited
Ihem safely in the hall of Mr. Dombey's house where
by the by, he saw a mighty nosegay lying, which re
miudi.'d him of the one Captain Cuttle had purchased
in his company that morning. He would have lingered
to know more of the young invalid, or waited any
length of time to see if he could render, the least ser-
vice ; but, painfully sensible that such conduct would
be looked upon by Mr. Dombey as presumptuous and
forward, he turned slowly, sadly, anxiously, away.
lie had not gone five minutes' walk from the door,
when a man came running after him, and begged him
to return. Walter retraced his steps as quickly as he
could, and entered the gloomy bouse with a sorrowful
fore boding.
appearance of liirnahy
DOMBEY AND SOS
VOLUME II.
DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XVI.
WHAT THE WAVES WERE ALWAYS 8AYINO.
PAUL had never risen from his little bed. He laj
there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tran-
quilly ; not caring much how the time went, but watch-
ing it and watching everything about him with observing
eyes.
When the sunbeams struck into his room through the
rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like
golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and
that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection
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 would
look, reflecting the hosts of stars and more than all,
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 in the hollow
8 DOMBEY AND SON.
distance, he would lie and watch the many-colored ring
about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only
trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt forced,
Bometimes, to try to stop it to stem it with 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 his 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 town reviving, waking, starting into life once more,
the river, glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever),
and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and
cries came by degrees into the street below ; the servants
in the house were routed and busy ; faces looked in at
the door, and voices a#ked 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 could
hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his
. waking moments of that rushing river. " Why, will
it never stop, Floy ? " he would sometimes 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 watcL
DOM BEY AND SON. 9
you, iiow!" They would prop him up with cushions in
a coiner of his bed, and there he would recline the while
she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes to kiss
her, and whispering to those who were near that she waa
tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside
him.
Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, woulj
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 difference in the sound of
their watches. But his interest centred 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 gentle-
man had been with his mama 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 Doctor Blimber's except Flor-
ence ; 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 re-
mained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never speak-
ing, 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.
10 DOMBEY AND SON.
Floy ! " he said. " What is that ? "
Where, dearest ? "
" There ! at the bottom of the bed."
" There's nothing there, except papa ? "
The figure 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 his thinking, thrilled
while he gazed, as if it. were in pain ; and before he
could 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
his face against her lips. The next time he observed
the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it.
" Don't be 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 him round the neck, and repeated those
words to him several times, and very earnestly ; ami
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 quite 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 tho
wall; how many nights the dark, dark river rolled towards
'.lie sea in spite of him ; Paul never counted, never
tought to know. If their kindness or his sense of it
DOMBEY AND SON. 11
could have increased, they were more kind, and he more
grateful every day ; but whether they 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 drawing-room down stairs, and had
thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than
his father did, to have held her in her arms when shi
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 mama ? "
" No, darling, why ? "
" Did I never see any kind face, like mama's, looking
at me when I was a baby, Floy ? "
He asked, incredulously as if he had some vision of
a face before him.
"Oh yes, 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 all was
still again ; and Florence, with her face quite colorless,
but smiling, held his head up)n her arm. Her ami
trembled very much.
u Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please ! "
" She is not here, darling. She shall come to-mor-
row.,"
" Thank you, Floy ! "
12 DOMBEY AND SON.
Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep
Wlien he awoke the sun was high, 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 waving to and fro: then he said. "Floy,
'a it to-morrow ? Is she come ? "
Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it
was Susan. Paul thought he heard her telling him
when he had closed his eyes again, that she would soon
be back ; but he did not open them to see. She kept
her word perhaps she had never been *way but the
next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the
stairs, and then Paul woke 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 nurse?" said the
child, regarding with a radiant smile, a figure coming
in.
Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those
t^ars at sight of him, 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 lips and breast,
as one who had some right to fondle it. No other
woman would have so forgotten everybody there but
him and Floy, and been st full of tenderness and pity.
" Floy 1 this is a kind good face ! " said Paul. u I
am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse !
Stay here ! "
His senses were all quickened, and lie heard a name
he knew.
DOMBEY AND SON. 18
Who was that, who said Walter ' ? " he asked,
looking round. "Some one said Walter. Is he here?
[ should like to see him very much. "
Nobody replied directly ; but his father soon said to
Susan, "Call him back, then: let him come up !" Af-
ter a short pause of expectation, during which he looked
with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, and saw
that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought
intc the room. His open face and manner, and hia
cheerful eyes, had always made him a favorite with
Paul ; and when Paul saw him, he stretched out his
hand, and said, " Good-by ! "
" Good-by, my child ! " cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying
to his bed's head. " Not good-by ! "
For an instant Paul looked at her with the wist-
ful face with which he had so often gazed upon her
in his corner by the fire. "Ah yes," he said, plac-
idly, " good-by ! Walter dear, good-by ! " 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 word.s had parted from his lips.
" Remember Walter, dear papa," he whispered, look-
,ng in his face. " Remember Walter. I was fond of
Walter ! " The feeble hand waved in the a : r, as if it
cried " good-by ! " to Walter once again.
" Now lay me down, " he said, " and Floy, oome close
to me, and let me see you ! "
Sister and brother wound their arms around eacb
Other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell
upon them, locked together.
" How fast the river runs, between its green banks
and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea.
t hear the waves ! They always said so ! "
14 DOMBET AND SON.
Presently he told her that the motion of the boal
upon the sti^am was 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 gliding 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 him fold them so, behind her neck.
u Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face I
But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school ia
not divine enough. The light about the head is shin-
ing on me as I go!"
The golden ripple on the wall came back Jxgsin, 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 course,
and the wide firmament is rolled 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
Bwift river bears us to the ocean!
LOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XVH.
CAl IAIN CUTTLE DOES A LI TTLE BUSINESS FOR THK
YOUNG PEOPLE.
CAPTAIN CUTTLE, in the exercise of that surprising
talent for deep-laid and unfathomable scheming, with
whiah (as is not unusual in men of transparent sim-
plicity) he sincerely believed himself to be endowed by
nature, had gone to Mr. Dombey's house on the eventful
Sunday, winking all the way as a vent for his super-
fluous sagacity, and had presented himself in the full
lustre of the ankle-jacks before the eyes of Towlinson.
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 solicitude, and leaving
his respectful compliments for the family in general,
which he accompanied with an expression of his hope
that they would lay their heads well to the wind un-
der 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 captain's nosegay, after lying in the hall
all night, was swept into the dust-bin next morning 5
and the captain's sly arrangement, involved in one catas-
trophe with greater hopes and loftier designs, was crushed
to pieces. So, when an avalanche bears down a moun-
16 IX)MBEY AND SON.
tain-forest, twigs and bushes suffer with the trees, and
nil perish together.
When Walter returned home on the Sunday even-
ing 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 naturally awakened
iu his breast by the scene through which he had passed.
to observe either that his uncle was evidently unac-
quainted 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 captain made such waves
and flourishes as nobody without a previous knowledge
of his mystery, would have been at all likely to un-
derstand.
Captain Cuttle, however, becoming cognizant of what
had happened, relinquished these attempts, as he per-
ceived the slender chance that now existed of his being
able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr. Dombey be-
fore the period of Walter's departure. But in admitting
to himself, with a disappointed and crest-fallen counte-
nance, that Sol Gills must be told, and that Walter
must go taking the case for the present as he found
it, and not having it enlightened or improved beforehand
by the knowing management of a friend the captain
btill 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
DOMBEY AND SON". 17
forget how well he and Mr. Dombey had got on at Brigh-
ton ; with what nicety each of them had put in a word when
it was wanted ; how exactly they had taken one anoth-
er's measure; nor how Ned Cuttle had pointed out that
resource in the first extremity, and had brought the in-
terview to the desired termination. On all these grounds
the captain soothed himself with thinking that though
Ned Cuttle was forced by the pressure of events to
" stand by " almost useless for the present, Ned would
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, while he sat looking at Walter and listening
with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he related, whether
it might not be at once genteel and polite to give Mr.
Dombey a verbal invitation, whenever they should meet,
to come and cut his mutton in Brig Place on some
day of his own naming, and enter on the question of hta
young friend's prospects over a social glass. But the
uncertain temper of Mrs. MacStinger, and the possi-
bility of her setting up her rest in the passage during
such an entertainment, and there delivering some hom-
ily of an uncomplimentary nature, operated as a check
on the captain's hospitable thoughts, and rendered him
timid of giving them encouragement.
On3 lact was quite clear to the captain, as "Walter,
sitting thoughtfully over his untasted dinner, dwelt on
all that had happened; namely, that however Walter's
modesty mi<;ht 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 pathetically described
18 DOMBEY AND SON.
be nad 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 conclusions for the peace of mind of the instru-
ment-maker. Therefore he availed himself of so favor-
able a moment for breaking the West Indian intelligence
to his old friend, as a piece of extraordinary preferment ;
declaring that for his part he would freely give a hun-
dred thousand pounds (if he had it) for Walter's gain
in the long-run, and that he had no doubt such an
investment would yield a handsome premium.
Solomon Gills was at first stunned by the commu-
nication, which fell upon the little back-parlor like a
thunderbolt, and tore up the hearth savagely. But the
captain flashed such golden prospects before his dim
sight: hinted so mysteriously at Whittingtonian conse-
quences : 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 realization of the romantic legend of Lovely
Peg : that he bewildered the old man. Walter, for his
part, feigned to be so full of hope and ardor, and so
sure of coming home again soon, and backed up tbe
captain with such expressive shakings of his head and
rubbings of his hands, that Solomon, looking first at Li:.i
and then at Captain Cuttle, began to think he uugl.t
to be transported with joy.
" But I'm behind the time, you understand," he ob-
served in apology, passing his hand nervously down
the whole row of bright buttons on his coat, and thr.-i
up again, as if they were beads and he were telling
DOMBEY AND SON. 19
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 won't go. No, Captain Cuttle, I won't. II my
uncle thinks I could be glad to leave him, 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 Gills ? "
" 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 rny 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 tell me, now ? "
gaid the old man, looking anxiously from one to the
other. " Really and truly ? i can reconcile myself to
almost anything that advances Wally, but I won't have
Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for me, or
keening anything from me. You, Ned Cuttle!" said
20 DOMBEY AND SON.
the old man, fastening on the captain, to the manifest
confusion of that diplomatist j " 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 credentials 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 hurry 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 ac-
quainted with all that passed, through inquiries of Wal-
ter from day to day, found the time still tending on
towards his going away, without any occasion offering
itself, or seeming likely to offer itself, for a better under-
standing of his position. It was after much considera-
tion of this fact, and much pondering over such an un-
fortunate combination of circumstances, that a bright
idea occurred to the captain. Suppose he made a call
on Mr. Carker, and tried" to find out from him how the
land really lay !
Captain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came
upon him in a moment of inspiration, as he was smoking
DOMBEY AND SON. 21
ail 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 Gills
had said ; and it would be a deep, shrewd act of friend-
ship. 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 occa-
sion, 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 country ; 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 thoughts, the captain made
a rush down the court lest its good effects should evapo-
rate, 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 governors were en-
gaged, and never expected to be disengaged any more.
" Look'ee here, mate," said the captain in his ear ;
u my name's Cap'en Cuttle."
The captain would have hooked Perch gentlj to him,
but Mr. Perch eluded the attempt ; not so much in de-
sign, as in starting at the sudden thought that such a
22 DOMBEY A.STD SON.
weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs. Perch might, in
her then condition, be destructive to that lady's hopes.
" If you'll be so good as just report Cap'en Cuttla
here, when you get a chance," said the captain, " I'll
wait."
Saying which, the captain took his seat on Mr. Perch'a
bracket, and drawing out his handkerchief from the
crown of the glazed hat, which he jammed between his
knees (without injury to its shape, for nothing human
could bend it), rubbed his head well all over, and ap-
peared refreshed. He subsequently arranged his hair
with his hook, and sat looking round the office, contem-
plating the clerks with a serene aspect.
The captain's equanimity was so impenetrable, and he
was altogether so mysterious a being, that Perch the
messenger was daunted.
" What 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 ha
caught it, and couldn't help it ; the captain, in his
diplomacy, was so impressive. " I'll see if he's dis-
engaged now. I don't know. Perhaps he may be for
a minute."
u Ay, ay, my lad, I won't detain him longer than a
minute," said the captain, nodding with all the weighty
importance that he felt within him. Perch, soon return-
ing, 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 28
captain as he came in, with no very special encourage-
ment.
" Mr. Carker? " said Captain Cuttle.
" I believe so," said Mr. Carker, showing all his
teeth.
The captain liked his answering with a smile : it
looked pleasant. "You see," began the captain, roll-
ing his eyes slowly round the little room, and taking
in as much of it as his shirt-collar 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 cap-
tain, " you may have heard your head-governor mention
my name ? Captain Cuttle."
" No ! " said Mr. Carker, with a still wider demonstra-
tion than before.
" Well," resumed the captain, " I've the pleasure of
his acquaintance. I waited upon him down on the Sus-
sex 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 remem-
ber, I dare say ? "
I think," said Mr Carker, " I had the honor of ar-
ranging the business."
" To be sm-e I " 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.
24 DOMBEY AND SON.
u Thank'ee," returned the captain, availing himself of
the offer. "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 with
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 a'n'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 along-
side of him, is this. Is everything right and comforta-
ble here, and is Wal'r out'ard bound .with a pretty fair
wind ? "
" What do you think now, Captain Cuttle," returned
Carker, gathering up his skirts and settling himself in
his position. " You are a practical man ; what do you
hink ? "
The actiteness and significance of the captain's eye,
*s he cocked it in reply, nc words short of those unut
terable Chinese words before referred to could describe.
"Come!" said the captain, unspeakably encouraged.
" what do you say ? Am I right or wrong ? "
DOM13EY AND SON. 25
So much hud the captain expressed in his eye, em-
boldened and incited by Mr. Carker's smiling urbanity,
that he felt himself in as fair a condition to put the ques-
tion, as if he had expressed his sentiments with the ut-
most elaboration.
" Right," said Mr. Carker, " I have no doubt."
" Out'ard bound with fair weather, then, I say," ciiod
Captain Cuttle.
Mr. Carker smiled assent.
" Wind right astarn, and plenty of it," pursued the
captain.
Mr. Carker smiled assent again.
" Ay, ay ! " said Captain Cuttle, greatly relieved and
pleased. " I know'd how she headed, well 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 " wife " (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 gill of old Jamaica," said the captain, ey-
ing him attentively, " that I know what you're 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
; t was shut.
4 Not an inch," said Mr. Carker.
86 DOMBEY AND SON.
fi You're a-thinking of a capital F perhaps ? " stiid the
raptain.
Mr. Carker didn't deny it.
u Anything about a L," said the captain, " or a ? "
Mr. Carker still smiled.
" Ana I right again ? " inquired the captain in a whis-
per, 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 him, 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 Gills and me, that they was cut out
for each other."
A cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death's-head,
could not have shown the captain more teeth at one
time, than Mr. Carker showed him at this period of
iheir interview.
"There's a general in-draught that way," observed
the happy captain. " Wind and water sets in that direc-
tion, you see. Look at his being present t'other day!"
" Most favorable to his hopes," said Mr. Carker.
" Look at hi; being towed along in the wake of thai
day ! " pursued the captain. " Why what can cut him
adrift now ? "
" Nothing," replied Mr. Carker.
" You're right again," returned the captain, giving his
DOMBEY AXD SON. 27
hand another squeeze. "Nothing it is. So! steady 1
There's a son gone : pretty little creetur. A'n'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 Gills ! Wal'r ! Wal'r, as is already in your
business ! And " said the captain, rising gradually
to a quotation he was preparing for a final burst, " 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 fore-
going short sentences, could be surpassed by nothing
but the exultation with which he fell back and eyed
him when he had finished this brilliant display of elo-
quence and sagacity ; his great 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."
" Honor ! " 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, listen
ing with great attention.
U8 DOMBEY AND SON.
* 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, u 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,
u Time enough." Not articulating the words, but bow-
Ing his head affably, and forming them with his tongue
and lips.
" And as I know now it's what I always said
that Wal'r's in the way to make his fortune," said the
captain.
" To make his fortune," Mr. Carker repeated, in the
same dumb 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. Car-
ker, dumbly as before.
" Why, so long as I know that," pursued the captaiii,
" there's no hurry, and my mind's at ease."
Mr. Carker still blandly assenting in the same voice-
less 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 hearti-
ness, therefore, the captain once again extended his
c.normous hand (not unlike an old block in color), and
gave him a grip that left upon his smoother flesh a
proof impression of the chinks and crevices wilh which
the captain's palm was liberally tattooed.
" Farewell ! " said the captain. " I a'n't a man of
tnany words, but I take it very kmd of you to bo so
DOMBEY AND SON. '28
friendly, and above-board. You'll excuse me if FTC
been at all intruding, will you ? " said the captain.
"Not at all," returned the other.
"Thank'ee. Mj berth a'n't very roomy," said the
eaptain, turning back again, " but it's tolerably snug 5
and if you was to find yourself near Brig-place, num-
t<er nine, at any time will you make a note of it ?
and would 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 walked out and shut the door; leaving Mr
Carker still reclining against the chimney-piece. In
whose sly look and watchful manner; in whose falsfc
mouth stretched but not laughing ; in whose spotless
cravat and very whiskers ; even in whose silent passing
of his soft hand over his white linen and his smooth
face ; there was something desperately cat-like.
The unconscious captain walked out in a state of
self-glorification that imparted quite a new cut to the
broad blue suit. " Stand by Ned ! " said the captain
to himself. " You've done a little business for the young-
sters 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
B little, and asking him whether he thought everybody
was still engaged. But not to be bitter on a man who
bad done his duty, the captain whispered in his ear, that
if he felt disposed for a glass of rum-and-water, and
would follow, he would be happy to bestow the same
upon him.
Before leaving the premises, the captain, somewhat
SO DOMBEY AND SON.
to the astonishment 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 hia
young friend was nearly interested. The strong-room
excited his especial admiration ; but, that- he might not
appear too particular, he limited himself to an approving
glance, and, with a graceful recognition of the clerks
as a body, that was full of politeness and patronage,
passed out into court. Being promptly joined by Mr.
Perch, he conveyed that gentleman to the tavern, and
fulfilled his pledge hastily, for Perch's time was pre
cious.
" I'll give you for a toast," said the captain, " Wal'r ! "
" Who ? " submitted Mr. Perch.
" "Wal'r ! " repeated the captain, in a voice of thunder.
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 Shak-
epeare's for example in a civic thoroughfare, he could
hardly have done a greater outrage to Mr. Perch'." ex-
perience. On the whole, he was such a mysterious and
incomprehensible character, that Mr. Perch decided not
to mention him to Mrs. Perch at all, in case of giving
rise to any disagreeable consequences.
Mysterious and incomprehensible, the captain, with
that lively sense upon him of having done a little busi-
aess for the youngsters, remained all day, even to his_
most intimate friends ; and but that "Walter attributed
his winks and gvins, and other such pantomimic reliefs
of himself, to his satisfaction in the success of their
Innocent deception upon old Sol Gills, he would assur
DOM BEY AST) SON. 1
wily have betrayed himself before night. As it was,
however, 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 beam-
ing expression in his eyes, that Mrs. MacStinger (who
might have been brought up at Doctor Blimber's, she
was such a Roman 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 infanta
jnlil he WHS securely lodged in his own room.
32 DOM UK Y ASD SON.
CHAPTER XVIII.
FATHKR AX1> DAUGHTER.
TUERU is a hush through Mr. Dombcy's house. Ser-
vants 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 unholy fashion.
Mrs. Wickam, wifn her eyes suffused with tears, relates
melancholy anecdotes ; and tells them how she always
said at Mrs. Pipchin's that it would be so, and takes
more table-ale than usual, and is very sorry but soci-
able. Cook's state of mind is similar. She promises a
little fry for supper, and struggles about equally against
her feelings and the onions. Towlinson begins to think
there's a fate in it, and wants to know if anybody can
tell him of any good that ever came of living in a cor-
ner house. It seems to all of them as having happened
a long time ago ; though yet the child lies, calm ard
beautiful, upon his little bed.
After dark there come some visitors noiseless visit-
ors, with shoes of felt who have been there before ;
and with them comes that bed of rest which is so strange
B one for infant sleepers. All this time, the bereaved
lather has not been seen even by his attendant ; for he
sits in a corner of his own dark room when any one is
there, and never seems to move at other times, except to
DOMBEY AND SON. 38
pace it to and fro. But in the morning it is whispered
among the household that he was heard to go 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 ground-glass windows
re made more dim by shutters; and while the lighted
lamps upon the desks are half-extinguished by the day
that wanders in, the day is half-extingui.-hed 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. Pereh, the messenger, stavs long
upon his errands ; and finds himself in bars of public-
houses, invited thither by friends, and holding forth on
the uncertainty 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. Mr. Carker
the manager treats no one ; neither is he treated ; lut
alone in his own room he shows his teeth all day ; and
it would seem that there is something gone from Mr.
Carker's path some obstacle removed which clears
his way before him.
Now the rosy children living opposite to Mr. Dom-
bey's house, peep from their nursery windows down intc
the street ; for there are four black horses at h.s door,
with feathers on their heads ; and feathers tremble on
the carriage that they draw ; and these, and an array of
men with scarfs and staves, attract a crowd. The jug-
gler who was going to twirl the basin, puts his loose coat
ui 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
ihe presses her baby, when the burden that is so easilj
VOL. II. 3
84 DOMBEY AND SON.
carried is borne forth ; and the youngest of the rosy
children at the high window opposite, needs no re-
straining hand to check her in her glee, when, point-
ing with her dimpled finger, she looks into her nurse's
face, and asks " What's that ! "
And now, among the knot of servants dressed ?n
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 aa
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 three 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 her thinking that per-
haps 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-colored worsted drawers, and tum-
ble 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
he left of him on earth a name. All of him that is
dead, they lay there, near the perishable substance of hia
mother. It is well. Their ashes lie where Florence
in her walks oh lonely, lonely walks ! may pass
them any day.
DOMBEY AND SON. 35
The service over, and the clergyman withdrawn, Mr
Dombey looks round, demanding in a low voice, wheth-
er the person who has been requested to attend to re-
ceive instructions for the tablet, is there ?
! Some one comes forward, and says " 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 in-
scription, and gives it to him : adding, " I wish to have
it done at once."
" It shall be done immediately, sir."
" There is really nothing 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,
turns 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 imme-
diately, and it may be put in hand when I get back "
Well ? "
' Will you be so good as read it over again ? I think
there's a mistake."
" Where ? "
The statuary gives him back the paper, and pointa
rut, with his pocket-rule, the words, " beloved and only
child."
" It should be, ' son,' I think, sir ? "
" You are i-Hit. Of course. Make the correction."
O
The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to
ibe coach. When the other three, who follow closely,
take their seats, his face is hidden for the first time
shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any mow
56 DOMBEY AND SON.
that day. He alights first, and passes immediately int
his own room. The other mourners (who are only Mr
Chick, and two of the medical attendants) 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 heart is, what the contest or the suffering no one
knows.
The chief thing that they know, below-stairs, in the
kitchen, is that " it seems like Sunday." They can
hardly persuade themselves but that there is something
unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the people
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 all ! " for which, as
cook says with 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. Towlinson goes out to take the air, accompanied
by the house-maid, who has net yet tried her mourning
bonnet. They are very tender to each other at dusky
street-corners, and Towlinson has visions of leading an
uttered and blameless existence as a serious green-grocer
in Oxford Market.
There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr. Dom-
bc-y's house to-night, than there has been for many
aights.
The morning sun awakens the old household, settled
down once more in their old ways. The rosy children
DOMBKY AND SON. 37
opposite, run past with hoops. There is a splendid wed-
ding 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
loos 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 com-
panion 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 squeez-
ing Miss Tox's hand in acknowledgment of her friendly
remark, " you will then know that all 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,
m.y love, as our dear Miss Tox of whose sound sense
and excellent judgment, there cannot possibly be twc
^pinions "
"My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon," said
Miss Tox.
" will tell you, and confirm by her experience/' pur
88 DOMBEY AND SON.
sued Mrs. Chick, "we are called upon on all occasions
to make an effort. It is required of us. If any my
dear," turning to Miss Tox, " I want a word. Mis
Mis"
" Demeanor ? " suggested Miss Tox.
" No, no, no," said Mrs. Chick. " How can you
Goodness me, it's on the end of my tongue. Mis "
u Placed affection ? " suggested Miss Tox, timidly.
u Good gracious, Lucretia ! " returned Mrs. Chick.
"How very monstrous! 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 warn-
ing 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."
Mrs. Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half
a moment ; but, as a practical illustration of her doc-
trine, brought herself up short, in the middle of a sob,
juid went on again.
" Therefore, Florence, pray let us see that you have
some strength of mind, and do not selfishly aggravate the
distress in which your poor papa is plunged."
" Dear aunt ! " said Florence, kneeling quickly down
DOMBEY AND SON. 8S
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 some-'
Ihing in this appeal that moved her very much. Whether
she saw in it a succession, on the part of the neglected
child, 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 recognized the earnest and devoted spirit
which, although discarded and repulsed, was wrung with
tenderness long unreturned, and in the waste and soli-
tude of this bereavement cried to him to seek a comfort in
it, and to give some, by some small response whatever
may have been her understanding of it, it moved Miss
Tox. For the moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs.
Chick, and patting Florence hastily on the cheek, turned
aside and suffered the tears to gush from her eyes, with-
out 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 re-
mained 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 synonymous with her presence of mind, in-
deed they were 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 really do not pretend to un-
ierstand. 1 believe I have as much influence with yniir
40 DOMBEY AND SON.
papa as anybody has. Still, all I can say is, that he has
said very little 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
dave said to your papa 'Paul!' that is the exact
expression I used ' Paul ! why do you not take some-
thing stimulating?' Your papa's reply has always been,
' Louisa, have the goodness to leave me. I want noth-
ing. 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 venture 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 liki
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 this invitation. He said,
No, Louisa, not the least ! ' *
Florence raised her tearful eyes.
"At the same time, if you would prefer staying here,
Florence, to paying this visit at present, or to gcing
home with me "
"I should much prefer it, aunt," was the faint re
Vrinder.
DOM13EY AND SOX. 41
" Why, then, child," said Mrs. Chick, "yon can. [ff
ii strange clioice, I must say. But you always wert
strange. Anybody else at your time of life, and after
what has passed my dear Miss Tox, I have lo>t icy
pocket handkerchief again would be glad to leave
here, one would suppose."
" I should not like to feel," said Florence, "as if the
house was avoided. I should not like to think that the
his the rooms up-stairs were quite empty and
dreary, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the present.
Oh my brother ! oh ray 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 over-
charged 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 wi^h 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'll go very
soon. He can't go too soon. But I suppose there are
eome arrangements connected with his private papers
and so forth, consequent en the affliction that has tried
42 DOMBEY AND SON.
DS all so much I can't think what's become of mine
Lucretia, lend me yours, my dear that may occupy
him for one or two evenings in his own room. Ycui
papa's a Dombey, child, if ever there was one," said Mrs.
Chick, drying both her eyes at once with great caie on
opposite corners of Miss Tox's handkerchief. " He'll
make an effort. There's no fear of him."
" Is there nothing, aunt," asked Florence, trembling,
"1 might do to"
'' Lord, my dear child," interposed Mrs. Chick, has-
tily, " 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 dream 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 favor to be won by it.
And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan,
to uphold the striving heart in its anguish ? Was there
uo other neck to clasp ; no other face to turn to ? no
<me 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 48
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 commonly en-
sued upon the recognition of some spot or object very
tenderly associated with him ; and it made the miserable
house, at first, 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 fire 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, though she wept still, wept more tran-
quilly, 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 ; Bit-
ling there alone, as parent 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 be-
side it, and pray GOD it was the pouring out of her
44 DOMBEY AND SON.
full heart to let one angel love her and remembei
her.
It was not very long, before, in the midst of the dis-
mal house so wide and dreary, her low voice in the twi-
light, 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
mournful recollection of what she had done at his re-
quest on that last night, than the reality repeated. But
it was repeated, often very often, in the shadowy soli-
tude ; 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 work with
which her fingers had been busy by his side on the sea-
shore ; and thus it was not very long before she took to
it again with something of a human love for 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, wore away the thoughtful hours.
Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work
to where the rosy children lived ? They were not im-
mediately suggestive of her loss; for they were all gir.'s:
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,
n always on tho watch too, clapped their hands, and
DOMBEY AND SON. 45
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 afterwards 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 liko
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
hurry from the window. Yet she could not help return-
ing ; and her work 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
hud been away from home, this family had taken it ; and
it was repaired and newly painted ; and there were
birds and flowers about it ; and it looked very differ-
ent from its old self. But she never thought of the
house. The children and their father were all in all.
When he had dined, she could see them, through the
open windows, go down with their governess or nurse,
and cluster round the table ; and in the still summer
weather, the sound of their childish voices and clear
laughter would 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 group themselves at his knee,
a very nosegay of little faces, while he seemed to tell
them some story. Or they would come running out into
me balcony ; and then Florence would hide herself
quickly, lest it should check them in their joy, to see her
ic her black dress, sitting there alone.
46 DOMBEY AND SON.
The elder child remained with her father arhen the
rest had gone away, and made his tea for him happy
little house-keeper she was then ! and sat conversing
with him, sometimes at the window, sometimes in the
room, until the candles came. He made her his com*
panion, though she was some years younger than Flor-
ence ; and she could be as staid and pleasantly demure,
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 lulled
him to rest so often, long ago, and from the other low
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.
And did that breast of Florence Florence, so in-
geuuons 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.
When 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 tho staircase, and
approach her father's door. Against it, scarcely breath-
ing, she would rest her face and head, and press her
fipe, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon
the cold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen even
DOMBEY AND SON. 47
For his breath ; and in her one absorbing wish to be al-
lowed to show him some affection, to be a consolation to
him, to win him over to the endurance of some tender-
ness from her, his solitary child, she would have knelt
down at his feet, if she had dared, in humble suppli-
cation.
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 lived alone, and never saw her, or in-
quired for her. Perhaps he did not even know that she
was 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 astonishment.
" Well, it is a wonder, a'n't it now Miss Floy," said
Susan ; " but I wish you had a many visitors, I do, in-
deed, for you'd be all the better for it, and it's my opin-
ion 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, Miss Floy, but still I'm not a oyster."
To do Miss Nipper justice, she spoke more for hot
young mistress than herself; and her face showed it.
" But the visitor, Susan," said Florence.
Susan, with an hysterical explosion that was as mucl)
a laugh as a sob, and as much a sob as a laugh, an-
swered,
"Mr Toots!"
The smile that appeared on Florence's face passed
<rom it in a moment, and her eyes filled with tears.
48 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 mean time Mr. Toots, who had
come up-s tairs after her, all unconscious of the effect he
produced, announced himself with his knuckles on the
door, and walked in very briskly.
* How d'ye do, Miss Dombey ? " said Mr. Toots.
u I'm very well I thank you ; how are you ? "
Mr. Toots than whom there were few better fellows
in the world, though there may have been one or two
brghter spirits had laboriously invented this long
burst of discourse with the Tiew of relieving the feel-
ings both of Florence and himself. But finding that he
had run through his property, as it were, in an injudi-
cious manner, by squandering the whole before taking a
chair, or before Florence had uttered a word, or before
he had well got in at the door, he deemed it advisable to
begin again.
" How d'ye do, Miss Dombey ? " said Mr. Toots. u 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. 1 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, tak-
'.ng up her work. " 1 am very glad to see you."
DOMBEY AND SON. 49
Mr Toots responded with a chuckle. Thinking that
might be toe lively, he corrected it with a sigh. Think-
ing 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
tiim by saying so. " He often talked to me about
you."
' Oh, it's of no consequence," said Mr. Toots hastily.
"Warm, a'n't it?"
" It is beautiful weather," replied Florence.
"It agrees with me!" said Mr. Toots. "I don't
think 1 ever was so well as I find myself at present,
I'm obliged to you."
After stating this curious and unexpected fact, Mr.
Toots fell 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 tum-
bled in again.
He remained at the bottom, apparently drowned, for
at least ten minutes. At the expiration 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,'
p.iid 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
H quiet smile, " I should be very glad if you would
talk about my brother."
Would you, though," retorted Mr. Toots, with synv
50 DOMBEY AND SON.
pathy in every fibre of his otherwise expressionless face.
* Poor Dombey ! I'm sure I never thought that Bur-
gess & 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 mourn-
ing. " Poor Dombey ! I say ! Miss Dombey ! " blub-
bered Toots.
"Yes," said Florence.
u There's a friend he took to very much at last. I
thought you'd like to have him, perhaps, as a sort of
keepsake. You remember his remembering Diogenes ? "
" Oh yes ! oh yes ! " cried Florence.
" Poor Dombey ! So do I," said Mr. Toots.
Mr. Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great diffi-
culty in getting beyond 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 shillings, if they hadn't given
him up; and I would: but they were glad to get rid
of him, I think. If you'd like to have him, he's at the
door. I brought him on purpose for you. He a'n't a
lady's dog, you know," said Mr. Toots, " but you won't
mind that, will you ? "
In fact, Diogenes was at that moment, as they pre.*-
ently 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 ensnare 1,
on a false pretence of rats among the straw. Sooth to
Bay, he was as unlike a lady's dog as dog might bo ;
and in his gruff anxiety to get out presented an appear-
ance sufficiently unpromising, as he gave short yelp*
twt of one side of his mouth, and overbalancing himself
DOM BEY AND SOX. Si
by the intensity 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-
fnvored, clumsy, bullet-headed dog, continually acting
on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the neigh-
borhood, 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 gruff voice ; he was dear-
er 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 gratitude. And when Diog-
enes, 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 furniture,
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 unnaturally visible, in consequence
of their nearly starting out of his head ; and when be
growled at Mr. Toots, who affected familiarity ; and
went pell-mell at Towlinson, morally convinced that he
was the enemy whom he had barked at, round the cor-
ner all his life and had never seen yet : Florence was aa
pleased wiih him as if he had been a miracle of dis-
cretion.
Mr. Toots was so overjoyed by the success of hia
present, and was so delighted to see Florence bending
52 DOMBEY AND SON.
down over Diogenes, smoothing his coarse back with her
little delicate hand Diogenes graciously allowing it
from the first moment of their acquaintance that he
felt it difficult to take 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
suddenly took it into his head to bay Mr. Toots, and to
make short runs at him with his mouth open. Not ei-
actly seeing his way to the end of these demonstrations,
and sensible that they placed the pantaloons constructed
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 Crush
run from Diogenes, he finally took himself off and got
away.
" Come, then, Di ! Dear Di ! Make friends with
your new mistress. Let us love each other Di ! "
said Florence, fondling his shaggy head. And Di,
the rough and gruff, 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
fidelity.
Diogenes the man did not speak plainer to Alexander
the Great than Diogenes the dog spoke to Florc-nce.
He subscribed to the offer of his little mistress cheer-
fully, and devoted himself to her service. A banquet
was immediately provided for him in a corner ; and
when he had eaten and drunk his fill, he went to the
window where Florence was sitting, looking on, rose up
on his hind legs, with his awkward fore paws on her
shoulders, licked her face and hands, nestled bis greal
head against her heart, ond wagged his tail till he was
DOM BEY AND SON. 53
tired. Finally, Diogenes coiled himself up at her feet
and went to sleep.
Although Miss Nipper was nerve us in regard of dogs,
and felt it necessary to come into the room with her
skirts carefully collected about her, as if she were cross-
ing a brook on stepping-stones ; also to utter little
screams and stand up on chairs when Diogenes stretched
himself; she was in her own manner affected by the
kindness of Mr. Toots, and could not see Florence so
alive 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
part 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 antechamber 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 morn-
ing."
" 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, miss. 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
full of burning indignation, and minded her stops even
less than usual. " I can't help it, blue he is, and while I
54 DOMBEY AND SON.
x
was a Christian, although humble, I would have natural*
colored friends, or none.*
It appeared from what she added and had gleaned
down-stairs, that Mi's. Chick had proposed the major fot
Mr. Dombey's companion, and that Mr. Dombey, after
some hesitation, had invited him.
" Talk of him being a change, indeed ! " observed Miss
Nipper to herself with boundless contempt. " If he's a
change give me a constancy."
" Good-night, Susan," said Florence.
" Good-night, my darling dear Miss Floy."
Her tone of commiseration smote the chord so often
roughly 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 pat-
tering and dropping with a wearied sound. A sluggish
wind was blowing, and went moaning round the house,
as if it were in pain or grief. A shrill 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 wander-
ing love, indeed, and cast away 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 55
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 into 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 pilgrim-
age 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 un-
thought 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 on the staircase.
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 through the
dark stern door-way, 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 trembling, glided in.
Her father sat at his old table in the middle room.
tie had been arranging some papers, and destroying
others, and the latter lay in fragile ruins before him.
The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes in the
56 DOMBEY AND SON.
outer room, where he had so often watched pocr 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 him. His face was turned towards her.
By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked
worn and dejected ; and in the utter loneliness surround-
ing him, there was an appeal to Florence tliat struck
home.
" Papa ! papa ! Speak to me, dear papa ! "
He started at her voice, and leaped up froiu nis seat.
She was close before him with 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 recogni-
tion, or relenting in it. There was a change in it, but
not of that kind. The old indifference and cold coil'
straint had given place to something : what, she never
thought and did not dare to think, and yet she felt it in
iti5 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 life ? Did he look upon his own success-
ful rival in that son's affection ? Did a mad jealousy
and withered pride, poison sweet remembrances ihat
DOMBEY AND SON. 57
should have endeared and made her precious to him ?
Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon
her in her beauty and her promise : thinking of his
infant boy !
Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick
to know when it is spurned and hopeless : and hope died
out of 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 lie 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 dosed 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
lirr ! and she felt that it could never more eome back.
"I will 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,
68 DOMBEY AND SON.
but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopeless
to encourage ; and her father stood there with the light
hard, unresponsive, 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 mel-
ancholy sound. Let him remember it in that loom,
years to come !
The last time he had watched her, from the same
place, winding up those stairs, she had had her brother
in her arras. 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 already 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 antechamber, and concluded, when poor
Florence was at last asleep, and dreaming of the rosy
children opposite, by scratching 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 dreamed, with gruff barks, of
his enemy.
D0MBEY AND SON. 59
CHAPTER XIX.
WALTER GOES AWAY.
THE Wooden Midshipman at the Instrument-nmktr'j
door, like the hard-hearted little midshipman he was,
remained supremely indifferent to Walter's going away,
even when the very last day of his sojourn in the back-
parlor 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 dis-
played 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 cir-
cumstances, that a dry day covered him with dust, and a
Lflisty day peppered him with little bits of soot, and a
wet day brightened up his tarnished uniform for a mo-
ment, and a very hot day blistered him ; but otherwise
he was a callous, obdurate, conceited midshipman, intent
on his own discoveries, and caring as little for what went
on about him, terrestrially, as Archimedes at the taking
of Syracuse.
Such a midshipman he seemed \*> uc, at least, in tLe
then position of domestic affairs. Walter eyed him kind-
ly many a time in passing in and out ; and poor old Sol,
when Walter was not there, would come and lean against
he door-post, resting his weary wig as near the shoe-
buckl-:s of the guardian genius of his trade and shof
60 DOMBEY AND
as he could. But no fierce idol with a mouth from eai
to ear, and a murderous visage made of parrot's 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
bedroom, up among the parapets and chimney-pots, and
thought that one more night already darkening would
r.lose his acquaintance with it, perhaps forever. Dis-
mantled of his little stock of books and pictures, it looked
ooldly 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 1 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 little
back -parlor where he was then sitting by himself; for
Captain Cattle considerate in his roughness, stayed away
against his will, purposely that they should have ~ome
talk together unobserved : so Walter, newly returned
home from his last day's bustle, descended briskly to
bear him company.
" Uncle," he said gayly, laying his "hand upon the old
man's shoulders, " what shall I send you home from Bar-
badocs ? "
" Hope, my dear Wally. 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 61
111 not be chary of it ! And as to lively turtles, and
limes for Captain Cuttle's punch, and preserves for you
un Sundays? and all that sort of thing, why I'll send you
ship-loads, uncle : when 1 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 uore upon the shoulder.
" You cheer up me ! I'll cheer up you ! We'll be as gay
as larks to-morrow morning, uncle, and we'll fly as high I
As to my anticipations, tiiey are singing out of sight now."
" Wally, my dear boy," returned the old man, " I'll do
my best, I'll do my best."
" And your best, uncle," said Walter, with his pleas-
ant laugh, " is the best best that I know. You'll not
forget what you're to send me, uncle ? "
" No, Wally, no," replied the old man ; " everything I
hear about Miss Dombey, now that she is left alone, poor
lamb, I'll write. I fear it won't be much though, Wally ."
" Why, I'll 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
aeen 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 him-
self from a temporary abstraction.
" So I saw her," pursued Walter. " Susan, I mean :
and I I old her I was off and away to-morrow. And
I said, uncle, that you had always had an interest in
62 DOMBEY AND SON.
Miss 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 leasft 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.
u And I added," .pursued Walter, " that if she Su-
san, I mean could ever let you know, either through
herself or Mrs Richards, or anybody else who might
be coming thi& wuy, that Miss Dombey was well 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 scarce-
ly slept all last night through 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 sure it is the
true feeling of my heart, and I should have been quite
miserable afterwards if I had not relieved it."
His honest voice and manner corroborated what he
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 ! tell 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
Y oung lady's : onJy a little innocent child's," said Walter :
* tell her if you don't mind, uncle, that I kept those
shoes she'll remember how often they fell off, that
DOMBET AND SON. 63
night and took them away with me as a remem-
brance ! "
They were at that very moment going out at the
door in one of Walter's trunks. A porter carrying off
his baggage on a truck for shipment at the docks on
board the Son and Heir, had got possession of them .
Mid wheeled them away under the very eye of the
insensible Midshipman before their owner had well fin-
ished speaking.
But that ancient mariner might have been excused
his insensibility to the treasure as it rolled away. For,
under his eye at the same moment, accurately within
his 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 ogling !
More than this, they passed into the shop, and passed
in at the parlor-door before they were observed by
anybody but the Midshipman. And 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 mat-
tw?"
Old Solomon replied, " Miss Dombey ! "
" Is it possible ! " cried Walter, looking round and
Sorting up in his turn. " Here ! "
Why it was so possible and so actual, that, while
the words were on his lips, Florence hurried past him ;
took Uncb Sol's snuff-colored lappels, one in each
hand ; kissed him on the cheek ; an' turning, gave
her hand to Walter with a simple truth and ear-
64 DOMBEY AND SON.
nestness thai was her own, and no one else's hi the.
world !
" Going away, Walter!" said Florence.
" Yes, Miss Dombey," he replied, but not so hopefully
as he endeavored : " 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
little 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 mean time Florence had turned again to the
Instrument-maker, who was as full of admiration as sur-
prise. " 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 fcoine-
thing pensive in the bright eyes looking at him arrested
his attention. " Yes, that expression was in the younger
fiace, too ! "
" You remember me," said Florence with a smile,
" and what a little creature I was then ? "
"My dear young lady," returned the Instrument
maker, " how could I forget you, often as I have though!
DOMBEY AND SON. 65
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, Walter ! I was afraid you might be
going away and hardly thinking of me ; " and again she
gave him her little hand so freely arid so faithfully that
Walter 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 had 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 perfect trustfulness, and the undisguised
regard for him that lay so deeply seated in her constant
eyes, and glowed upon her fair face through 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
screner air.
"I I am afraid I must call you Walter's uncle,
sir," said Florence to the old man, " if you'll let me."
" My dear young lady," cried old Sol. " Let you !
Good gracious ! "
" We always knew you by that name, and talked of
you," said Florence, glancing round and sighing gently.
"The nice old parlor! Just the same! How well I
recollect it ! "
Old Sol looked first at her, then at his nephew, and
66 DOMBEY AXD SON.
then rubbed his hands, and rubbed his spectacles, and
Bald below his breath, " Ah ! time, time, time ! "
There was a short silence ; during which Susan Nip-
per skilfully impounded two extra cups and saucers from
the cupboard, and awaited the drawing of the tea with a
thoughtful air.
U 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, " something 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 [
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,
u 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 will confide
in us, and trust us, and rely upon us. And you'll try to
let us be a comfort to you ? Will 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 honor for his
age, that gave to all an air of graceful doubt and modest
hesitation these, and her natural earnestness, so over-
came the poor old Instrument-maker, that he only an-
swered
DOMBEY AND SON. 67
* Wally ! say a word for me, my dear. I'm very
p-ateful."
"No, Walter,'" returned Florence with her quiet smile
* Say nothing for him, if you please. I understand him
t ery well, and we must learn to talk together without
*QU, dear Walter."
The regretful tone in which she said these latter
words, touched Walter more than all 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, 1 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 n,w part of her bonnet-
string, and nodded at the skylight, in approval of the
sentiment expressed.
"Oh! but Walter," said Florence, "there is some-
thing 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 could-
n't speak so. I am sure, at least, I couldn't feel like
one."
" Ay, but that is not enough, and is not what I mean.
For Walter," added Florence, bursting into tears, " he
liked you very much, and said before he died that he was
fond of you, and said ' Remember Walter ! ' and if you'll
be a brother to me Walter, now that he is' gone and 1
liave none on earth, I'll be your sister all my life, and
iliink of you like one wherever we may be ! Thif is
what I wished to say, dear Walter but I cannot say it as
{ would, because my heart is full."
58 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 with confidence and truth. In that one mo-
icent, 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 him-
self to cherish and protect her very image, in his banish-
ment, 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 owu breast when
she gave it to him.
Susan Nipper, who had bitten both her bonnet-strings
at once, and imparted a great deal of private emotion to
the skylight, during this transaction, 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
tablp, and took tea under that young lady's active super-
intendence ; and the presence of Florence in the back-
parlor, 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
>t he still thought that far above him never to de-
serve it less
DOMBEY AND SON. 69
Some fairy influence must surely have hovered round
the hands o/ Susan Nipper when she made (he tea,
engendering the tranquil air that reigned in the back-
parlor during its discussion. Some counter-influence
must surely have hovered round the hands cf Uncle
Sol's chronometer, and moved them faster than the
Tarlar frigate ever went before the wind. Be this as
it may, the visitors had a coach in waiting at a quiet
corner not far off; and the chronometer, on being in-
cidentally referred to, gave such a positive opinion that
it had been waiting a long time, that it was impossible
to doubt the fact, especially when stated on such unim-
peachable 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 all
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 will
be absent very long ? "
"Indeed," said Walter, "I don't know. I fear so.
Mr. Dombey signified as much, I thought, when he ap-
pointed me."
"Is it a favor, Walter?" inquired Florence, after a
moment's hesitation, and looking anxiously in his face.
" The appointment ? " returned Walter.
" Yes."
Walter would have given anything to have answered
!Q the affirmative, but his face answered before his lip*
70 DOMBEY AND SON.
could, and Florence was too attentive to it not to under-
stand its reply.
" I am afraid you have scarcely been a favorite with
papa," she said, timidly.
" There is no reason," replied Walter, smiling, " H hy
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. Dorabey 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 sprung into an indis-
tinct and undefined existence since that recent night
when she had gone down to her father's room : that
WalterV accidental interest in her, and early knowledge
of her, might have involved him in that powerful dis-
pleasure and dislike ? Had Walter any such idea, or
any sudden thought that it was in her mind at that mo-
ment? 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 cer-
tainly Miss Nipper's thoughts travelled in that direction,
and very confidently too.
"You may come back very soon," said Florence,
" perhaps, Walter."
u I may 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 will
recover from his grief, and speak more freely to me
one day, perhaps ; and if he should, I will tell him how
DOMBEY AND SON. 71
much I wish to see you back again, and ask him to recall
you for my sake."
There was a touching modulation in these words about
her father that Walter understood too well.
The coach being close at hand, he would have left bet
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 full upon him with her
affectionate eyes, " like you, I hope for better things. I
will 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 little hand to him instead.
as long as he could see it.
In spite of her request, he could not help opening tha
packet that night when he went to bed. It was a little
purse : and there was money in it.
Bright rose the sun next morning, from his absence in
strange countries, and up rose Walter with it to receive
tht captain, who was already at the door : having turned
out earlier than was necessary, in order to get under
weigh while Mrs. MacStinger 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
eats at table, " if your uncle's the man I think him, he'll
72 DOMBEY AND SON.
bring out the last bottle of the Madeira on the present
occasion."
" No, no, Ned," returned the old man. u 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 I
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 a'n't quite certain where that's to be found ;
but when found, make a note of. Sol Gills, heave ahead
again ! "
" But there, or somewhere, it shall lie, Ned, until
Wally comes back to claim it," said the old man. u That's
all I meant to say."
" And well said too," returned the captain ; " and if
we three don't crack that bottle in company, I'll 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 ; appearing to consider that his only chance-_
of safety as to keeping up appearances, was in their
heing 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
DOMBEY AXD SOX. 73
hackney -coach pass: and darting out into tin; road when
Walter went up-stairs to take leave of (he lodgers, on a
feint of smelling fire in a neighboring chimney. These
firtifices Captain Cuttle deemed inscrutable by any unin-
spired observer.
Walter was coming down from his parting expedition
up-stairs, and was crossing the shop to go back to the
little parlor, 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-by 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 his invita
tion, " and I am glad of this opportunity too. I may
venture to speak to you, and to take you by the hand
on the eve of separation. I shall not have to resist youi
frank approaches, Walter, any more."
There was a melancholy in his 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 sure."
He shook his head. " If there were any good," he
jaid, " I could do on this 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."
74 DOMbEY ANJ SON.
" Come in, Mr. Carker, and make acquaintance with
Biy 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'
K I have not told him anything about our last conver-
sation, Mr. Carker ; not even him, believe me."
The gray Junior pressed his hand, and tears rcse in
his eyes.
" If I ever make acquaintance with him, Walter," he
returned, '" it will be that I may hear tidings of you.
Rely on my not wronging your forbearance and consid-
eration. It would be to wrong it, not to tell him 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 likely 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."
w 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 inclined the mo.-t towards
you, and was fullest of you. Walter, good-by ! "
" Good-by, 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 -
>>ld 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 think, when I know my time is coning on, that
some one like my former self may stand there, for a
DOMBEY AND SON. 75
moment, and remember me with pity and forgiveness !
Walter, good-by ! "
His figure crept like 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 tha
Walter must turn his back upon the Wooden Midshij-
man : and away they went, himseltj his uncle, and the
captain, in a hackney-coach to a wharf, where they were
to take steamboat for some Reach down the river, the
name of which, as the captain gave it out, was a hope-
less mystery to the ears of landsmen. Arrived at this
Reach (whither the ship had repaired by last night's
tide), they were boarded by various excited watermen,
and among others by a dirty Cyclops of the captain's
acquaintance, who, with his one eye, had made the cap-
tain out some mile and a half off, and had been ex-
changing unintelligible roars with him ever since. Be-
coming the lawful prize of this personage, who was
frightfully hoarse and constitutionally in want of shav-
ing, they were all three put aboard the Son and Heir.
And the Son and Heir was in a pretty state of confu-
sion, with sails lying all bedraggled on the wet decks,
loose ropes tripping people up, men in red shirts run-
ning barefoot to and fro, casks blockading every foot of
apace, and, in the thickest 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, r said the captain, handing it over, and shak-
76 UUMBEY AND SON.
Ing him heartily by the hand, " a parting gift, my lad.
Put it back half an hour every morning, and about
another quarter towards the arternoon, and it's a watch
that'll do you credit."
" Captain Cuttle ! I couldn't think of it ! " cried Wai-
tcr, detaining him, for he was running away. u Pray
take it back. I have one already."
" Then Wal'r," said the captain, suddenly diving irlo
o.ne of his pockets and bringing up the two teaspoons
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 thou-
sand thanks ! Don't throw 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-by, 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 silver
watch (it must have been very painful), and gesticu-
lating hopefully with the teaspoons and sugar-tongs.
Catching sight of Walter, Captain Cuttle dropped the
property into the bottom of the boat with perfect uncon-
cern, being evidently oblivious of its existence, and pul-
ling off the glazed hat hailed him lustily. The glazed
fiat made quite a show in the sun with its glistening, and
the captain continued to wave it until he could be seen
tto longer. Then the confusion on board, which had
DOMBEY AND SON. 77
been rapidly increasing, reached its height ; two or three
other boats went away with a cheer ; the sails shone
bright and full above, as Walter watched them spread
their surface to the favorable breeze; the water flew
in sparkles from the prow ; and off upon her voyage
wont the Son and Heir, as hopefully and trippingly as
many another son and heir, gone down, had started on
his way befbre her.
Day after day, Old Sol and Captain Cuttle kept her
reckoning in the little back parlor and worked out her
course 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 guns,
he looked up at the stars and listened to the wind, and
kept a longer watch than would 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 mean while, undisturbed.
DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XX.
MR. DOMBEY GOES UPON A JOURNEY.
K MR. DOMBEY, sir," said Major Bagstock, " Joey R
is not in general a man of sentiment, for Joseph ia
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 sub-
mit 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 set-
ting forth on their trip ; and the ill-starred native had
already undergone a world of misery arising out of the
muffins, while, in connection 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 de-
liver himself up, a prey to his own emotions ; but
damme, sir," cried the major, in another spasm of feroc-
ity, " I condole with you ! "
The major's purple visage deepened in its hue, and
the major's lobster eyes stood out in bolder relief, as he
shook Mr. Dombey by the hand, imparting to that
peaceful action as defiant a character as if it had been
the prelude to his immediately boxing Mr. Dorabey for
DCMBEY AND SON. 79
A thousand pounds a side and the championship of Eng-
land. With a rotatory motion of his head, and a wheeze
very like the cough of a horse, the major then conducted
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 Europe
to whom J. Bag.stoek would say that for Josh is blunt,
sir : it's his nature but Joey B. is proud to see you,
Dombey."
" Major," returned Mr. Dombey, " you are very oblig-
ing."
" 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 Jot yet,
I find. But this occasion, being special, is a source ol
pride to me. By the Lord, sir," said the major, reso-
lutely, " it's an honor to me ! "
Mr. Dombey, in his estimation of himself and hia
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 agreeable. It was a confirmation to Mr.
Dombey, if he had required any, of his not being mis-
taken 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
Vess becoming sense of it, than the beadle of the Royal
Exchange.
And if it were ever consolatory to know this, or the
80 DOMBEY AND SON.
like of this, it was consolatory then, wlien the impotence
of his will, the instability of his hopes, the feebleness of
wealth, had been so direfully impressed upon him.
What could it do, his boy had a.*ked 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 despondency and gloom of his retirement, and
pride easily found its reassurance 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 great people. He
talked much, and told stories ; and Mr. Dombey was dis-
posed to regard him as a choice spirit who .shone in
society, and who had not that poisonous ingredient of
poverty with which choice spirits in general are too
much adulterated. His station was undeniable. Alto-
gether the major was a creditable companion, well accus-
tomed 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 ruthlrss 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, un-
examined.
DOMBEY AND SON. 81
" Where is my scoundrel ! " said the -najor, looking
Hrrathfully round the room.
The native, who had no particular name, but answered
to any vituperative epithet, presented himself instantly
at the door, and ventured to come no nearer.
" You villain ! " said the choleric major, " where's the
breakfast ? "
The dark servant disappeared in search of it, and was
quickly heard reascending the stairs in such a tremulous
c-tato, that the plates and dishes on the tray he carried,
trembling sympathetically as he came, rattled again all
the way up.
" Dombey," said the major, glancing at the native aa
he arranged the table, and encouraging him with an
awful shake of his fist when he upset a spoon, " here is
a devilled grill, a savory pie, a dish of kidneys, and so
forth. Pray sit down. Old Joe can give you nothing
hut camp fare, you see."
" Very excellent fare, major," replied his guest ; and
not in mere politeness either ; for the major always took
the best po.-sible 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
(acuity to that circumstance.
" You have been looking over the way, sir," observed
the major. " Have you seen our friend ? "
" You mean Miss Tox," retorted Mr. Dombey. " Na"
'" Charming woman, sir," said the major, with a fat
laugh rising in his short throat, and nearly suffocating
aim.
" Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe,"
replied Mr. Dombey.
The haughty coldness of the reply seemed to afford
82 DOMBEY AND SON.
Major Bagstock infinite delight He swelled and
swelled, exceedingly ; and even laid down his knife
and fork for a moment, to rub his hands.
" Old Joe, sir," said the major, " was a bit of a favor-
ite in that quarter once. But Joe has had his day J,
Bagstock is extinguished outrivalled floored, sir.
[ 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 presumption to harbor 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 Royal Highness the
late Duke of York observed of Joey, at a levee, that
he saw."
The major accompanied this with such a look, and, be-
tween eating, drinking, hot tea, devilled grill, muffins,
and meaning, was altogether so swollen and inflamed
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."
a I am sorry for her," said Mr. Dombey.
" Don't say that, Dombey," returned the major, hi a.
warning voice.
" Why should I not, major ? " said Mr. Dorabey.
The major gave no answer but the horse's cough, and
went on eating vigorously.
* She has taken an interest in your household," saiJ
DOMBEY AND SON. 83
'he major, stopping short again, " and been a frequent
visitor at your house for some time now."
" Yes," replied Mr. 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 encour
nged to repeat her visits, with my sister, and grad-
ually to occupy a kind of footing of familiarity 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 attention and 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 pleasure of your acquaintance."
" Dombey," 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 being a strug'
gle against all kinds of apoplectic symptoms, " we knew
each other through your boy."
Mr. Dombey seemed touched, as it is not improbable
ihe major designed he should be, by this allusion. H<?
iooked down and sighed : and the major, rousing himself
fiercely, again said, in reference to the state of mind into
84 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 connection with that event,"
said the major, " and all the credit that belongs to her,
J. B. is willing 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 am-
bition 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 start-
ing eyes appeared to make a leap towards her, " you
might do that to your 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 gen-
erous, 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 nc thing.
But Joey B. lias lived in the world, sir: lived in the
world with his eyes open, sir, and his ears cocked : and
Joe tells you, Dombey, that there's a de-vilish artful and
unbitious woman over the way."
Mr. Dombey involuntarily glanced over the way ; and
an angry glance he sent in ihat direction, too.
" That's all on such a subject that shall pass the lips
of J oseph Bagstock," said the major firmly. " Joe is no<
a tale-beaver, but there are times when ht- mast speak
DOMBEY AND SON. 85
when he will speak ! confound your arts, ma'am,"
cried the major, again apostrophizing his fair neigh-
bor, with great ire " when the provocation is too
strong to admit of his remaining silent."
The emotion of this outbreak threw the major into a
paroxysm of horse's couglns, 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 guest and guide at Leaming-
ton, command him in any way you please, and he is
wholly yours. I don't know, sir," said the major, wag-
ging 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 clamoring for the posses-
sion of Major Bagstock. But the major cut him short
by giving him to understand that he followed his own
inclinations, 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."
The major being by this time in a state of repletion,
with essence of savory pie oozing out at the corners of
his eyes, and devilled grill and kidneys tightening his
cravat : and the time moreover approaching for the de-
parture of the railway train to Birmingham, by which
th'ey were to leave town : the native got him into his
great-coat with immense difficulty, and buttoned him up
86 DOMBEY AND SON.
until his face looked staring and gasping, over the top
of that garment, as if he were in a barrel. 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 un-
usual quantity of carpet-bags and small portmanteaus,
no less apoplectic 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 all of which light 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 (currently be-
lieved 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 honoring her with the
slightest possible inclination of his head, leaned back in
the carriage with a very discontented look. His marked
behavior seemed to afford the major (who was all polite-
ness in his recognition of Miss Tox) unbounded satis-
DOMBEY AND SON. SI
facliou ; 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 plat-
form 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 was standing near the engine, and who touched
his hat every time they passed ; for Mr. Dombey ha-
bitually 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 canvas 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 fairly
called a dirty-looking fellow, in spite of this; and, iu
short, he was Mr. Toodle, professionally clothed.
" I shall have the honor of stokin' of you down, sir,"
said Mr. Toodle. " Beg your pardon, sir. I hope you
Qnd 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 eye-
sight dirty.
" 'Scuse the liberty, sir,'* said Toodle, seeing he was
88 DOMBEY AND SON.
not clearly remembered, " but my wife Poily, as waa
called Richards in your family "
A. change in Mr. Dombey's face, which seemed to ex-
press recollection of him, and so it did, but it expressed
in a much stronger degree an angry sense of humilia-
tion, stopped Mr. Toodle short.
" Your wife wants money, I suppose," said Mr. Dora,
bey, 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, sir. We've
had four more since then, sir, but we rubs on."
Mr. Dombey would have rubbed on to his own car-
riage, though in so doing he had rubbed the stoker un-
derneath the wheels ; but his attention was arrested by
something in connection with the cap still going slowly
round and round in the man's hand.
" We lost one babby," observed Toodle, " there's no
denyin'."
" Lately," added Mr. 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 betwaen them on that subject long ago, " them
boys o' mine, they learned me, among 'em, arter all.
They've made a wery tolerable scholar of me, sir
them boys."
" Come, major ! " said Mr. Dombey.
DOMBEY AND SOS. 89
* Beg your pardon, sir," resumed Toodle, taking a
gtep before them, and deferentially stopping them again,
still cap in hand : " I wouldn't have troubled you witb
such a pint except as a way of gettin' in the name of
my son Biler christened Robin him as you was >
good as to make a Charitable Grinder on."
" Well, man," said Mr. Dombey, in his severest man-
ner. " What about him ? "
'' Why, sir," returned Toodle, shaking his head with a
fnce 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, gentlemen,"
pursued the father, looking wistfully at both, and evi-
dently taking the major into the conversation with the
hope of having his sympathy. " He has got into bad
ways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but
he's on the wrong track now ! You could hardly be off
hearing of it somehow, sir," said Toodle, again address-
ing Mr. Dombey individually ; " and it's better I should
out and say my boy's gone rather wrong. Polly's dread-
ful down about it, gentelmen," said Toodle with the
same dejected lock, and another appeal to the major.
' ; A son of this man's whom I caused to be educated,,
major," said Mr. Dombey, giving him his arm. " The
usual return ! "
" Take adfice from plain old Joe, and never educate
(liflt 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,
tnd flogged and badged, and ta )ght, as parrots are, by a
90 DOMBEY AND SON.
brute jobbed into his place of schoolmaster with as mucb
fitness for it as a hound, might not have been educated
on quite a right plan in some undiscovered respect, when
Mr. Dombey angrily repeating " The usual return ! " led
the major away. And the major being heavy to hoist
in to 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 vagabond," he would certainly
lie hanged.
Mr. Dombey assented bitterly ; but there was some-
thing 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 Flor-
ence in his great house to the coarse churl who was feed-
ing 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
DOMBEY AND SOX. 91
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 a
proud gentleman's secret heart ! To think that this lost
child, who was to have divided with him his riches, and
Ins 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 knowledge 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 pleasure or relief in the journey. Tor-
tured by these thoughts, he carried monotony with him,
through the rushing landscape, and hurried headlong, not
through a rich and varied country, but a wilderness of
blighted plans and gnawing jealousies. The very speed
at which the train was whirled along mocked the swift
course of th^ 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 degrees behind it, was a type of the
triumphant monster Death !
Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, from
the town, burrowing among the dwellings of men and
making the streets hum, flashing out into the meadows
for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, boom-
ing 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
92 DOMBEY AND SOJT.
chalk, tb rough the mould, 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 slowly within him : like as in the
track of the remorseless monster, Death !
Through the hollow, on the height, by the heath, by
ihe orchard, by the park, by the garden, over the canal,
across the river, where the sheep are feeding, where the
mill 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 will ; away,
with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, and no trace to
leave behind but dust and vapor: like as in the track of
the remorseless monster, Death I
Breasting the wind and light, the shower and sun-
shine, away, and still away, it rolls and roars, fierce and
rapid, smooth and certain, and great work^and massive
bridges crossing up above, fall like a beam of shadow an
inch broad, upon the eye, and then are lost. Away, and
Btill away, onward and onward ever : glimpses of cot-
tage-homes, of houses, mansions, rich estates, of hus-
bandry and handicraft, of people, of old roads and palhg
that look desertel, 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
flown into the earth again, and working on in such a
storm of energy and perseverance, that amidst the dark
ness and whirlwind the motion seems reversed, and to
tend furiously backward, until a ray of light upon the
DOMBEY AND SON. 93
wet wall shows its surface flying past like a fiercw
stream. Away once more into the day, and through the
day, with a shrill 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 faf
below. There are jagged walls and falling houses close
at hand, and through the battered roofs and broken win-
dows, wretched rooms are seen, where want and fever
hide themselves in many wretched shapes, while smoke
and crowded gables, and distorted chimneys, and defor-
mity of brick and mortar penning 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 journey's fitting end, and
might have been the end of everything ; it was so ruin-
ous and dreary.
So, pursuing the one course of thought, he had (lie
one relentless monster still before him. All things
looked black, and cold, and deadly upon him, and he on
them. He found a likeness to his misfortune every-
where. There was a remorseless tiiumph going on
about him, and it galled and stung him in his pride and
94 DOMBET AND SON.
jealousy, whatever form it took: though most of all
when it divided with him the love and memory of his
lost boy.
There was a face he had looked upon 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 something of doubt,
almost of hopeful incredulity in it, which, as he once
more saw that fade away into a desolate certainty of his
dislike, 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 foreshadowing in older times
was full-formed now, and spoke out pRfiuly, moving
him too much, and threatening to grow too strong for
his composure. Because the face was abroad, in the
expression of defeat and persecution that seemed to
encircle him like the air. Because it barbed the arrow
of that cruel and remorseless enemy on which his
thoughts so ran, and put into its grasp a double-handed
sword. Because he knew full well, in his own breast,
as he stood there, tinging the scene of transition before
him with the morbid colors of his own mind, and making
it a ruin and a picture of decay, instead of hopeful
caange, 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 95
him to no reflection but that. She had been unwelcome
to him from the first ; she was an aggravation of his bit-
terness 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 be-
lieved it, without a pang), and had not. Her loving and
innocent face rising before him, had no softening or win-
ning influence. He rejected the angel, and took up with
the tormenting spirit crouching in his bosom. Her pa-
tience, goodness, youth, devotion, love, were as so many
atoms in the ashes upon which he set his heel. He saw
her image in the blight 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, like another engine, and whose eye had often
wandered from his newspaper to leer at the prospect, as
if there were a great procession of discomfited 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
pcet-horses were harnessed and the carriage ready.
" Dombey," said the major, rapping him on the arm
with his cane, " 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, Dom-
bey, to be thoughtful. In your position, sir, you're far
above that kind of thing."
The major, even in his friendly remonstrances, thtw
96 DOMBEY AND SON.
consulting the dignity and honor of Mr. Dombey, and
showing a lively sense of their importance, Mr. Dombey
felt more than ever disposed to defer to a gentleman pos-
sessing 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
mode of travelling they had just relinquished, came out
for his entertainment.
In this flow of spirits and conversation, only inter-
rupted by his usual plethoric symptoms, and by intervals
of lunch, and from time to time by some violent assault
upon the native, who wore a pair of ear-rings in his dark-
brown ears, and on whom his European clothes sat with
an outlandish impossibility of adjustment being, of
their own accord, and without any reference to the tai-
lor'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 con-
versation, the major continued all 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 clicking,
appeared to be in the box under, the rumble, or in some
neighboring haystack. Nor did the major improve it at
the Royal Hotel, where rooms and dinner had been or-
dered, and where he so oppressed his organs of speech
by eating and drinking, that when he retired to bed he
bad no voice at all, except to cough with, and could only
DOMBEY AND SON. 97
nake himself intelligible to the dark servant by gasping
at him.
He not only rose 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 lo
have a late breakfast together every morning, and a late
dinner together every 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
partexl until dinner-time. Mr. Dombey retired to nurse
his wholesome thoughts in his own way. Tlie major,
attended by the native carrying a camp-stool, a great-
i-oat, and an umbrella, swaggered up and down through
all the public places ; looking into subscription 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 Dornbey wherever he went.
There never was a man who stood by a friend more
slanchly than the major, when in puffing him, he puffed
himself.
It was surprising how much new conversation the
major had to let off at dinner-time, and what occasion
he gave Mr. Dombey to admire his social qualities. At
breakfast next morning, he knew the contents of the
latest newspapers received ; and mentioned several sub-
jects in connection 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 him
98 DOMBET AND SON.
elf, 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 improve-
ment on his solitary life ; and in place of excusing him-
self for another day, as he had thought of doing when
alone, walked out with the major arin-iu-arm.
DOMBEY AND SON. 99
CHAPTER XXI.
NEW FACES.
THE majur, 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 importance,
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 wag-
ging from side to side, as if he were remonstrating within
himself for 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, l>ut he merely
shook his fingers at them as he passed, and led Mr. Dom-
bey on : pointing out the localities as they went, and
enlivening the walk with any current scandal suggested
by them.
In this manner the major and Mr. Dombey were
walking arm-in-arm, much to their own satisfaction,
ivlien they beheld advancing towards them a wheeled
,hair, in which a lady was seated, indolently steering her
Carriage by a kind of rudder in front, while it was pro-
pelled by some unseen power in the rear. Although the
lady was not young, she was very blooming in the face
quite '-osj -and her dress and attitude weie per-
100 DOMBEY AND SON.
fectly juvenile. Walking by the side of the chair, and
carrying her gossamer parasol with a proud and weary
nir, as if so great an effort must be soon abandoned, and
the parasol dropped, sauntered a much younger lady,
very handsome, very haughty, 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
u Major Bagstock ! "
The major no sooner heard the voice, than he relin-
quished Mr. Dombey'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 oilier lady. And
now, the chair having stopped, the motive power became
visible in the shape of a flushed page pushing behind,
who seemed to have in part outgrown 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 injured the shape of his
hat, by butting at the carriage with his head to urge 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 beai
you."
" Then suffer old Joe to present a friend, ma'am," said
die major, promptly, "as a reason for being tolerated.
DOMBEY AND SON. 101
Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Skewton." The lady in the chair
was gracious. " Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Granger." The
lady witli the parasol was faintly conscious of Mr. Dora-
bey's taking off his hat, and bowing low. " I am de-
lighted, 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,
M 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 eye-
brows with her fan, and showing her false teeth, set off
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 soul and being inspired by the sight
of nature ; by the perfume," said Mrs. Skewton, rustling
a handkerchief that was faint and sickly with essences,
w of her artless breath, you creature ! "
The discrepancy between Mrs. Skewton's fresh enthu-
siasm of words, and forlornly faded manner, was hardly
'ess 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
shair (which he never varied) was one in which she
102 DOMBEY AND SON.
had been taken in a barouche, some fifty years before,
by a then fashionable artist, who had appended to hia
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 re-
clined on board her galley. Mrs. Skevvton was a beauty
then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by
dozens in her honor. The beauty and the barouche had
both passed away, but she still preserved the attitude,
and for this reason expressly, maintained the wheeled
chair and the butting page : there being nothing what-
ever, 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,
M may be devoted to her in secret, but a man who is par-
amount in the greatest city in the universe "
" No one can be a stranger," said Mrs. Skewton, " to
Mr. Dombey's immense influence."
As Mr. Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a
bend of his head, the younger lady glancing at him, met
his eyes
" You reside here, madam ? " said Mr. Dombey, ad-
dressing her.
" No, we have been to a great many places. To Ilar-
rogate, 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
& ghastly archness.
" I have not found that there is any change in sucb
DOMBEY AND SON. 108
places," was the answer, delivered with supreme indiffer-
ence.
" They libel me. There is only one change, Mr.
Dombey," observed Mrs. Skewton, with a mincing sigh,
u for which I really care, and that I fear I shall never
b? 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 yourself intelligible," said the younger lady.
" My dearest Edith," returned Mrs. Skewton, " you
know that I am wholly dependent upon you for those
odious names. I assure you, Mr. Dombey, Nature in-
tended 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 re-
membrance of the celebrated bull 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 convention-
ality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully
artificial."
We were, indeed.
" In short," said Mrs. Skewton, " I want nature every-
where. It world be so extremely charming."
" Nature is inviting us away now, mama, if you are
ready," said the younger lady, curling her handsome lip.
A.t this hint, the wan page, who had been surveying the
104 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 Royal Hotel, with his
friend Dombey.
" You may come and see us any evening when you
are good," lisped Mrs. Skewton. " If Mr. Dombey will
honor 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 hon-
ored them both with a very gracious smile and a girlish
wave of her hand ; the younger lady with the very
slightest inclination of her head that common courtesy
allowed.
The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother,
with that patched color on it which the sun made infin-
itely more haggard and dismal than any want of color
could have been, and of the proud beauty of the daugh-
ter with her graceful figure and erect deportment, engen-
dered 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, up-hill, like a slow battering-ram : the top of
Cleopatra's bonnet was fluttering in exactly the same
corner to the inch as before ; and the Beauty, loitering
by herself a little in advance, expressed in all her ele-
DOMBEY AND SON. 105
gant fonn, from head (o 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 preftf
for Mrs. Bag-took 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 eomplimentary to the mother," returned
Mr. Dombey.
" An ancient flame, sir," chuckled Major Bagstock.
" De-vilish ancient. I humor her."
" She impresses me as being perfectly genteel," said
Mr. Dombey.
" Genteel, sir," said the major, stopping short, and
staring in his companion's face. " The Honorable 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 flourish 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
rf Ours ; " whom the major indicated by another punch.
" Granger, sir," said the major, tapping the last ideal
portrait, and rolling his head emphatically, " was Colonel
106 DOMBEY AND SON.
of Ours; . de-vilish handsome fellow, sir, of forty-one.
He died, air, 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-frill with his right,
u is, at this present time, not quite thirty. And, damme,
sir," said the major, shouldering his stick once more, and
walking on again, " she's a peerless woman ! "
" Was there any family ? " asked Mr. Dombey, pres-
ently.
" Yes, air," said the major. " There was a boy."
Mr. Pombey's eyes sought the ground, and a shade
came over his face.
" Who was drowned, sir," pursued the major, " when a
child of four or five years old."
" 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 hit
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 overfed Mephistopheles than ever,
}s he said the words.
" Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose ? "
said Mr. Dombey coldly.
" By Gad, sir," said the major, " the Bagstock breed
DOMBEY AND SON. 107
are not accustomed 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,
sir."
With this tribute to the character of his ally, which
seemed to be wrung from him by the force of circum-
stances and the irresistible tendency of their conversa-
tion, ihe 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 Honorable Mrs. Skewton and her daugh-
ter 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. Dom-
bey had not originally intended to pay visits, but on the
major announcing this intention, he said he would have
the pleasure of accompanying him. So the major told
the Native to go round before dinner, and say, with hia
and Mr. Dombey's compliments, that they would have
the honor 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 Honorable Mrs.
Skewton to Major Bagstock, and briefly saying, " You
108 DOMBET AND SON.
lire a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to for-
give you, but if you are very good indeed," which was
underlined, " you may come. Compliments (in which
Edith unites) to Mr. Dombey."
The Honorable Mrs. Skewton and her daughter, Mrs.
Granger, resided while at Leamington, in lodgings thai
were fashionable enough and dear enough, but ralher
limited in point of space and conveniences ; so that the
Honorable Mrs. Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in
the window and her head in the fire-place, while (he
Honorable Mrs. Skewton's maid was quartered in a
closet within the drawing-room, so extremely small, that,
to avoid developing the whole of its accommodations, she
was obliged to writhe in and out of the door like a beau-
tiful serpent. Withers, the wan page, slept out of the
house immediately under the tiles at a neighboring milk-
shop ; and the wheeled chair, which was the stone of
that young Sisyphus, passed the night in a shed belong-
ing to the same dairy, where new-laid eggs were pro-
duced by the poultry connected with the establishment,
who roosted on a broken donkey-cart, persuaded, to all
appearance, that it grew there, and was a species of
tree.
Mr. Dombey and the major found Mrs. Skewton ar-
ranged, as Cleopatra, among the cushions of a sofa ; very
airily dressed; and certainly not resembling Shakspeare'e
Cleopatra, whom 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 109
as 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 Mr. Dombey, advancing
a step towards her, " we are not the cause of your ceas-
ing to play ? "
" You? 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 dulness or in-
sensibility, for it was pointed with proud purpose : was
well set off by the carelessness with which she drew her
hand across the strings, and came from that part of the
room.
" Do you know, Mr. Dombey," said her languishing
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 darling ! Fie, fie, it would break
my heart," returned her mother, making a faint attempt
to pat her with the screen, which Edith made no move-
ment to meet, "about these cold conventionalities of
manner that are observed in little things? Why are we
not more natural ! Dear me ! With all those yearnings,
and gushing?, and impulsive throbbings that we have im-
planted in our souls, and which are so very charming
why are we not more natural?"
110 DOMBEY AND SON.
Mr. Dombey said it was very true, very true.
" We could be more natural I suppose if we tried ? "
laid Mrs. Skewton.
Mr. Dombey thought it possible.
" Devil a bit, ma'am," said the major. u We couldn't
afford it. Unless the world was peopled with J. B.'s
tough and blunt old Joes, ma'am, plain red herrings with
hard roes, sir we couldn't afford it. It wouldn't do."
u You naughty infidel," said Mrs. Skewton, " be mute."
" Cleopatra commands," returned the major, kissing his
hand, " and Antony Bagstock obeys."
" The man has no sensitiveness," said Mrs. Skewton,
cruelly 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 com-
placently observing the effect of her bare lean arm,
looking upward from the wrist, " how could we poss-bly
bear it ? In short, obdurate man ! " glancing at the
major, round the 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 th<
tea, Mr. Dombey again addressed himself to Edith.
M There is not much company here, it would seem ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. Ill
said Mr. Dombey, in his own portentous gentlemanly
way.
" I believe not. "We see none.".
" Why really," observed Mrs. 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 op-
position to the diamonds. " Wicked one ! "
" You have been here before, if I am not mistaken ? "*
said Mr. Dombey. Still to Edith.
" Oh, several times. I think we have been every-
where."
" 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 re-
garded, turned her eyes again towards Mr. Dombey.
" I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am
tired of the neighborhood," she said.
" You have almost reason to be, madam," he replied,
glancing at a variety of landscape drawings, of which he
had already recognized several as representing neighbor-
ing points of view, and which were strewn abundantly
ubout the room, '" if these beautiful productions are from
your hand. '
112 DOMUEY AND SON.
She gave him uo reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty,
quite amazing.
" Have they that interest ? " said Mr. Dombey. " Are
Ihey yours ? "
Yes."
" And you play, I already know."
Yes."
" And sing."
Yes."
She answered all these questions with a strange reluc-
tance ; and with that remarkable air of opposition to her-
self, already noticed as belonging to her beauty. Yet
phe 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.
" 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 gallantry, laying down a drawing he had
held, and motioning towards the harp.
" Oh certainly ! If you desire it ! "
Sho rose as she spoke, and crossing by her mother's
couch, and directing a stately look towards her, which
was instantaneous in its duration, 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 118
down to play piquet with her. Mr. Dombey, not know-
ing the ffame, sat down to watch them for his edification
until Edith should return.
" We are going to have some music, Mr. Dombey, 1
bopo?" 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 mnjor. " Couldn't do it."
** You're a barbarous being," replied the lady, " and
my hand's destroyed. You 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 recollec-
tions of a previous state of existence and all that
which is so truly charming. Do you know," simpered
Cleopatra, r .. /ersing the knave of clubs, who had come
into her game with his heels uppermost, " that if any-
thing could tempt me to put a period to my life, it
would be curiosity 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, would 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
tome back.
She came at last, and sat down to her harp, and Mr.
Dombey rose and stood beside her, listening. He had
little taste for music, and no knowledge of the strain she
played, but he saw her bending over it, and perhaps he
aeard among the sounding strings some distant music of
VOL. TI. 8
U4 DOMBEY AND SON.
his own, that tamed the monster of the iron road, and
made it less inexorable-
Cleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at piquet. It glis-
tened 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 Mr. 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 handsome, 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, rigid man ! Sleep, lonely Florence,
sleep ! Peace in thy dreams, although the night has
turned dark, and the clouds are gathering, and threaten
to discharge themselves in hail !
DOMBEY AND SON. 115
CHAPTER XXII.
A FR1XI.E OF MANAGEMENT BY MK. CARKER THE MAN-
AGER.
MR. CARKER the manager sat at his desk, smooth ami
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 re-
quired, and parcelling them out into little heaps for dis-
tribution through the several departments of the house.
The post had come in heavy that morning, and Mr. Car-
ker 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 turna
would easily suggest some whimsical resemblance to
n player at cards. The face of Mr. Carker the manager
was in good keeping with such a fancy. It was the face
of a man who studied his play, warily : who made him-
self 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 hia
own hand.
The letters were in various languages, but Mr. Carkei
116 DOMBSY AND SON.
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 jiew matter to the heaps much as a
man would know the cards at sight, and work out their
combinations in his mind after they were turned. Some-
thing 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 sky-
light, playing his game alone.
And although it is not among the instincts wild 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 color 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 <uul watch the
falling motes of dust, and rub them off 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 steadfastness 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 for a particular audience. Having
locked the more confidential correspondence in a drawer
Mr. Carker the manager ran" his bell.
UOMliEY AND SON. 117
" Why do you answer it ? " was his reception of his
orother.
" 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 turned dis-
dainfully 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.
" Well ? " he repeated sharply.
" I am uneasy about Harriet."
"Harriet who? what Harriet? 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 "
" Why should 1 hear you, Brother John ? " returned
ihe manager, laying a sarcastic emphasis on those two
wcrds, and throwing up his head, but not lifting his eyes.
u I tell 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.
Ct would be black ingratitude in me to hint at such fl
118 DOMBEY AND SON.
thing," returned the other. " Though believe ine, James,
I am aa sorry for her sacrifice as you."
" As I ? " exclaimed the manager. " As I ? "
" As sorry for her choice for what you call her
dioice 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 offence in my inten-
tion."
" There is offence in everything you do," replied hia
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 :
" When 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 for-
tunes, 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 if you knew how
Cheerfully she cast those hopes away ; how cheerfully
DOMBEY AND SON. 119
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, " Remarkable indeed ! You
quite surprise me ! " And again he uttered never a word.
" May I go on ? " said John Carker, mildly.
" On your way ? " replied his smiling brother. " If
you will 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
tell her that I go as cheerfully on mine. If she has
never once looked back, you may tell her that I have,
sometimes, to recall her taking part with you, and that
my resolution is no easier to wear away ; " he smiled
Very sweetly here ; " than marble."
" I tell . her nothing of you. We never speak about
you. Once a year, on your birthday, Harriet says al-
ways, ' Let us remember James by name, and wish him
happy,' but we say no more."
" Tell it then, if you please," returned the other, " to
yourself. You can't repeat it too often, as a lesson to
you to avoid the subject in speaking to me. I know no
Harriet Carker. There is no such person. You may
have a sister ; make much of her. I have none."
Mr. Carker the manager took up the letter again, and
waved it with a smile of mock courtesy towards the
door. Unfolding it as his brother withdrew, and looking
iarkly after him as he left the room, he once more
120 DOMBEY ANP SON.
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 all 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
through once, he turned it over again, and picked out
these passage?. " 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 pei-son." " I omitted to speak to you about young
Gay. If not gone per Son and Heir, or if Son and
Heir still 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-rubber : " for he's far away ! "
Still that passage which was in a postscript, attracted
his attention and his teeth, once more.
" I think," he said, " my good friend Captain Cuttle
mentioned something about being towed along in the
wake of that day. What a pity he's so far away ! "
He refolded the 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 tiptoe, bending his body at every step
s if it were the delight of his life to bow, laid some
papers on the table.
tt Would you please to-be engaged, sir ?" asked Mr
DOMBEY AND SON. 121
Perch, rubbing his hands, and deferential!) patting hih
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 ou( 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. Gills the Ship's
Instrument-maker, sir, has looked in about a little mat-
ter 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 waited
for further orders.
" Anybody else? "
" Well, sir," said Mr. Perch, " I wouldn't of my own
self take the liberty of mentioning, sir, that there waa
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, "dreadful 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 hig
hand again, " his expression certainly were that he was
in wants of a sitiwation, and that he considered some-
thing might be done for him about the Docks, being
used to fishing with a rod and line: but" Mr. Perch
ihook his head very dubiously indeed.
" What does he say when he comes?" asked Mr. Carker
" Indeed, sir," said Mr. Perch, coughing another
tough behind his hand, which was always his resource
122 DOMBEY AND SON.
as an expression of humility when nothing t:lse occurred
to him, " his 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, sir," added Perch,
dropping his voice to a whisper, and turning, in the in-
violable 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 already, " it's hardly to be
bore, sir, that a common lad like that should 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 nursing as thriving a little girl, sir, as we'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 like a shark, but in a.i
absent, thoughtful manner.
" Whether," submitted Mr. Perch, after a short silence
and another cough, " it mightn't be best for me to tell
him, that if he was seen here any more he would be
given into custody ; and to keep to it ! With respect to
bodily fear," said Mr. Perch, " I'm so timid, myself, by
nature, sir, and my nerves is so unstrung by Mrs. Perch's
tfate, that I could take my affidavit easy."
" Let me see this fellow, Perch," said Mr Carker.
y Bring him in ! "
** Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir," said Mr.
Perch, hesitating at the door, u he's rough, sir, in ap-
pearance."
" Never mind. If he's there, bring him in. I'll see
Mr. Gills directly. Ask him to wait ! "
DOMBEY AND SON. 123
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 favorite at-
titude before the fire-place, and stood looking at the
door ; presenting with his under-lip tucked into the
Bmile that showed his whole row of upper teeth, a sin-
gularly crouching appearance.
The messenger was not long in returning, followed by
a pair of heavy boots that came bumping along the pas-
sage like boxes. With the unceremonious words " Come
along with you ! " a very unusual form of introduction
from his lips Mr. Perch then ushered into the pres-
ence 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
his appearance, had a round 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 shoulders.
The boy, who in the midst of his astonishment could
not help staring wildly at the gentleman with so many
white teeth, who was choking him, and at the office-walls,
BS though determined, if he were choked, that his last
look should be at the mysteries for his intrusion into
which he was paying such a severe penalty, at last con
trived to utter
" Come, sir ! You let me alone, will you ! "
" Let you alone ! " said Mr. Carker. " What I I
124 DOMBEY AND SON.
have got you, have I ? " There was no doubt of that,
and tightly too. " You dog," said Mr. Carker, through
his set jaws, " I'll strangle you ! "
Biler whimpered, would he though ? oh, no he would-
n'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
reception, 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 man-
hood as to cry.
" I haven't done nothing to you, sir," said Biler, other-
wise Rob, otherwise Grinder, and always Toodle.
" You young scoundrel ! " replied Mr. Carker, slowly
releasing him, and moving back a step into his favorite
position. "What do you mean by daring to come here?"
" I didn't mean no harm, sir," whimpered Rob, putting
one hand to his throat, and the knuckles of the other to
his eyes. " I'll never come again, sir. I only wanted
work."
" Work, young Cain that you are ! " repeated Mr.
Carker, eying him narrowly. " A'n'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 gen-
tleman, therefore, with a frightened, self-convicted, and
remorseful air. As to his looking at him, it may be
observed that he was fascinated by Mr. Carker and never
took his round eyes off him for an instant.
" A'n't you a thief?" said Mr. Carker, with his hands
behind him in his pockets.
" No, sir," pleaded Rob.
DOMBEY AND SON. 185
u You are ! " said Mr. Carker.
** I a'n't indeed, sir," whimpered Rob. " I never did
such a thing as thieve, sir, if you'll believe me. I know
I've been going wrong, sir, ever sinceI took to bird-catch-
ing and walking-matching. I'm sure a cove might think,"
said Mr. Toodle junior, with a burst of penitence, " that
?inging-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 a'n't been home twenty times since them birds got
their will of me," said Rob, " and that's ten months.
How can I go home when everybody's miserable to see
me ! I wonder," said Biler, blubbering outright, and
smearing his eyes with his coat-cuff, " that I haven't
been and drownded myself over and over again."
All of which, including his 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 with
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
ou, my fine fellow ! "
" I'm sure, sir," returned the wretched Biler, blubber-
ing again, and again having recourse to his coat-cuff:
' I shouldn't care, sometimes, if it was growed too. My
misfortunes all began in wagging, sir ; but what could J
do, exceptin' wag ? "
" Excepting what : " said Mr. Carker.
126 DOMBEY AND SON.
u Wag, sir. Wagging from school."
" Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going?"
gaid Mr. Carker.
" Yes, sir, that's vyagging, 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 Too-
dle junior, faintly.
Mr. Carker the manager pushed him backwards into
a corner the boy submitting quietly, hardly venturing
to breathe, and never once removing his eyes from hia
face and rang the bell.
" Tell Mr. Gills to come here."
Mr. Perch was too deferential to express surprise or
recognition of the figure in the corner : and Uncle Sol
appeared immediately.
' Mr. Gills ! " said Carker, with a smile, " sit down.
How do you do ? You continue to enjoy your health, 1
hope?"
" Thank you, sir," returned Uncle Sol, taking out hia
pocket-book, and handing over some notes as he spoke.
u Nothing ails me in body but old age. Twenty-five,
sir."
" You are as punctual and exact, Mr. Gills," replied
the smiling manager, taking a paper from one of hia
many drawers, and making an indorsement on it, while
Uncle Sol looked over him, " as one of your own chro-
nometer?. Quite right."
DOMBEY AND SON. 127
" 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," returned
Carker. " There seems to have been tempestuous
weather, Mr. Gills, and she has probably been driven
03t of her course."
" She is safe, I trust in Heaven ! " said old Sol.
M She is safe, I trust in Heaven ! " assented Mr.
Carker in that voiceless 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 your nephew very much ? "
Uncle Sol, standing by him, shook his head and
heaved a deep sigh.
" Mr. 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 antici-
pation 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 instru-
ments ; drudge, Mr. Gills. That's the lad ! "
Sol Gills pulled down his spectacles from his forehead
to his eyes, and looked at Toodle junior standing upright
in the corner, his head presenting the appearance (which
it always did) of having been newly drawn out of a
bucket of cold water ; his small waistcoat rising and
falling quickly in the play of his emotions ; and his
eyes intently fixed on Mr. Carker, without the leas!
refeience to his proposed master.
128 DOMBEY A3D SON.
* Will you give him house-room, Mr. Gills ? ' said
the manager.
Old Sol, without being quite enthusiastic on the sub-
ject, replied that he was glad of any opportunity, how-
ever slight, to oblige Mr. Carker, whose wish on such
a point was a command : and that the Wooden Mid-
shipman would consider himself happy to receive in
his berth any visitor of Mr. Carker's selecting.
Mr. Carker bared himself to the tops and bottoms of
his gums : making the watchful Toodle junior tremble
more and more : and acknowledged the instrument-
maker's politeness in his most affable manner.
" I'll dispose of him so, then, Mr. Gills," he answered,
rising, and shaking the old man by the hand, " until I
make up ray mind what t*> do with him, and what he
deserves. As I consider myself responsible for him,
Mr. Gills," here he smiled a wide smile at Rob, who
shook before it : "I shall be glad if you'll look sharply
after him, and report his behavior to me. I'll ask a
question or two of his parents as I ride home this after-
noon respectable people to confirm some particu-
lars in his own account of himself; and that done, Mr.
Gills, I'll send him round to yon to-morrow morning.
Good- by 1"
His smile at parting was so full of teeth, that it con-
fused old Sol, and made him vaguely uncomfortable.
He went home, thinking of raging seas, foundering
ships, drowning men, an ancient bottle of Madeira never-
brought to light, and other dismal matter.
" Now, boy ! " said Mr. Carker, putting his hind en
young Toodle's shoulder, and bringing him out into the
middle of the room. " You have heard me ? "
Rob said, " Yes, sir."
DOMBEY AND SON. 129
" Perhaps you understand," pursued his patron, " (hat
if you ever deceive or play tricks with me, you bad
better have drowned yourself, indeed, once for all be-
fore you came here ? "
There was nothing in any branch of mental acqui-
sition that Rob seemed to understand better than that
" If you have lied to me," said Mr. Carker, " in any-
thing, never come in my way again. If not, you may
let me find you waiting for me somewhere near your
mother's house this afternoon. I shall leave this at five
o'clock, and ride there on horseback. Now, give me
the address."
Rob repeated it slowly, as Mr. Carker wrote it down.
Rob even spelt it over a second time, letter by letter, as
if he thought that the omission of a dot or scratch would
lead to his destruction. Mr. Carker then handed him
uut of the room : and Rob, keeping his round eyes fixed
upon his patron to the last, vanished for the time be-
iiijr.
Mr. Carker the manager did a great deal of business
in the course 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. Five o'clock arriving, and with it Mr.
Carker's bay horse, they got on horseback, and went
gleaming up Clieapside.
As no one can easily ride fast, even if inclined to do
so, through the press and throng of the city at that
hour, and as Mr. Carker was not inclined, he went
leisurely along, picking his way among the carts and
yarriages, avoiding whenever he could the wetter and
more dirty places in the over-watered road, and taking
infinite pains to keep himself and bis steed clean.
- VOL. H. 9
180 DOMBEY AND SON.
Glancing at the passers-by while he was thus ambling
on his way, he suddenly encountered the round eyes
of the sleek-headed Rob intently fixed upon hi> face,
as if they had never been taken off, 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
g-
This attention however flattering, being one of an un-
usual kind, and attracting some notice from the other
passengers, Mr. Carker took advantage of a clearer
thoroughfare and a cleaner road, and broke into a trot.
Rob immediately did the same. Mr. Carker presently
tried a canter; Rob was still in attendance. Then a
short gallop ; it was all one to the boy. Whenever Mr.
Carker turned his eyes to that side of the road, he still
saw Toodle junior holding his course, apparently without
distress, and working himself along by the elbows after
the most approved manner of professional gentlemen
who get over the ground for wagers.
Ridiculous as this attendance was, it was a sign of an
influence established over the boy, and therefore Mr.
Carker, affecting not to notice it, rode away into the
neighborhood of Mr. Toodle's house. On his slackening
his pace here, Rob appeared before him to point out the
turnings ; and when he called to a man at a neighboring
gateway to hoU his horse, pending his visit to the Build-
ings that had succeeded Staggs's Gardens, Rob dutifully
held the stirrup, while the manager dismounted.
" Now, sir," said Mr. Carker, taking him by the shoul-
der, " oome along ! "
The prodigal son was evidently nervous of visiting the
DOMBEY AND SON. 131
parental abode : but Mr. Carker pushing him on before,
he had nothing for it but to open the right door, and suf-
fer himself to be walked info the midst of his brothers
and sisters, mustered in overwhelming force round the
family tea-table. At sight of the prodigal in the grasp
of a stranger, these tender relations united in a general
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 Mr.
Ketch in person, was one of that company, the whole of
the young family wailed the louder, while its more in-
fantine members, unable to control the transports of
emotion appertaining to their time of life, threw them-
selves on their backs like young birds when terrified by
a hawk, and kicked violently. At length, poor Polly
making herself audible, said, with quivering lips, "O
Rob, my poor boy, what have you done at last ! "
" Nothing, mother," cried Rob, in a piteous voice,
l ask the gentleman ! '-
" Don't be alarmed," said Mr. Carker, " 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, unclinched their fists.
The younger Toodles clustered round their mother's
sown, and peeped from under their own chubby arms at
th<Mr desperado brother and his unknown friend. Every
body blessed the gentleman with the beautiful teeth, who
wanted to do good.
" This fellow," said Mr. Carker to Polly, giving him a
tpntle shake, "is your son, eh, ma'am ?"
132 DOMBEY AND SON.
u Yes, sir," sobbed Polly, with a courtesy ; " yes, 3ir'"
" A bad son, I am afraid ? " said Mr. Carker.
" Never a bad son to me,' sir," returned Polly.
" To whom then ? " demanded Mr. Carker.
" He has been a little wild, sir," replied Polly, check-
ing the baby, who was making convulsive efforts with his
arms and legs to launch himself on Biler, 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 achieved
the real purpose of hi.-! 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
Btumbled on this boy of yours, and who I am, and what
I am going to do for hhn."
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
Dorabey and Son. That he had relented, in considera-
tion of his youth, his professed contrition, and his friends.
That he was afraid he took a rash step in doing anything
for the boy, and one that might expose him to the ceil
DUMBEY AND SON. 133
sure of the prudent ; but that he did it of himself and
for himself, and risked the consequences single-handed !
and that his mother's past connection with Mr. Dom bey's
family had nothing to do with it, and that Mr. Dombey
had nothing to do with it, but that he, Mr. Carker, was
the be-all, and the end-all of this business. Taking great
uedit to himself for his goodness, and receiving no less
from all the family then present, Mr. Carker Dignified,
indirectly but still pretty plainly, that Rob's implicit
Gdelity, attachment, and devotion, were forevermore his
due, and the least homage lie could receive. And with
this great truth Rob 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.
Polly, who had passed Heaven knows how many sleep-
less nights on account of this her dissipated first-born,
and had not seen him for weeks and weeks, could have
almost kneeled to Mr. Carker the manager, as to a good
spirit 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
rendered, 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, Rob retreated on his mother, and
took her and the baby in the same repentant hug.
" I'll try hard, dear mother, now. Upon my soul J
will!" said Rob.
" Oh do, my dear boy ! I am sure you will, for our
sake* and your own ! " cried Polly, kissing him. " Bui
184 DOMBEY AND SOM.
you're coming back to speak to me, when you have seen
the gentleman away ? "
u I don't know, mother." Rob hesitated, and looked
down. " Father when's he coming home ? "
" Not till two o'clock to-morrow morning."
" I'll come back, mother dear ! " cried Rob. And
passing through the shrill cry of his brothers and sisters
in reception of this promise, he followed Mr. Carker out.
u What ! " said Mr. Carker, who had heard this.
"You have a bad father, have you?"
" No, sir ! " returned Rob, amazed. " There a'n't a
better 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 Rob, 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
she always believes what's good, sir ; at least I know my
mother does, God bless her ! "
Mr. 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, looking down from the sad-
dle steadily into the attentive and watchful face of the
boy, he said :
" You'll come to me to-morrow morning, and you shall
be shown where that old gentleman lives ; that old gen-
tleman who was with me this morning ; where you are,
going, as you heard me say."
" Yes, sir," returned Rob.
" 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, for he saw his round
DOMBEY ANL SOX. 135
face brighten when he was told that : " I see you do. I
want to know all about that old gentleman, and how Le
goes on from day to day for I ain anxious to be of
service to him and especially who comes there to sec
him. Do you understand ? "
Rob nodded his steadfast face, and said " Yea, 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
her"
" I'll take care, sir," said the boy.
" And take care," returned his patron, bending for-
ward 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 no-
body but me."
" To nobody in the world, sir," replied Rob, shaking
his head.
" Neither there," said Mr. Carker, pointing to the
place they had just left, " nor anywhere else. I'll try
how true and grateful you can be. I'll prove you ! "
Making this, by his display of teeth and by the action
of his head, as much a threat as a promise, he turntd
from Rob's eyes, which were nailed upon him as if he
bad won the boy by a charm, body and soul, and rode
away. But again becoming conscious, after trotting a
">hort distance, that his devoted henchman, girt as be-
fore, was yielding him the same attendance, to the greal
imusemcnt of sundry spectators, he reined up, and or
136 DOMBEY AND SON.
dered him off. To insure his obedience, he turned in
the saddle and watched him as he retired. It was curi-
ous to see that even then Rob could not keep his eyea
wholly averted from his patron's face, but, constantly
turning and turning again to look after him, involved
himself in a tempest of buffetings and jostlings from
the other passengers in the street: of which, in the
pursuit of the one paramount idea, he was perfectly
heedless.
Mr. Carker the manager rode on 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 com-
fortably 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 humor took him and occa-
sion 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 man-
ager, through his song. " Ay ! 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 Jare
eay sht's pretty."
More affable and pleasant yet, and humming his song-_
tratil his many teeth vibrated to it, Mr. Carker picked
Uis way along, and turned at last into the shady street
where Mr. Dombey's house stood. He had been eo
busy, winding webs round good faces, and obscuring
them with meshes, that he hardly thought of being
DOMBEY AND SON. 137
Rl this point of his ride, until, glancing down the cold
perspective of tall houses, he reined in his 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 small surprise, a few digressive words
are necessary.
Mr. Toots, emancipated from the Blimber thraldom
and coming into the possession of a certain portion of
his worldly wealth, " which," as he had been wont, during
his last half-year's probation, to communicate to Mr.
Feeder every evening as a new discovery, " the execu-
tors couldn't keep him out of," 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 furnished a choice set of apart-
ments ; had established 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 humanize existence, his chief in-
structor 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 con-
sideration of ten and six per visit.
The Game Chicken, who was quite the Apollo of Mr.
Toots's Pantheon, had introduced to him a marker who
'aught billiards, a Life Guard who taught fencing, a job-
master who taught riding, a Cornish gentleman who was
p to anything in the athletic line, and two or three
other friends connected no less intimately with the fine
* 38 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 gentlemen had the gloss of novelty upon
tlum, that Mr. Toots felt, he didn't know how, unsettled
nd uneasy. There were husks in his corn, that oven
Game Chickens couldn't peck up ; gloomy giants in hia
leisure, that even Game Chickens couldn't knock down.
Nothing seemed to do Mr. Toots so much good as in-
cessantly 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 calls than Mr. Toots.
Mr. Toots never went up-stairs ; and always per-
formed the same ceremonies, richly dressed for the pur-
pose, at the hall-door.
' Oh ! Good-morning ! " would be Mr. Toots's first
remark to the servant. " For Mr. Dombey," would be
Mr. Toots's next remark, as he handed in a card.
" For Miss 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. u 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 up-
tair, and would look up the staircase, and would say,
ves she was at home, and was coming down. Then
DOMBEY AND SON. 139
Miss Nipper would appear, and the man would re-
tire.
" Oh ! How 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. Toote's
second interrogation.
Very well indeed. Miss Florence was fonder and
fonder of him every day. Mr. Toots was sure to hail
this with a burst of chuckles, like the opening of a
bottle of some effervescent beverage.
" Miss Florence is quite well, sir," Susan would add
" Oh, it's of no consequence, thank'ee," was the in-
variable 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 some-
thing 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 Mr. Toots, by some remote and round-
about road, had got to that point, and that there he
made a stand. His heart was wounded ; he waa
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 ho had pie*
viously written down the initial letters cf the othe*
seven lines, deserting him at that point.
Beyond devising that very artful and politic measure
>f leaving a card for Mr. Dombey daily, the brain of
Mr. Toots had rot workfd much in reference to the
140 DOMBEY AND SON.
subject that held his feelings prisoner. But deep con-
sideration at length assured Mr. Toots that an important
step to gain, was the conciliation of Miss Susan Nipper
preparatory to giving her some inkling of his state of
mind.
A little light and playful gallantry towards this lady
teemed 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
Chicken without taking that gentleman into his con-
fidence ; merely informing him that a friend in York-
shire 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, u When your
man's before you and your work cut out, go in and do
it," Mr. Toots considered this a figurative way of sup-
poriing 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 amaze-
ment, Mr. Toots, instead of going off like a rocket, after
that observation, lingered and chuckled.
"Perhaps you'd like to walk up-stairs, sir?" said
Susan.
"Well I think I will come in!" said Mr. Toot*.
DOMBEY AND SON. 141
But instead of walking up-stairs, the bold Toots made
tui awkward plunge 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'll tear yonr
eyes out."
" Just another ! " said Mr. Toots.
" Go along with you ! " exclaimed Susan, gh ing him
a push. " Innocents like you, too ! Who'll begin next?
Go along, sir ! "
Susan was not in any serious strait, for she could
hardly speak for laughing ; but Diogenes, on the stair-
case, hearing a rustling against the wall, and a shuffling
of feet, and seeing through the banisters that there was
some contention going on, and foreign invasion in the
{muse, 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 slreet, with Diogenes holding on to one leg of
his pantaloons, as if Burgess and Co. were his cooks,
and had provided that dainty morsel for his holiday en-
tertainment ; Diogenes shaken off, rolled over and over
in the dust, got up again, whirled round the giddy Toota
and snapped at him : and all this turmoil, Mr. Carker,
reining up his horse and sitting a little at a distance, saw,
to his amazement, issue from the stately house of Mr.
Dombry.
Mr. Carker remained watching the discomfited Toots,
tvhen Diogenes was called in, and the door shut: and
while that gentleman, taking refuge in a door-way near
it hand, bound up the torn leg of his pantaloons with a
142 DOMBEY AND SON.
costly silk handkerchief that had formed j.art of his ex-
pensive outfit for the adventure.
" I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Carker, riding up,
with his most propitiatory smile. " I hope you are not
hurt ? "
" Oh no, thank you," replied Mr. Toots, raising his
flushed face, " it's of no consequence." Mr. Toots wculd
have signified, if he could, that he liked it very much.
" If the dog's teeth have entered the leg, sir " be-
gan 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,'* ob-
served Carker.
" Have you though ? " rejoined the blushing Toots.
" And you will allow me, perhaps, to apologize, in his
absence," said Mr. Carker, taking off his hat, "for such
a misadventure, and to wonder how 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 courtesy
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 came clambering
up close by it, and the dog, regardless of all soothing,
barka and growls, and makes at him from that height,
as if he would spring down and tear him limb ihm
limb.
DOMBEY AND SON. 143
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
Di, cats, boy, cats !
144 DOMBEY AND SOU.
CHAPTER XXiIL
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-like 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 : al-
ways by night, when lights were shining from neighbor-
ing windows, a blot upon 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 innocence im-
prisoned ; but besides a glowering visage, with its thin
lips parted wickedly, that surveyed all comers from
above the archway of the door, there was a monstrous
fantasy of rusty iron curling and twisting like a petri-
faction of an arbor over the threshold, budding in spikes
and corkscrew points, and bearing, one on either side
two ominous extinguishers, that seemed to say, " Who
enter here, leave light behind ! " There were no talis-
manic characters engraven on the portal, but the house
DOMBEY AND SON. 145
was now so neglected in appearance, that boys chalked
the railings and the pavement particularly round the
corner where the side wall was and drew ghosts on
the stable-door ; and being sometimes driven off by Mr.
Towlinson, made portraits of him, in return, with his ears
growing out horizontally from under his hat. Noise
ceased to be, within the shadow of the roof. The brass
baud that came into the street once a week, in the morn-
ing, never brayed a note in at those windows ; but all
such company, down to a poor little piping organ of weak
intellect, with an imbecile narty of automaton dancers,
waltzing in and out at folding-doors, fell off 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 freshness unimpaired.
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, still
piled and covered up, shrunk like imprisoned and for-
gotten men, and changed insensibly. Mirrors were dim
as with the breath of years. Patterns of carpets faded
and became perplexed and faint, like the memory of
those years' trifling incidents. Boards, starting at un-
wonted footsteps, 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. Fungus trees grew in corners of the cellars.
Dust accumulated, nobody knew whence nor how ; spi-
ders, moths, and grubs were heard of every day. An
exploratory black-beetle now and then was found im
VOL. II. JO
146 DOMBEY AND SON.
movable upon the stairs, or in an upper room, as won-
dering how he got there. Rats began to squeak and
scuflle in the night-time, through dark galleries they
mined behind the panelling.
The dreary magnificence of the state rooms, seen im
perfectly by the doubtful light admitted through closed
shutters, would have answered well enough for an en-
chanted 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 wound up by any chance,
told it wrong, and struck unearthly numbers, which are
not upon the dial ; the accidental tinklings among the
pendant lustres, more startling than alarm-bells ; 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 staircase, 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 stair-
cases and passages where no one went for weeks to-
gether ; there were two closed rooms associated with
dead members of the family, and with whispered recol-
lections 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 wonder.
For Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and
day succeeded day, and still 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 youti;
vid beauty into stone.
DOMBEY AND SON. 147
The grass began to grow upon Ihe roof, and in the
crevices of the basement paving. A scaly crumbling
vegetation sprouted round the window-sills. Fragments
of mortar lost their hold upon the insides of the unused
chimneys, and came dropping down. The two trees with
the smoky trunks were blighted high up, and the with
ered branches domineered above the leaves. Through
the whole building, white had turned yellow, yellow
nearly black ; and since the time when the poor lady
died, it had slowly become a dam gap in the long mo-
notonous street.
But Florence bloomed there, like the king's fair
daughter in the story. Her books, her music, and her
daily teachers, were hec only real companions, 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, all through a summer morning ;
dometimes pricking up his head to look with great sig-
nificance after some noisy dog in a cart, who was bark-
ing his way along, and sometimes, with an exasperated
and unaccountable recollection of his supposed enemy
iu the neighborhood, rushing to the door, whence after
a deafening disturbance, he would come jogging back
with a ridiculous complacency that belonged to him, and
lay his jaw upon the window-ledge again, with the air
f a dog who had done a public service.
So Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, withic
the circle of her innocent pursuits and thoughts, and
nothing harmed her. She could go down to her father'*
rooms now, ard think of him, and suffer her loving heart
148 DOMBEY AND SON.
humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She
sould 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 well remembered. She
could render him such little tokens of her duty and
service, as putting everything in order for him with her
own hands, binding little nosegays for his table, chang-
ing 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 slippered
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 left her light
behind.
Shadowy company attended Florence up and down
the echoing house, and sat with her in the dismantled
rooms. As if her life were an enchanted vision, there
arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts, that made
DOMBEY AND SON. 149
il 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 favorite 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 confi-
dence 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 thoughr, scarcely shaped out to
herself, yet fervent 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 murmuring, like faint music, of rec-
ognition 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 knowl-
edge of her as she went her way upon the earth. It
was a soothing consolation 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 alien-
ated heart, she might stir the spirits of the dead against
150 DOMBET AND SON.
him. Wild, weak, childish, as it may have been to thini
so, and to tremble at the half-formed thought, it was the
impulse of her loving nature ; and from that hour Flor-
ence 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,
nnd 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 sol-
itary mistress. Through 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 any-
thing to surprise him when they should become com-
panions. 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 child, to learn the road to a hard
parent's heart !
There were many careless loungers through the street,
^ the summer evening deepened into aight, who glanced
across the road at the sombre house, and saw the youth
DOMBEY AND SON. 151
ful 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
ehe mused so steadfastly. The reputation of the man-
sion 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
daily 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 understand-
ing that she loved him, and made no appeal against him
in any wandering 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 knowl
edge 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 Godsend."
" 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 ques-
tion, " to repeat their invitation so kindly."
Miss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thorougi-
going partisan on the face of the earth, and who carried
her partisanship into all matters great or small, and per-
petually waged war with it against society, screwed up
152 DOMBEY AND SON.
her lips and shook her head, as a protest against any
recognition 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. J think it will be better."
" Much better," interposed Susan, with another em-
phatic 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 ! " re-
turned Susan. "Ah! h h!"
This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper fre-
quently 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 favor 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.
u 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!"
DOMBEY AND SON. 153
Florence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush over-
ipread her face.
" If I hadn't," said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling
with some latent anxiety and alarm, and looking full at
her young mistress, while endeavoring to work herself
into a state of resentment with the unoffending Mr
O
Perch's image, "if I hadn't more manliness than that
insipidest of his sex, I'd never take pride in my hair
ngain, 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 disfigure-
ment, but anyways I'm not a giver up, I hope."
" Give up! What?" cried Florence, with a face of
terror.
" Why, nothing, miss," stvid 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 would
have the goodness!"
" Does he give up the ship, Susan ? " inquired Flor-
ence, very pale.
"No, miss," returned Susan, "I should like to see
him make so bold as do it to my face ! No, miss, but he
goes on about some bothering ginger that Mr, Walter
was to send tc Mrs. Perch, and shakes his dismal head,
and says he hopes it may be coming ; anyhow, he says,
it can't come now in time for the intended occasion,
but may do for next, which really," said Miss Nipper,
vith aggravated scorn, ' puts me out of patience with
the man, for though 1 can bear a great deal, I am
lot a camol, neither am I," added Susan, after a mo-
!54 DOM BEY AND SON.
merit'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 tell you anything, Miss Floy, and
everything!" 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."
u I must visit Walter's uncle," said Florence, hur-
riedly, " 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 pro-
posal, 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 suf-
fered the added pain of thinking that she had been, per-
hapr., 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 dani-
<jer seemed written upon everything. The weathercocks
on spires and house-tops were mysterious with hints of
stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers,
out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks
were drifting, perhaps, and helpless men were rocked
DOMbhY AND SON. i5
npon 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 filled her with alarm. The smoke and cluuiH,
though moving gently, moved too fast for her apprehen-
sions, 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 in-
tellectual operations.
Arriving in good time abreast of the Wooden Mid-
shipman on the opposite side of the way, and waiting for
an opportunity to cross the street, they were a little siir
prised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker's door, a
round-headed lad, with his chubby face addressed tow-
ards the sky, who, 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. Richards's eldest, miss!" said Susan, "and the
tvorrit of Mrs. Richards's life ! "
As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated
prospects of her son and neir, Florence was prepared for
the meeting : so, a favorable moment presenting itself,
f -hey both hastened across, without any further contem
156 DOJTBEY AND SON.
plation of Mrs Richards's bane. That sporting charac-
ter, unconscious of their approach, again whistled with
his utmost might, and then yelled in a rapture of excite-
ment, "Strays ! Whoo-oop! Strays!" which identifica-
tion had such an effect upon the conscience-stricken
pigeons, that instead of going direct to some town in the
north of England, as appeared to have been their orig-
inal intention, they began to wheel and falter; where-
upon Mrs. Richards's first-born pierced them with another
whistle, and again yelled, in a voice that rose above the
turmoil of the street, " Strays ! Whoo-oop ! Strays ! "
From this transport, he was abruptly recalled to ter-
restrial objects, by a poke from Miss Nipper, which sent
him into the shop.
" Is this the way you show your penitence, when Mrs.
Richards has been fretting for you months and months ! "
said Susan, following the poke. " Where's Mr. Gills ? "
Rob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss
Nipper when he saw Florence following, put his knuckles
to his hair, in honor of the latter, and said to the former,
that Mr. Gills was out.
" Fetch him home," said Miss Nipper, with authority,
M and say that my young lady's here."
" I don't know where he's gone," said Rob.
" Is that 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 Rob. " How can-
you be eo unreasonable ? "
" Did Mr. Gills say when he should be home ? " asked
Florence.
" Yes, miss," replied Rob, with another application of
his knuckles to his hair. " He said he should be home
DOMBEY AND SON. 157
early in the afternoon; in about a couple of hours from
now, miss."
* Is he very anxious about his nephew ? " inquired
Susan.
" Yes, miss," returned Rob, preferring to address him-
self to Florence and slighting Nipper ; " I .should say he
was, very much so. He a'n't in-doors, miss, not a qi arter
of an hour together. He can't settle in one place five
minutes. He goes about, like a just like a stray,"
said Rob, stooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons
through the window, and checking himself, with his
fingers half-way to his mouth, on the verge of another
whistle.
" Do you know a friend of Mr. Gills, called Captain
Cuttle ? " inquired Florence, after a moment's reflection.
"Him with a hook, miss?" rejoined Rob, 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 Rob, still addressing his reply to
Florence.
" Perhaps Walter's uncle has gone there, Susan," ob-
served Florence, turning to her.
"To Captain Cuttle's, miss?" interposed Rob, "no,
he's not gone there, miss. Because he left particular
word that if Captain Cuttle called, I should tell him how
surprised he was, not to have seen him yesterday, and
should make him stop 'till he came back."
" Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives ? " asked
Florence.
Rob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy
parchment book on the shop-desk, read the address aloud.
Florence a<rain turned to her maid and took counsel
158 DOMBEY AND SON.
with her in a low voice, while Rob the round-eyed,
mindful of his patron's secret charge, looked on and lis-
tened. Florence proposed that they should go to Cap-
tain 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 mis-
tress, 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 Rob paid close attention to both speakers, and in-
clined his ear to each by turns, as if he were appointed
arbitrator of the arguments.
In fine, Rob 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 sure to call again, on their way back. Rob having
stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the
pigeons had now become, sat down behind the desk with
a most assiduous demeanor ; 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 expendi-
ture 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
Rob, as if he had had no part whatever in its produc-
tion.
While he was yet busy with these labors, the hackney-
coach, after encountering unheard-of difficulties from
swivel-bridges, soft roads, impassable canals, caravans of
casks, settlements of scarlet-beans and little wash-houses,
and many such obstacles abounding in that country
DOMBEY AND SON. 159
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 Mrs. Mac-
Slinger's great cleaning days. On these occasions, Mrs.
MacStinger was knocked up by the policeman at a quar-
ter 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. MacStinger
should move all the furniture into the back garden at
early dawn, walk about the house in pattens all day, and
move the furniture back again after dark. These cere-
monies 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 pre-
sented themselves at Mrs. MacStinger's door, that worthy
but redoubtable female was in the act of conveying
Alexander MacStinger, aged two years and three months,
along the passage for forcible deposition in a sitting pos-
ture 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 power-
ful restorative in such cases.
The feelings of Mrs. MacStinger, as a woman and a
mother, were outraged by the look of pity for Alexander
which she observed on Florence's face. Therefore, Mrs.
MacStinger asserting those finest emotions of our nature,
in preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook
and buffeted Alexander both before and during the ap-
plication of the paving-stone, and took no further notice
160 DOMBEY AND SON.
a 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. MacStinger.
" Not Number Nine ? " asked Florence, hesitating.
" Who said it wasn't Number Nine ? " said Mrs. Mao-
Stinger.
Susan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to in-
quire what Mrs. MacStinger meant by that, and if she
knew whom she was talking to.
Mrs. MacStinger in retort, looked at her all over.
" What do you want with Captain Cuttle, I should wish
to know ? " said Mrs. MacStinger.
" Should you ? Then I'm sorry that you won't be sat-
sfied," 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 impla-
cable MacStinger. " I said it wasn't Cap'en Cuttle's
house and it a'n't 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. MacStinger pitched her voice for the upper win
dows in offering 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 161
Mr*. MacStinger, with an angry motion of her hand
On Florence making bold to enter, without any more
parley, and on Susan following, Mrs. MacStinger re-
commenced her pedestrian exercise in pattens, and Alex-
ander MacStinger (still on the paving-stone), who had
stopped in his crying to attend to the conversation, be-
gan to wail again, entertaining himself during that dis-
mal performance, which was quite mechanical, with a
gjeueral survey of the prospect, terminating in the hack-
ney-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 desolate island, lying about mid-
way in an ocean of soap and water. The captain's win-
dows had been cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, (lie
stove had been cleaned, and everything, the stove ex-
cepted, was wet, and shining with soft soap and sand :
the smell of which dry-saltery impregnated the air. In
the midst of the dreary scene, the captain, cast away
ii|>on 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 tow-
ards the door, saw Florence appear with her maid, no
words can describe his astonishment. Mrs. MacStinger's
eloquence having rendered all other sounds but imper-
fectly distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor
than the potboy or the milkman ; wherefore, when Flor-
ence appeared, and coming to the confines of the island,
put her band in his, the captain stood up, aghast, as if
lie supposed her, for the moment, to be some young mem-
ber of the Flying Dutchman's family.
Instantly recovering his self-possession, however, the
VOL. n. 11
162 DOMBEY AXD SON.
captain's first care was to place her on clrv land, which
be happily accomplished, with one motion of his arm.
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 admi-
ration, raided the hand of Florence to his lips, and stand-
ing off a little (for the island was not large enough for
three), beamed on her from the soap and water like a
new description of Triton.
" You are amazed to see us, I am sure," said Florence,
with a smile.
The inexpressibly gratified captain kissed his hook in
reply, and growled, as if a choice and delicate compli-
ment 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, ami looked discomfited.
" Have you any fears for Walter's safety ? " inquired
Florence, from whose face the captain (so enraptured he
was with it) could not take his eyes : while she, in her
turn, looked earnestly at him, to be assured of the sin-
cerity of his reply.
" No, Heart's-delight," said Captain Cuttle, " I am not
afeard. Wal'r is a lad as '11 go through 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 ttva
DOMBEY AND SON. 16S
raptaia his eyes glistening with the praise of his young
friend, and his hook raised to announce a heautiful quo
tation, " is what you may call a out'ard and visible sign
of a in'ard and spirited grasp, and when found make a
oteof."
Florence, who did not quite understand this, thoub
Ilie captain evidently 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, maybe t'other side
the world. But the ship's a good ship, and the lad's a
good lad ; and it a'n't easy, thank the Lord," the cap-
tain made a liule bow, "to break up hearts of oak,
whether they're in brigs or buzzums. Here we have
'ern both ways, which is bringing it up with a round
turn, and so I a'n't a bit afeard as yet."
"As yet?" repeated Florence.
" Not a bit," returned the captain, kissing his iron
hand; "and afore I begin to be, my Heart's-delight,
W;il'r will have wrote home from the island, or from
ome port or another, and made all taut and ship-shape.
And with regard to old Sol Gills," here the captain
became solemn, " who I'll stand by, and not desert until
death do us part, and when the stormy winds do blow,
3o blow, do blow overhaul the Catechism," said the
captain parenthetically, " and there you'll find them
expressions if it would console Sol Gills to have the
/pinion of a seafaring man as has got a mind equal to
my undertaking that he puts it alongside of, and as WRU
Ul but ?m.shed in his 'prenticeship, and of which the
L64 DOMBEY AND SON.
name is Bunsby, that 'ere man shall ^ive him such an
opinion in his own parlor as'll stun him. Ah ! " said
Captain Cuttle, vauntingly, " as much as if he'd -:c*
and knocked his head again a door ! "
" Let us take this gentleman to see him and iat as
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 discom-
fited. But at this instant a most remarkable phenome-
non 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 bird, and
alighted 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 Gills yes-
terday, and this morning, but she she took it away
and kept 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 cap-
tain, 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, eying 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 thfr energy of the wish. " T 1 stop her ! "
" Would you, (*o you think, my dear ? " rejoined the
DOMBEV AND SON. 165
captain, shaking his head doubtfully, but regarding the
desperate courage of the fair aspirant with obvious admi-
ration. " I don't know. It's difficult navigation. She's
very hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can
tell how she'll 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 em-
phatic enough for the conclusion of the sentence, so the
captain whistled tremulously. After which he again
shook his head, and recurring to his admiration of Miss
Nipper's devoted bravery, timidly repeated, " Would you,
do you think, my dear ? "
Susan only replied with a bridling 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 resorting 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, pre-
pared to cut his way through the enemy.
It turned out, however, that Mrs. MacStinger 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. MacStinger in her household occupation, that wheu
Captain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she beat the
Harder, and neither by word nor gesture showed pny
166 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 could hardly believe his good foi-
Line ; but more than once, between the door and the
hackney-coach, looked over his shoulder, with an obvi-
ous apprehension of Mrs. MacStinger*s giving chase yet
However, they got to the corner of Brig Place with-
out any molestation from that terrible fire-ship ; and the
captain mounting the coach-box for his gallantry would
not allow him to ride inside with the ladies, though be-
sought 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 Ratcliffe.
Arrived at the wharf off which this great command-
er's ship was jammed in among some five hundred com-
panion-!, whose tangled rigging looked like monstrous
cobwebs half swept do~vn, Captain Cuttle appeared at
the coach-window, and in\ited Florence and Miss Nip-
per to accompany him on board ; observing that Buns-
by was to the last degree soft-hearted in respect of
ladies, and that nothing would so much tend to bring
his expansive intellect into a state of harmony as their
presentation to the Cautious Clara.
Florence readily consented ; and the captain taking
her little hand in his prodigious palm, led her, with a
mixed expression of patronage, paternity, pride, am)
rerf-mony, that was pleasant to see, over several wry
dirty decks, until, coming to the Clara, they found that
cautious craft (which lay outside the tier) with her gang-
way removed, and half a dozen feet of rivsr interposed
between !>erself and her nearest neighbor. It appeared
DOMBEY AND SON. 167
from Captain Cuttle's explanation, that the great Buns-
6y, like himself, was cruelly treated by his landlady, and
that when her usage of him for the time being was no
hard that he could bear it no longer, he set this gulf
between them as a last resource.
" Clara a-hoy ! " cried the captain, putting a hand tn
each side of his mouth.
" A-hoy ! " cried a boy, like the captain's echo, tum-
bling up from below.
" Bunsby aboard ? " cried the captain, hailing the boy
in a stentorian voice, as if he were half a mile otf instead
of two yards.
" Ay, ay ! " 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: re-
turning 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 bulkhead of the cabin, another bulkhead human
and very large with one stationary eye in the mahog-
any face, and one revolving one, on the principal of some
light-houses. This head was decorated with shaggy hair,
like 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 dreadnought pilot-trousers,
whereof the waistband was so very broad and high, that
it became a succedaneum for a waistcoat : being orna*
mented uear the wearer's breast-bone with some massive
168 DOMBEY AND SON.
wooden buttons, like backgammon men. As the lower
portions of these pantaloons became revealed, Bunsb'y
stood confessed ; his hands in their pockets, which were
of vast size ; and his gaze directed, not to Captain Cut
tie 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 incon-
sistent with his character, in which that quality was
proudly conspicuous, almost daunted Captain Cuttle,
though on familiar terras 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, " Ay, ay, 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,
u here you are ; a man of mind, and a man as can give
an opinion. Here's a young lady as wants to take that
c pinion in regard of my friend Wal'r, likewise 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. Buns-
by will you wear, to oblige me, and come along with
us?"
The great commander, who seemed by the expression
DOMBEY AND SON". ICti
of his visage :o re always on the look-out for something
in the extremest distance, and to have no ocular knowl-
edge of anything within ten miles, made no reply what-
ever.
" 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 accidents happen to
his own self than the Seaman's Hospital to all hands ;
that took as many spars and bars and bolts about the
outside of his head when he was young, as you'd want a
order for on Chatham-yard to build a pleasure-yacht
with ; and yet that got his opinions in that way, it's my
belief, for there a'n't nothing like 'em afloat or ashore."
The stolid commander appeared, by a very slight vi-
bration in his elbows, to express some satisfaction in this
encomium; but if his face had been as distant as hia
gaze was, it could hardly have enlightened the beholders
less in reference to anything that was passing in hia
thoughts.
" Shipraet," said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping
down to look out under some interposing spar, " what'll
the ladies drink ? "
Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such
an inquiry in connection with Florence, drew the sagf
aside, and seeming to explain in his ear, accompanied
him below ; where, that he might not take offence, the
captain drank a dram himself, which Florence and Susan,
glancing clown the open skylight, saw the sage, with dif-
ficulty finding room for himself between his berth and a
trery little brass fireplace, serve out for self and friend.
They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle, tri-
amphing in the success of his enterprise, conducted
170 DOMBEF AND SON. -
Florence back to the coach, while Bunsby followed, es-
corting 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 peep-
ing in at Florence through the little window behind the
driver, and testifying his delight in smiles, and also in
taps upon his forehead, to hiut 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 pre-
served 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-
parlor : 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
bis 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.
" Whether she can have run," said Uncle Sol, looking
wistfully over the chart; "but no, that's almost impos-
sible. 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
us but even I can hardly hope that!" With such
broken suggestions, poor old Uncle Sol roamed over the
DOMBEY AND SON. 171
great sheet before h : m, 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 diffi-
cult to help seeing that there was a singular indescrib-
able 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, look-
ing at her and away from her in a confused manner,
"I wish 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, put-
ting her hand upon his arm.
" Did I say, ' before ' ? " replied old Sol. If I did, I
must have meant before we should have news of my
dear boy."
" You are not well," said Florence, tenderly. " You
uave been so very 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
%nd firm as any man at my time of life can hope to be
See ! It's steady. Is its master not as capable of resc-
172 DOMBEY AND SON.
lution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think
o. 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 un-
easiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if the captain
tad not seized that moment for expounding the state of
circumstances on which the opinion of the sagacious
Bunsby was requested, and entreating that profound au-
thority to deliver the same.
Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to some-
where 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 herself, in displeasure, to the opposite side of
the table, the soft heart of the commander of the Cau-
tious Clara met with no response to its impulses. After
sundry failures in this wise, the commander, addressing
himself lo nobody, thus spake ; or rather the voice within
him said of its own accord, and quite independent of him-
self, as if he were possessed by a gruff spirit :
" My name's Jack Bunsby ! "
" He was christened John," cried the delighted Cap-
tain Cuttle. " Hear him ! "
44 And what I says," pursued the voice, after some de-
liberation, " I stands to."
The captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the
auditory, and seemed to say, " Now he's coming out.
This is what I meant when I brought him."
" Whereby," proceeded the voice, " why not ? If so,
irhat odds ? Can any man say otherwise ? No. Awas
ten! "
DOMBEY AND SON. 173
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, mak-
ing for the Downs, what's right ahead of him ? The
Goodwins. He isn't forced to run upon the Goodwins,
but he may. The bearings of this observation lays in
the application on it. That a'n't no part of my duty.
A wast then, keep a bright look-out for'ard, and good luck
to you ! "
The voice here went out of the back-parlor 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 at one another in a
little uncertainty ; while Rob the Grinder, who had
taken the innocent 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
|>ossible, 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
^iven, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope's own
inchor, and with good roads to cast it in. Florence en-
174 DOMBEY AND SON.
deavored to believe that the captain was tight ; 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 still went roaming
about the watery world, compasses in hand, and discov-
ering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a whis-
per in his ear from Florence, while the old man was
absorbed in this pursuit, that Captain Cuttle laid his
heavy band upon his shoulder.
" What cheer, Sol Gills ? " cried the captain, heartily.
" But so-so, Ned," returned the Instrument-maker -
"I have been remembering, all 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
could hardly turn him from the subject."
But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed
with earnest scrutiny 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-delijjht safe home," here the captain kissed his
hook to Florence, " T'll come back and take you in tow
for the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat
your dinner along ^ith me, Sol, somewheres or other."
" Not to-day, Ned ! " said the old man quickly, and
appearing to be unaccountably startled by the pioposi-
tion. " 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 o
DOMBEY AND SON. 175
ind 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-morrow, then," he suggested at last.
44 Yes, ye?. To-morrow," said the old man. " Think
of me to-morrow. Say to-morrow."
" I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills," stipulated
the captain.
" Yes, yes. The first thing to-morrow morning," said
old Sol ; " and now good-by, Ned Cuttle, and God blesa
you ! "
Squeezing both the captain's hands, with uncommon
fervor, 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 precipi-
tation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain
Cuttle that the captain lingered behind, and instructed
Rob 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 Gills, close and true ; and once again in-
quired of Susan Nipper, unable to forget her gallant
Vords in reference to Mrs. MacStinger, " Would you,
ilo you think, iny dear, though ! "
When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the
captain's thoughts reverted to the old Instrument-maker,
176 OOMlil'T AND SON.
and he felt uncomfortable. Therefore, insteaJ 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
parlor 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 parlor-door stood open, and he could see his
old friend writing busily and steadily at the table within,
while the little Midshipman, already sheltered from the
night dews, watched him from the counter ; under which
Rob the Grinder made his own bed, preparatory to
shutting the shop. Reassured 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.
DOMPEY AND SON. 177
CHAPTER XXIV.
TIIE STUDY OF A LOVING HEART.
SIR BARNET and Lady Skettles, very good people^
resided in a pretty villa at Fulham, on the banks of the
Thames ; which was one of the most desirable residences
in the world when a rowing-match happened to be going
past, but had its little inconveniences at other times,
iimong which may be enumerated the occasional appear-
ance of the river in the drawing-room, and the contem-
poraneous disappearance of the lawn and shrubbery.
Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal conse-
quence chiefly through an antique gold snuff-box, and a
ponderous silk pocket-handkerchief, which he had an im-
posing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a ban-
ner, 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
forever 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
ocial system.
VOL. II. 12
178 DOMBEY AND SON.
Sir Barnet was proud of making people acqiainted
with people. He liked the thing for its own sake, and
it advanced his favorite object too. For example, if Sir
Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a raw reciuit,
or a country gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospi-
table villa, Sir Barnet would say to him, on the morning
after bis arrival, "Now, my dear sir, is there anybody
you would like to know ? Who is there you would 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 an-
swered yes, and mentioned somebody, of whom Sir Bar-
net 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 of my house naturally desirous Lady
Skettles and myself participate trust that genius being
superior to ceremonies, you will do us the distinguished
favor of giving us the pleasure," &c. &c. and so killed
a brace of birds with one stone, dead as door-nails.
With the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Bar-
net Skettles propounded 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 desired to see, it was natural she should think
with a pang of poor lost Walter. When Sir 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 compliment'; of myself and Lady Skettles when
you write might wish you to know?" it was natural,
DOMBEY AND SON 179
perhaps, that the poor head should droop a little, and
l hat her voice should tremble as it softly answered in
the negative.
Skettlcs junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and
sobered down as to his spirits, was at home for the holi-
days, and appeared to feel himself aggrieved by the
solicitude of his excellent mother that he should be at-
tentive to Florence. Another and a deeper injury under
which the soul of young Barnet chafed, was the com-
pany of Dr. and Mrs. Blimber, who had been invited on
a visit tc the parental roof tree, and of whom the young
gentleman often said he would have preferred their
passing the vacation at Jericho.
" Is there anybody you can suggest, now, Doctor
Blimber ? " said Sir Barnet Skettles, turning to that
gentleman.
" You are very kind, Sir Barnet," returned Doctor
Blimber. " Really I am not aware that there is, in
particular. I like to know my fellow-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 courteously.
Mrs. 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 already
enjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady,
and possessing with the Doctor her husband theii joint
sonfidence 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
180 DOMBEY AND SON.
content himself for the time with the company a's
bled. 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
thought of. Florence would feel more lonely then, than
in the great house all alone ; and would think sometimes
that she was better there than here, and that there waa
greater peace in hiding herself 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 morr.ing, and lay down to rest at night, possessed
of fathers' hearts already. They had no repulse tfc
DOMBEY AND SON. 181
overcome, no coldness to dread, no frown to smooth
away. As the morning advanced, and the windows
openod 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 !
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 stamp-
ed upon her recollection, with the enduring 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 dislike her, because of her wanting the unknown
grace that should conciliate 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 could not resist its passing, like a wild
eloucl. through the distance of her mind.
182 DOMBEY AND SO5T.
There came among the other visitors, soon after Flor-
ence, one beautiful girl, three or four years younger
than she, who was an orphan child, and who was accom-
panied by her aunt, a gray-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 arbor in the garden one warm morning,
musingly observant of a youthful group upon the turf,
through some intervening boughs, and wreathing flow-
ers 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 mourning for her poor mama now ? " in-
quired the child, quickly.
" No ; for her only brother."
" Has she no other brother ? "
None."
"No sister?"
"None."
" I am very, very sorry ! " said the little girl.
As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats,
and had been silent in the mean time, 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 cc nversation recom-
menced next moment.
DOMBEY AND SON. 183
" Florence is a favorite 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.
" 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 would give her pain."
"I never will!" exclaimed the child.
"I know you never will," returned the lady. "I can
trust you as myself. I fear then, Kate, that Florence's
either 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
suffer her, but he will not though for no fault of hers ;
ami she is greatly to be loved and pitied by all gentle
hearts."
184 DOMBEY AND SON.
More of the llowers that Florence held, fell scattering
ya the ground ; 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.
u 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 all the
youthful people here, you are her natural and harmless
friend ; you have not the innocent means, that happier
ihildren have"
" There are none happier, aunt ! " exclaimed the child,
who seemed to cling about her.
u As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding
DOMBEY AND SOX. 185
her of her misfortune. Therefore I would 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."
" But I am not withdtit a parent's love, aunt, and 1
never have been," said the child, " with you."
" However, that may be, my dear," returned the lady,
" your misfortune is a lighter one than Florence's; for
not an orphan in the wide world can be so deserted as
the child who is an outcast from a living parent's love."
The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust;
the empty hands were spread upon the face ; and or-
phaned Florence, shrinking down upon the ground, wept
loner 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 life. 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 circumstance, to complain against him, or to give
occasion for these whispers 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 cf
him. 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-off f> this. What she had overheard was a reason.
186 DOMBEY AND SON.
aot for soothing herself, but for saving him ; and Flor-
ence did it, in pursuance of the study of her heart.
She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and
there were anything in the story that pointed at an un-
kind father, she was in pain for their application of it to
him ; not for herself. So witkany trifle of an interlude
that was acted, or picture that was shown, or game tbat
was played, among them. The occasions for such ten-
derness towards him were so many, that her mind mis-
gave her often, it would indeed be better to go back tc
the old house, and live again within the shadow of its dull
walls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweel 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 stiffened
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 fo
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 still she found
them all too far advanced to learn from. They had won
their household places long ago, and did not stand with-
out, 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
D\vn age seated near him. He was a very poor man,
who seemed to have no regular employment, but now-
wcnt roaming about the banks of the river when the tide
was low, looking out for bits and scraps in the mud ; and
uow worked at the unpromising little patch of garden*
ground before his cottage; and now tinkered up n
DOMDEY AND SON. 187
miserable old boat that belonged to him ; or did som
job of that kind for a neighbor, as chan:e occurred.
Whatever the man's labor, 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 so, as he made 110
movement towards her. But one morning when she
happened to come upon him suddenly, from a by-path
among some pollard willows which terminated in the
little shelving piece of stony ground that lay between hia
dwelling and the water, where he was bending over a
fire he had made to calk 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.
" /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 Ih9
girl with a brightened face, nodded to her and said
' Ye?." 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
vork for both."
188 DOMBEY AND SON.
' Are theie only you two, then ?" inquired Florence.
" Only us two," said the man. " Her mothei 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 ? "
T!ie girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering
shoulders, and turned her head another way. Ugly,
misshapen, 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 like-
ness to.
" I'm afraid she's worse this morning, my poor girl ! "
said the man, suspending his work, and contemplating
his ill-favored 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 still, " in as many long years."
"Ay! and more than that, John," said a neighboi,
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 neighbor, " the
more you've favored and humored her, John, 'till she'
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 little closer to him, and would have
been glad to touch his rugged hand, and thank him for
DOMBEY AND SON. 189
his goodness to the miserable object that he looked upon
with eyes so different from any other man's.
* Who would favor my poor girl to call it favoring
if / didn't ? " said the father.
"Ay, ay," cried the neighbor. "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 gesture with her
crouching shoulders, in reply ; and he was glad and
happy.
" Only for that, miss," said the neighbor with a smile,
in which there was more of secret sympathy than he ex-
pressed ; " only to get that, he never lets her out of hia
sight ! "
" Because the day'll come, and has been coming a long
while," observed 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
'.11. if she were to fade like her dear brother, would he
hen know that she had loved him ; would she then
grow 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 all the past ? Would he so forgive
!ier, in that changed condition, for not having been able
to lay open her childish heart to him, as to make it easy
v .o relate with what emotions she hsd gone out of hi
190 DOMBET AND SON.
room that night ; what she had meant to say if she had
had the courage ; and how she had endeavored, after-
wards, 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 him, 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, ap-
peared to Florence, in the light of such reflections, only
as a current 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 rip-
pling 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 Barnet and his lady going out walk-
ing in the lanes one afternoon, proposed to her to bear
them company. Florence readily consenting, Lady
Skettles ordered out young Barnet as a matter of course.
For nothing delighted Lady Skettles so much, as be-
holding her eldest son with Florence on his arm.
Barnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an op-
posite sentiment on the subject, and on such occasions
DOMBEY AJSTD SON. 191
frequently expressed himself audibly, though indefinitely,
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 com-
placency and high gratification.
This. was the order of procedure on the afternoon in
question : and Florence had almost succeeded in over-
ruling 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 when the little party stopped, on his riding back, he
bowed to her before saluting Sir Barnet and his 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 assure you," said the
gentleman.
It was not that, but something in the gentleman him-
self Florence could not have said what that made
her recoil as if she had been stung.
" I have the honor to address Miss Dombey, I be-
lieve ? " 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 remembered
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.
192 DOMBEY AND SON
u I beg pardon," said Mr. Carker, "a thousand times!
But I am going down to-morrow morning to Mr. Dom-
bey, at Leamingvon, and if Miss 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 for dinner, but if Miss Dorabey wished to write,
nothing would delight 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, Florence,
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, Florence
faintly said that she was obliged to him, but she would
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 with 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 was an un-
common charge, but that one most of all, to spare her.
Mr. Carker smiled and bowed low, and being charged
by Sir Barnet, with the best compliments of himself and
DOMBElf AND SON. 193
Lady Skettles, took his leave, and rode away : leaving a
favorable impression on that worthy couple. Florence
was seized with such a shudder as he went, that Sir
Barnet, adopting the popular superstition, supposed some-
body was passing over her grave. Mr. Carker, turning
a corner, on the instant, looked back, and bowed, and dis
.appeared, as if he rode off to the church-yard, straight,
to do it.
194 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XXV.
STRANGE NEWS OF UNCLE SOL.
CAPTAIN CUTTLE, though no sluggard, did not
BO early on the morning after he had seen Sol Gills,
through the shop-window, writing in the parlor, with the
Midshipman upon the counter, and Rob the Grinder
making up his bed below it, but that the clocks struck
six as he raised himself on his e.Uiow, and took a survey
of his little chamber. The ca^.m's eyes must Dave
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
Rob the Grinder had certainly never stood in the door-
way of Captain Cuttle's bedroom 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 color and expression.
" Holloa ! " roared the captain. " What's the mat-
er?"
Before Rob could stammer a word in answer, Captain
Cuttle turned out, all in a he*, -..a 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 consterna^
DOMBEY AND SON. 195
lion, gently shouldered him into the next rcom, after
laying this injunction upon him ; and disappearing foi a
few moment?, forthwith returned in-the blue suit. Hold-
ing up his hand in token of the injunction not yet beirp
taken off, Captain Cuttle walked up to the cupboard, and
poured himself out a dram ; a counterpart of which he
handed to the messenger. The captain then stood him-
self up in a corner, against the wall, as if to forestall the
possibility of being knocked backward by the communica-
tion 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 Rob, who
had been greatly impressed by these precautions.
" Ay ! " said the captain.
" Well, sir," said Rob, " I a'n't got much to tell. But
look here ! "
Rob produced a bundle of keys. The captain sur-
veyed them, remained in his corner, and surveyed the
messenger.
" And look here ! " pursued Rob.
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 Rob,
M which was about a quarter after five, I found these on
fly pillow. The shop-door was unbolted and unlocked,
8 d Mr. Gills gone."
" Gone ! " roared the captain.
" Flowed, sir," returned Rob.
The captain's voice was so tremendous, and he came
out of his corner with such way on him, that Rob re-
created before him into another corner : holding out the
196 DOMBEY AND SON.
keys and packet, to prevent himself from being run
down.
" ' For Captain Cuttle,' sir," cried Rob, " is on the
keys, and on the packet too. Upon my word and honor.
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 Grin-
der, screwing his cuff into his face : " his master bolted
with his place, and him blamed for it ! "
These lamentations had reference to Captain Cuttle's
gaze, or rather glare, which was full of vague suspicions,
threateniugs, and denunciations. Taking the proffered
packet from his hand, the captain opened it and read as
follows :
" ' My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is my will ! ' " The
captain turned it over, with a doubtful look " ' and
testament.' Where's the testament ? " said the captain,
instantly impeaching the ill-fated Grinder. " What have
you done with that, my lad ? "
" / never see it," whimpered Rob. " Don't keep on
suspecting an innocent lad, captain. 1 never touched
the testament"
Captain Cuttle shook his head, implying that some-
body must be made answerable for it; and gravely
proceeded :
" ' Which don't break open for a year, or until ycu
have decisive intelligence of my dear Walter, who is
dear to you, Ned, too, I am sure.' " The captain paused
and shook his head in some emotion ; then, as a rees-
tablishment 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, re-
member an old friend as he will remember you to the
DOMBEY AND SON. 197
last kindly ; and at least until the period I nave
mentioned lias expired, keep a home in the old place for
Walter. There are no dehts, the loan from Dombey's
house is paid off, and all my keys I send with this. Keep
this quiet, and make no inquiry for me; it is useless.
So no more, dear Ned, from your true friend, Solomon
Gills.' " The captain took a long breath, and then read
these words, written below: "'The boy Rob, well recom-
mended, as I told you, from Dombey's house. If all
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 court-martial on the subject in his own
mind, would require the united genius of all the great
men, who, discarding their own untoward days, have de-
termined 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;
anu even when his thoughts began to glance upon the
\tirious attendant facts, they might, 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 captain
BO clearly expressed in his visage, that Rob remon-
Itrated.
" Oh. don't, captain ! " cried the Grinder. " I wouder
how you can ! what have I done to be looked at, like
diat ? "
"My lad," said Captain Cuttle, "don't you sing on!
198 DOMBEY AND SON.
afore you're hurt. And don't you commit .yourself
whatever you do."
" I haven't been and committed nothing, captain,"
answered Rob.
" Keep her free, then," said the captain, impressively
" and ride easy."
With a deep senae 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 ex-
amine 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 ex-
pedient 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 ad-
mitted, he proceeded, with its aid, to further investi-
gation.
The captain's first care was to establish himself in a
chair in the shop, as president of the solemn tribunaJ
that was sitting within him ; and to require Rob 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
ff to Brig-place cautiously preventing the latter imi-
tation from being carried farther than the threshold
DOMBEY AND SON. 199
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, instituted a strict search over the whole house ;
groping in the cellars with a lighted candle, thrusting
his hook behind doors, bringing his head into violent
contact with beams, and covering himself with cob-
webs. Mounting up to the old man's bedroom, they
found that he had not been in bed on the previous night,
but had merely lain down on the coverlet, as was evi-
dent from the impression yet remaining there.
" And I think, captain," said Rob, looking round the
room, *' that when Mr. Gills was going in and out so
often, these last few days, he was taking little things
away, piecemeal, not to attract attention."
u Ay ! " said the captain, mysteriously. " Why so,
my lad ? "
" Why," returned Rob, 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 particular notice of the corresponding de-
partment of the Grinder, lest he should appear to have
been in recent use, or should prove to be in present pos-
session thereof. But Rob had no occasion to shave, cer-
tainly 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 yourself about his time of sheering
off? Hey?"
" Why, I think, captain," returned Rob, " that ho
must have gone pretty soon after I began to snore."
200 DOMBEY AND SON.
" What o'clock was that ? " said the captain, prepared
to be very particular 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 to tiptoe,
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 con-
clusion he was assisted by the letter addressed to him-
self, which, as being unquestionably in the old man's
handwriting, would seem, with no great forcing, to bear
the construction, that he arranged 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 appre-
hension strengthened on the captain, that, overpowered
by his anxieties and regrets for Walter, he had been
driven to commit 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 uncertainty
and deferred hope he had undergone, it seemed no vio-
lently strained misgiving, but only too probable.
Free from debt, and with 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 ? A? to his carrying some apparel with
DOMBEY AND SON. 201
him, if he had really done so and they were not even
sure of that he might have done 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 lan-
guage, and condensed within a small compass, was the
final result and substance of Captain Cuttle's delibera-
tions ; which took a long time to arrive at this pass, and
were, like some more public deliberations, very discur-
sive and disorderly.
Dejected and despondent in the extreme, Captain
Cuttle felt it just to release Rob from the arrest in
which he had placed him, and to enlarge him, subject
to a kind of honorable inspection which he still resolved
to exercise ; and having hired a man, from Brogley the
broker, to sit in the shop during their absence, the cap-
tain, taking Rob with him, issued forth upon a disraaJ
quest after the mortal remains 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 found and missing peo-
ple in all the newspapers and handbills, and went fortb
on expeditions at all hourS of the day to identify Solo-
mon Gills, in poor little ship-boys who had fallen over-
board, 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
Iras, and that the good captain had no other satisfaction.
Captain Cuttle at last abandoned these attempts as
202 DOMBEY AND SON.
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
u a home in the old place for Walter " was the primary
duty imposed upon him. Therefore, the captain's deci-
sion 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 hia
apartments at Mrs. MacStinger's, and he knew that
resolute woman would never hear of hi& deserting
them, the captain took the desperate determination of
running away.
" Now, look ye here, my lad," said the captain to Rob,
when he had matured 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 Rob.
" You'll continue to be rated on these here books,"
pursued the captain condescendingly, " and I don't say
but what you may get promotion, if you and me should
pull together with a will. But the moment you hoar me
knock to-morrow night, whatever time it is, turn-to and
ghow yourself smart with the door."
" I'll be sure to do it, captain," replied Rob.
" Because you understand," resumed the captain, com
:ng back again to enforce this charge upon his mind,
u there may be, for anything I can say, a chase ; and 1
might be took while I was waiting, if you didn't show
yourself smart with the door."
Rob asjain assured the captain that he would be
DOMBEY AND SON. 203
prompt ami wakeful ; and the captain having made thia
prudent arrangement, went home to Mrs. MacStinger*8
for the hist time.
The sense the captain had of its being the last time,
and of the awful purpose hidden beneath his blue waist-
coal, inspired him with such a mortal dread of Mrs.
MacStinger, that the sound of that lady's foot down-
stairs at any time of the day, was sufficient to throw
him into a fit of trembling. It fell out, too, that Mrs.
MacStinger was in a charming temper mild and
placid as a house-lamb ; and Captain Cuttle's conscience
Buffered 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 his landlady : " or a sheep's heart. Don't mind
my trouble."
" No thank'ee, ma'am," returned the captain.
" Have a roast fowl," said Mrs. MacStinger, " with
a bit of weal stuffing and some egg sauce. Come,
Cap'en Cuttle ! Give yourself a little treat ! "
" No thank'ee, ma'am," returned the captain very
humbly.
" I'm sure you're out of sorts, and want to be stimu-
lated," said Mrs. MacStinger. " Why not have, for
once in a way, a bottle of sherry-wine ? "
" Well, ma'am," rejoined the captain, " if you'd be so
good as take a glass or two, I think I would try that.
Would you do me the favor, ma'am," said the captain,
torn to pieces by his conscience, " to accept a quarter's
rent ahead ? "
" And why so, Cap'en Cuttle ? " retorted Mrs. Mao-
Stinger sharply as the captain thought.
Tlie captain was frightened to death. " If you would.
204 DOMBEY AND SON
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 Mao-
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 apiece to the little family all round ?
If you could make it convenient, ma'am, to pass the
word presently for them children to come for'ard^in a
body, I should be glad to see 'em."
These innocent MacStingers were so many daggers
to the captain's breast, when they appeared in a swarm,
and tore at him with the confiding trustfulness he so
little deserved. The eye of Alexander MacStinger,
who had been his favorite, was insupportable to the
captain ; the voice of Juliana MacStinger, who was the
picture of her mother, made a coward of him.
Captain Cuttle kept up appearances, nevertheless, tol-
erably well, and for an hour or two was very hardly
used and roughly handled by the young MacStingers :
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 drumming on the inside of the crown with their
shoes. At length the captain sorrowfully dismissed
them : taking leave of these cherubs with the poignant
remorse and grief of a man who was going to execu-
tion.
In the silence of night, the captain packed up his
heavier property in a chest, which he locked, intending
DOMBET AND SON. 205
to leave it there, in all probability forever, 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. MacStinger was lulled in sweet oblivion, with
her infants around her, the guilty captain stealing down
on tiptoe, in the dark, opened the door, closed it softly
after him, and took to his heels.
Pursued by the image of Mrs. MacStinger springing
viit 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, be-
tween Brig-place and the Instrument-maker's door. It
opened when he knocked for Rob was on the watch
and when it was bolted and locked behind him, Cap-
tain Cuttle felt comparatively safe.
" Whew ! " cried the captain, looking round him.
' ; It's a breather ! "
" Nothing the matter, is there, captain ? " cried the
gaping Rob.
" No, no ! " said Captain Cuttle, after changing color,
and listening to a passing footstep in the 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
kno'vn, nor never heard of here ; observe them orders,
will you ? "
" I'll take care, captain," returned Rob.
" You might say if you liked," hesitated the cap-
tain, " that you'd read in the paper that a cap'en of
206 DOMBET AND SOtf.
that name was gone tc Australia, emigrating along with
A whole ship's complement of people as had all swore
never to come back no more."
Rob nodded his understanding of these instructions ;
and Captain Cattle 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 <if
Solomon Gills.
What the captain suffered next day, whenever a bon-
net passed, or how often he darted out of the shop to
elude imaginary MacStingers, and sought safety in the
attic, cannot be told. But to avoid the fatigues attend-
ant on this means of self-preservation, the captain cur-
tained the glass door of communication between the shop
and parlor, 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 fortifica-
tion 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 connection
with which he had the general idea (very laborious to
Rob) that too much friction could not be bestowed 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
:>f the public.
DOMBET AND SON. 207
After effecting these improvements, Captain Cuttle,
surrounded by the instruments, began to feel scientific
arid looked up at the stars at night, through the skylight,
when he was smoking his pipe in the little back-parlor
before going to bed, as if he had established a kind of
properly in them. As a tradesman in the city, too, ho
began to have an interest in the Lord Mayor, and thu
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 dis-
pensed with the fractions. Florence, the raptain waited
on, with his strange news of Uncle Sol, immediately after
taking possession of the Midshipman; but she was away
from home. So the captain sat himself down in his
altered station of life, with no company but Rob 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.
08 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XXVI.
SHADOWS OF THE PAST AND FUTURE.
u 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 you ! "
" I am infinitely obliged, Carker," explained Mr. Dom-
bey, " to Major Bagstock for his company and conversa-
tion. Major Bagstock has rendered me great service,
Carker."
Mr. Carker the Manager, hat in hand, just arrived at
Leamington, and just introduced to the major, showed
the major his whole double range of teeth, and trusted
he might take the liberty of thanking him with all hia
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 affair. 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 na-
ture."
Mr. Carker snapped at the expression. In his moral
nature. Exactly. The very words he had been on the
ooint of suggesting.
" But when my friend Dombey, sir," added the major,
DOMBEY AND SON. 206
" talks to you of Major Bagstock, I mus* crave leave to
set him and you right. He means plain Joe, sir Joey
B. Josh. Bagstock Joseph rough and tough Old
J.. sir. At your service."
Mr. Carker's excessively friendly inclinations towards
the major, and Mr. Carker's admiration of his roughness,
toughness, and plainness, 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/ 1
" 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 swollen as to his face.
withdrew ; but immediately putting in his head at the
door again, said:
" I beg your pardon. Dombey, have you any mes-
sage to 'em?"
Mr. Dombey in some embarrassment, and not without
a glance at the courteous keeper of his business confi
dence, 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.
" Damme, sir," said the major, shaking his shoulders
and his great cheeks jocularly : " make it something
warmer than that."
VOL. II. 14
5510 DOMBEY AND SON.
" What you please, then, major," observed Mr, Dom
bey.
' Our friend is sly sir, sly sir, de-vilish sly," said the
major, staring round the door at Carker. " So is Bag-
stock." But stopping in the midst of a chuckle, and
drawing himself up to his full height, the major sol-
emnly exclaimed, as he struck himself on the chest,
" Dombey ! I envy your feelings. God bless you ! "
and withdrew.
" You must have found the gentleman a great re-
source," 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, a I am
so very glad that you go into society ! **
Mr. 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. u Of
all the men I know, you are the best adapted by nature
and by position, for society. Do you know I have been
frequently amazed that you should have held it at arm'?
length so long ! "
" I have had my reasons, Carker. I have been alone,
and indifferent to it. But you have great social qualifi-
cations yourself, and are the more likely to have ben
surprised."
"Oh! 77" returned the other, with ready self-dis-
paragement. u 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 21 J
cliin 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 agreeable people."
" Ladies among them, I presume ? " insinuated tL
smooth Manager.
" They are all that is to say, they are both
ladies," replied Mr. Dombey.
"Only two?" smiled Carker.
" There 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 Mr. 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. Ad
Mr. Dombey raised his eyes, it changed back, no lesa
quickly, to its old expression, and showed him every
gum of which it stood possessed.
" You are very kind," said Carker. " I shall be de-
lighted to know them. Speaking of daughters, I hate
Been Miss Dombey."
There was a sudden rush of blood to Mr. Dombey'a
face.
** I took the liberty of waiting on her," said Carker.
"to inquire if she could charge me with any little com-
mission. I am not so fortunate as to be the bearer of
any but her but her dear love."
212 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 ? ** inquired the
latter gentleman, after a silence, during which Mr.
Carker had produced some memoranda and other pa-
pers.
" There is very little," returned Carker. u 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 in-
sured from her keel to her masthead."
" Carker," said Mr. Dombey, taking a chair near him,
" I cannot say that young man, Gay, ever impressed me
favorably "
" Nor me," interposed the Manager.
" But I wish," said Mr. Dombey, without heeding the
interruption, " he had never gone on board that ship. I
wish he had never been sent out."
" It is a pity you didn't say so, in good time, is it
not ? " retorted Carker, coolly. " However. I think it's
all for the best. I really think it's all for the best. Did
I mention that there was something like a little confi-
dence between Miss Dombey and myself."
" No," said Mr. Dombey, sternly.
M I have no doubt," returned Mr. Carker, after an im-
pressive 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 that. I am quite
satisfied of it myself. Miss Dombey is confiding and
young perhaps hardly proud enough, for your daugh-
ter if she have a fault. Not that that is much though,
I am sure. Will you check these balances with me ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. 213
Mr. Dombey leaned back in his chair, instead of bend-
ing 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 in-
tended consideration, and felt that but for it, this confi-
dential Carker would have said a great deal more, which
lie, Mr. Dombey, was too proud to ask for. It was hia
way in business, often. Little by little, 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 im-
pressed it on his great chief more and more.
While they were thus engaged ; and under the skilful
culture 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
reached the bower of Cleopatra, he had the good fortune
to find his princess on her usual sofa, languishing over a
eup of coffee, with the room so darkened and shaded for
her more luxurious repose, that Withers, who was in at-
endance on her, loomed like a phantom page,
" What insupportable creature is this, coming in ! "
214 DOMBEY AND SON.
said Mrs. Skewton. " I cannot bear it. Go away,
whoever you are ! "
" You have not the heart to banish J. B., ma'am ! "
?aid the major, halting midway, to remonstrate, with hia
cane over his shoulder.
" Oh it's you, is it ? On second thoughts you may
enter," observed Cleopatra.
The major entered accordingly, and advancing to the
sofa pressed her charming hand to his lips.
" Sit down," said Cleopatra, listlessly waving her fan,
u a long way off. Don't come too near me, for I am
frightfully faint and sensitive this morning, and you
smell 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 blis-
tered by the sun ; the time was, when he was forced,
ma'am, into such full blow, by high hot-house 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 flower the flower 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 indi-
cated by 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 hia
great self-satisfaction, perhaps went nearer to the con-
fines of apoplexy than he had ever gone before.
"Where is Mrs. Granger?" inquired Cleopatra of
her page.
Withers believed she was in her own room.
"Very well," said Mrs. Skewton. "Go away, and
<Jiut the door. I am engaged."
DOMBEY AND SON. 21ii
As "Withers disappeared, Mrs. Skewton turned her
head languidly towards the major, without otherwise
moving, and asked him how his friend was.
" Dom bey, 'ma'am," returned the major, with a face-
tious gurgling in his throat, " is as well as a man in hia
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 con-
trasted forcibly with the affected drawl in which she
presently said :
"Major Bagstock, although I know but little of the
world, nor can I really regret 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 soul, 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 characteristic of the Bagstock breed. You
are right. Joe admits it."
" And that allusion," pursued Cleopatra. " would in-
volve 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 lips, and wafted a
kiss to Cleopatra, as if to identify the emotion in ques
4on.
" I feel that I am weak. I feel that I am wanting ir
216 DOMBEY AND SON.
that energy which should sustain a mama : not to say &
parent : on suph a subject," said Mrs. Skewton, trimming
her lips with the laced edge of her pocket-handkerchief;
" hut I can hardly approach a topic so excessively mo-
mentous to my dearest Edith without a feeling of faint-
ness. Nevertheless, bad man, as you have boldly re-
marked 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 Mrs. Skewton, when she at
length resumed, " was obliging enough, now, many weeks
ago, to do us the honor of visiting us here ; in company,
my dear major, with yourself. I acknowledge let me
be open that it is my failing to be the creature of im-
pulse, 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 imputa-
tion justly."
Mrs. Skewton arranged her tucker, pinched her wiry
throat to give it a soft surface, and went on with great
complacency.
"It gave me (my dearest Edith too, I am sure) in-
finite pleasure to receive Mr. Dombey. As a friend of
yours, my dear major, we were naturally disposed to be
prepossessed in his favor ; and I fancied that I observed
n amount of heart in Mr. Dombey, that was excessively
ei'reshing."
DOMBEY AND SO1S. 217
" 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.
"Mr. Dombey," pursued Cleopatra, smoothing the
rosy hue upon her cheeks, "accordingly repeated his
visit ; and possibly finding some attraction in the simpli-
city and primitiveness of our tastes for there is always
a charm in nature it is so very sweet became one
of our little circle every evening. Little did I think of
the awful responsibility into which I plunged when I
encouraged Mr. Dombey to "
" To beat up these quarters, ma'am," suggested Major
Bagstock.
" Coarse person ! " said Mrs. Skewton, " you antici-
pate my meaning, though in odious language."
Here Mrs. Skewton rested her elbow on the little
table at her side, and suffering her wrist to droop in
what she considered a graceful and becoming 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 has by degrees dawned upon me, has been too
ixceedingly 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
.hing in the world."
Mrs. Skewton's world was not a very trying one, if
one might judge of it by the influence of its most affect
Vg circumstance upon her ; but this by the way.
218 DOMBET AND SON.
" Edith," simpered Mrs. Skewton, " who is the perfect
pearl of my life, is said to resemble me. I believe we
are 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 upon him and pro-
ceeded :
" 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 sus-
ceptible 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 purging up
his blue lips into a soothing expression, affected the pro-
foundest sympathy.
" The confidence," said Mrs. Skewton, " that has sub-
sisted 'between us the free development of soul, and
openness of sentiment is touching to think of. We
have been more like sisters than mama and child."
' J. B.'s own sentiment," observed the major, " ex-
pressed by J. B. fifty thousand times ! "
" Do not interrupt, rude man ! " said Cleopatra.
u What are ray feelings, 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 description, of course."
The major left. his chair, and took one nearer to the
little table.
DOMBEY AND SCN. 219
" From day to day I see this, ray dear major," pro-
seeded Mrs. Skewton. " From day to day I feel this.
From hour to hour I reproach myself for that excess
of faith and trustfulness which has led to such distressing
consequences ; and almost from minute to minute, I hope
that Mr. Dombey may explain himself, and relic vc the
torture I undergo, which is extremely wearing. But
nothing happens, my dear major ; I am the slave of re-
morse 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 dene, or what good crea-
ture I can advise with."
Major Bagstock, encouraged perhaps by the softened
and confidential tone into which Mrs. 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,
"Advi.se with Joe, ma'am."
" Then, you aggravating monster," said Cleopatra,
giving one hand to the major, and tapping his knuck-
les with her fan, which she held in the other : " why
don't you talk to me ? you know what I mean. Why
don't you tell me something to the purpose ? "
The major laughed and kissed the hand she had be-
ptowed 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
id vise."
"Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, ma'am?"
Chuckled the major, hoarsely.
220 DOMBEY AND SON.
u Mysterious cieature ?" returned Cleopatra, bringing
her fan to bear upon the major's nose. " How can we
marry him ? "
" Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, ma'am, J
say ? " chuckled the major again.
Mrs. Skewton returned no answer in words, but
smiled upon the major with so much archness and
vivacity, that that gallant officer considering himself
challenged, would have imprinted a kiss on her ex
ceedingly red lips, but for her interposing the fan with
a very winning and juvenile dexterity. It might have
been in modesty ; it might have been in apprehension
of some danger to their bloom.
u Dombey, ma'am," said the major, " is a great catch."
" Oh, mercenary wretch ! " cried Cleopatra, with a
little shriek, " 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. Dom-
bey is safe, ma'am. Do as you have done ; 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
searchingly, 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 ab-
ruptly in a chuckle, and becoming serious, " has arrived.* 1
"ThU morning?" said Cleopatra.
a This morning, ma'am," returned the major. " And
DOMBEV AND SON. 22 J
Dombey's anxiety for his arrival, ma'am, is to he re-
ferred take J. B.'s word for this ; for Joe is de-vilish
sly " the major tapped his nose, and screwed up one
of his eyes tight : which did not enhance his native
beauty " to his desire that what is in the wind should
become known to him, without Dombey's telling and
consulting him. For Dombey is as proud, ma'am," said
the major, " as Lucifer."
"A charming quality," lisped Mrs. Skewton ; "re-
minding one of dearest Edith."
" Well, rna'am," said the major. " I have thrown
out hints already, and the right-hand man understands
'em ; and I'll throw out more before the day is done.
Dombey projected this morning a ride to Warwick Cas-
tle, and to Kenilworth, to-morrow, to be preceded by a
breakfast with us. I undertook the delivery of this
invitation. Will you honor us so far, ma'am ? " said
the major, swelling with shortness of breath and slyness,
as he produced a note, addressed to the Honorable Mrs.
Skewton, by favor of Major Bagstock, wherein hers
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 re-
called to the remembrance of Mrs. Granger.
" Hush ! " said Cleopatra, suddenly, " Editli ! "
The loving mother can scarcely be described as re-
umirig 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
222 DOMBEY AND SON.
had, for the moment, betrayed, she lounged upon the
couch, her most insipid aud 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, without turning 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 disagree-
able 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.
" How very odd you are to-day, my dear ! Pray let
me say, my love, that Major Bagstock has brought the
DOMBEY AND SON. 223
kindest of notes from Mr. Dombey, proposing that we
should breakfast with him to-morrow, and ride to War-
wick and Kenilworth. Will you go, Edith ? "
" Will I go ! " she repeated, turning very red, and
breathing quickly as she looked round at her mother.
" I knew you would, my own," observed the latter
jarelessly. " It is, as you say, quite a form to ask.
Hore is Mr. 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, " though I had thought of asking you
to be my secretary, darling." As Edith made no'move-
ment 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 Mrs. Skew-
ton, pausing, pen in hand, at the postscript.
" What you will, mama," she answered, without turn-
ing 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
lave been a greater compliment to the major to Lave
224 DOMBEY AND SON.
made no sign at all, and to have left him to infei that
he had not been heard or thought of.
' As to alteration in her, sir," mused the major, on
bis 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 darome, sir, that
seems true enough. And it's odd enough ! Well, sir ! "
panted 1 the major, " Edith Granger and Dombey are
well matched ; let 'em fight it out ! Bagstock backs the
I n
winner !
The major, by saying these latter words aloud, in the
vigor of his thoughts, caused the unhappy native to stop,
and turn round, in the belief that he was personally ad-
dressed. Exasperated to the last degree by this act of
insubordination, the major (though he was swelling with
enjoyment of his own humor, at the moment of its 'oc-
currence) 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 under-
went the pelting of a shower of miscellaneous objects,
varying in size from a boot to a hairbrush, and includ-
ing everything that came within his master's reach. For
the major plumed himself on having the native in a per-
fect state of drill, and visited the least departuie from
strict discipline with this kind of fatigue duty. Add
to this, that he maintained the native about his person
DGMBEY AND SON. 225
iw 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 mis-
siles that were convenient 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 English
language, submitted to have his cravat put on ; and be-
ing dressed, and finding himself in a bri;k flow of spirit*
after this exercise, went down-stairs to enliven '' Dom-
bey " 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," re-
turned 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 this is
quite unusual with me, educated in a distrustful school,
and who am not generally disposed to be communica-
tive," he said, breaking off, and speaking in a charming
tone of frankness "but I feel quite confidential with
you, Major Bagstock."
" You do me honor, sir," returned the major. " Yoi;
may be."
" Do you know then," pursued Carker, " that 1 have
oot found my friend our friend, I ought ratner to ou 1
aim"
VOL. II. 15
226 DOMBEY AND SON.
" Meaning Dombey, sir ? " cried the major. M You
see me, Mr. Carker, standing here ! J. B ? "
He was puffy enough to see, and blue enough ; and
Mr. Carker intimated that he had that pleasure.
" Tlien you see a man, sir, who would go through
fire and water to serve Dombey," returned Major Bag-
stock.
Mr. Carker smiled, and said he was sure of it. " Do
you know, major," he proceeded : " to resume where I
left off: that I have not found our friend so attentive to
business to-day, as usual ? "
" No ? " observed the delighted major.
" I have found him a little abstracted, and with nis
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," returned
Carker. " I thought you might be jesting when you
seemed to hint at it; for I know you military men"
The major gave the horse's cough, and shook his head
and shoulders, as much as to say, " Well ! we are gay
dogs, there's no denying." He then seized Mr. Carker
by the button-hole, and with starting eyes whispered 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 family, sir. That Dombey was over head and
cars 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? Hearing Mr. Dombey's footsteps
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.
DOMBEY AND SON. 22?
end the exertion of saying all this in whet,*/ 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 oc-
casion, he shone resplendent at one end of the table,
supported by the milder lustre of Mr. Dombey at
the other ; while Carker on one side lent his ray to
either light, or suffered it to merge into both, as oecasion
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 pmte. Be-
sides which, the native had private zests ami flavors on
a side-table, with which the major daily scurched him-
self; to say nothing of strange machines oat 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 socia/ ; and his sociality
consisted in excessive slyness for the behoof of Mr.
Carker, and the betrayal of Mr. Dombey's state of
mind.
6 Dombey," said the major, "you don't eat; what's
the matter ? "
" Thank you," returned that gentleman, " I am doing
i ery 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'll swear, for I can answer for their having
none to-day at luncheon. I can answer for one of 'enx.
at least ; I won't say which."
''2$ DOMBEY AND SON.
Thon 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 major's elbow ready to serve
the first bottle of champagne : the major became still
slyer.
M Fill this to the brim, you scoundrel," said the major,
holding up his glass. " Fill Mr. 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'll 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 all 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.
u For though, among ourselves, Joe Bagstock mingles
jest and earnest on this subject, sir," said the major, lay-
ing 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 u
arord, sir, while they are here ! "
This was respectful and becoming on the major's pait,
und Mr. Dombey plainly felt it so. Although embar-
rassed in his own frigid way, by the major's allusions,
Mr. Dombey had no objection to such rallying, it was
dear, but rather courted it. Perhaps the major had
been pretty near the truth, when he had divined that
DOMBET AND SON. 229
morning that the great man who was too haughty for*
tnerly 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 major, having secured an attentive listener,
and a smiler who had not his match in all the world
u 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 de-
veloped 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 admi-
ration : while Mr. Dombey looked on over his starched
cravat, like the major's proprietor, or like a stately show-
man 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 inquired of Mr. Carker the manager,
with 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, hesi-
tating.
"Yes, I play backgammon a little too," replied the
Man of teeth.
" Carker plays at all games, I believe," said Mr.
Dombey, laying himself on a sofa like n mac of wood
230 DOMBEY AND SON.
without a hinge or a joint in him; "and plays them
well."
In sooth, he played the two in question, to such per-
fection, 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 lurk 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 own 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 gallery, to
light him to his room in state.
There was a faint blur on the surface of the mirror
m Mr. Carker's chamber, and its reflection was, perhaps.
DOM BEY AND SON. 28 1
a false one. But it showed, that night, the image of a
man, who saw, in his fancy, a crowd of people slumber-
ing on the ground at his feet, like the poor native at his
master's door : who picked his way among them : look-
ing down maliciously enough: but tiod upon no upturned
fuce as yet.
DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XXVIL
DEEPER SHADOWS.
MR. CARKER the manager rose with the laik, and
went out, walking in the summer day. His meditations
and he meditated with contracted 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 Mr. Carker's thoughts. He had his
face so perfectly under control, that few could 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 accumulating
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 revery, 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 hia
'"ace, like one who bethought himself that it might oth-
erwise wrinkle and tell tales, went smiling on, as if fof
practice.
DOMBEY AND SON. 233
Perhaps with an eye to first impression.*, Mr. Carker
was very carefully and trimly dressed, that morning.
Though always somewhat formal in his dress, in imita-
tion of the great man whom he served, he stopped short
of the extent of Mr. Dombey's stiffness : at once, per-
haps, 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 ave-
nues of trees, until it was time to return to breakfast.
Taking a nearer way back, Mr. Carker pursued it, air-
ing his teeth, and said aloud as he did so, " Now to see
the second Mrs. Dombey ! "
He had strolled beyond the town, and reentered 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 hour, and wearing at that
time of the still morning the air of being quite deseited
and retired, Mr. Carker had it, or thought he had it, all
to himself. So, with the whim of an idle man, to whom
there yet remained twenty minutes for reaching a desti-
nation easily accessible in ten, Mr. Carker threaded the
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.
234 DOMBEY AND SON.
Bat 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 over-lapped 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
band, 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 dark proud eyes were fixed upon the
ground, and in whom some passion or struggle was rag-
ing. 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 l*er foot was set upon the moss
as though she would have crushed it into nothing. And
yet almost the selfsame glance that showed him this,
showed him the selfsame lady rising with a scornful
air of weariness and lassitude, and turning away with
nothing expressed in face or figure but careless beauty
and imperious disdain.
A withered and very ugly old woman, dressed not so
much like a gypsy 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
appeared and stood in the way.
" Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady," faid tho
old woman, munching with her jaws, as if the Death's
bead beneath her yellow skin were impatient to gei
out.
DOMBEY AND SON. 235
" I can tell it for myself," was the reply.
"Ay, ay, 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'll tell
your fortune true. There's riches, pretty lady, in yonr
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'll 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 his hat as
she went by, bade the old woman hold her peace. The
lady acknowledged his interference with an inclination
of the head, and went her way.
" You give me something then, or I'll call it after
her ! " screamed the old woman, throwing up her arras,
and pressing forward against his outstretched hand.
" Or come," she added, dropping her voice suddenly,
looking at him earnestly, and seeming in a moment to
forget the object of her wrath, " give me something, or
I'll call it after you ! "
" After me, old lady ? " returned the manager, putting
his hand in his pocket.
" Yes," said the woman, steadfast in her scrutiny, and
holding out her shrivelled hand. " / know ! "
" What do you know ? " demanded Carker, throwing
aer a shilling. " Do you know who the handsome lady
is ? "
236 DOMBKr AND SON.
Munch* ig like tnat sailor's wife of yore, who had
chestnuts in her lap, and scowling like the witch who
asked for some in vain, the old woman picked the shil-
ling up, and going backwards, like a crab, or like a
heap of crabs : for her alternately expanding and con-
tracting 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 ! "
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 familiar,
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. Mutter-
ing a fai'ewell that was not complimentary, 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,
lind the breakfast, were awaiting the ladies. Individual
Constitution has much to do with the dr.veloornent of
DOMBEY AND SON. 237
such facts, no doubt ; but in this case, appetite carried it
hollow 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
WHS thrown open by the native, and, after a pause, occu-
pied by her languishing along the gallery, a very bloom
ing, but not a very youthful lady appeared.
" My dear Mr. Dombey," said the lady, " I am afraid
we are late, but Edith has been out already looking for
a favorable point of view for a sketch, and kept me wait-
ing for her. Falsest of majors," giving him her little
finger, " how do you ? "
" Mrs. Skewton," said Mr. Dombey, " let me gratify
my friend Carker : " Mr. Dombey unconsciously empha-
sized 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, gra-
ciously.
Mr. Carker was charmed, of course. Would 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 overnight ?
" Why, where, for Heaven's sake is Edith ? " ex-
claimed Mrs. Skewton, looking round. " Still at the
door, giving Withers orders about the mounting of those
drawings ! My dear Mr. Dombey, will you have the
kindness "
Mr. Dombey was already gone to seek her. Next
moment he returned, bearing on his arm the same ele-
gantly dressed and very handsome lady whom Mr. Car-
fcer had encountered underneath the trees.
" Carker " began Mr. Dombey. But their recog
238 DOMBEY AND SON.
nition 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."
" I am obliged to my good fortune," said Mr. Carker,
iowing low, " for the opportunity of rendering so slight
B 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 mo-
ment 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.
:; Really," 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 arms 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 his prophet ! "
Edith deigned no revision of this extraordinary quo-
tation from the Koran, but Mr. 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 con-
nected with myself as Carker is, should have had the
honor and happiness of rendering the least assistance to
Mrs. Granger. ' Mr. Dombey bowed to her. " But it
gives me some pain, and it occasions me to be really en-
DOMBEY AND SON. 289
vious 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 honor and that happiness myself." Mr.
Dombey bowed again. Edith, saving fci a curl of her
lip, was motionless.
" By the Lord, sir," 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 honor and happiness of shooting all such
beggars through the head without being brought to book
for it. But here's an arm for Mrs. Granger, if she'll do
J. B. the honor 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. Carker
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 your visit
so happily, as to go with us to-day. It is the most en-
chanting expedition ! "
" Any expedition would be enchanting in such society,"
returned Carker ; " but I believe it is, in itself, full of
interest."
" Oh ! " cried Mrs. Skewton, with a faded little scream
of rapture, " the castle is charming ! associations of the
middle ages and all that which is so truly exqui-
site. Don't you dote upon the middle ages, Mr Car-
ker ? "
" Very much, indeed," said Mr. Carker.
"Such charming times!" cried Cleopatra. "So full
240 iJOMBEY AND SON.
of faith ! So vigorous and forcible ! So picturesque :
So perfectly removed from commonplace ! Oh dear !
If they would only leave us a little more of the poetry
of existence in these terrible days ! "
Mrs. Skewton was looking sharp after Mr. Dombey
all the time she said this, who was looking at Edith :
who was listening, but who never lifted up her eyes.
"We are dreadfully real, Mr. Carker," said Mrs.
Skewton ; " are we not ? "
Few people had less reason to complain of their re-
ality than Cleopatra, who had as much that was false
about her as could well go to the composition of anybody
with a real individual existence. But Mr. Carker com-
miserated our reality nevertheless, and agreed that we
were very hardly used in that regard.
" Pictures at the castle, quite divine ! " said Cleopa-
tra. " I hope you dote upon pictures ? "
" I assure you, Mrs. Skewton, ' said Mr. Dombey,
with solemn encouragement of his manager, " that Car-
ker has a very good taste for pictures ; quite a natural
power of appreciating them. He is a very creditable
artist himself. He will 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 any-
thing."
" Oh ! " smiled Carker, with humility, " you are much
too sanguine, Major Bagstock. I can do very little.
Hut 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.
DOMBKY AND SON. 241
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. Dorubey for a moment. For a moment only ;
but with a transient gleam of scornful wonder on her
face, not lost on one observer, who was smiling round
(he board.
Mr. Dombey caught the dark eyelash in its descent,
and took the opportunity of arresting it.
" You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately ? "
said Mr. Dombey.
" Several times."
t: 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-rnorrow 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," re-
turned her mother ; " but we won't complain. Our own
emotions are our recompense. If, as your cousin Feenix
says, the sword wears out the what's-its-name "
" The scabbard, perhaps," said Edith.
" Exactly a little too fast, it is because it is bright
and glowing, you know, my 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
tfiection on her darling child.
VOL II. 16
242 DOMBEY AND SON.
Edith had turned her face towards Mr. Dorabey when
be 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 was something in tho
manner of this simple courtesy : almost defiant, and giv-
ing 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
first 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 dis-
tance of a hundred yards or so, and watched it, during all
the ride, as if he were a cat, indeed, and its four occu-
pants, 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, hay -ricks, and the spire among the
wood or upward in the sunny air, where butterflies
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 on ward, where the overhanging trees formed
and arches, dim with the softened light that st eeped
DOMBEY AND SON. 243
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 waiy
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 in-
stant in her first surprise ; but when he touched her, in
alighting, with his soft white hand, it overlooked him
altogether as before.
Mrs. Skewton was bent on taking charge of Mr. Car-
ker 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 : stalk-
ing before them through the apartments with a gentle-
manly solemnity.
" Those darling by-gone times, Mr. Carker," said Cleo-
patra, " with 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 charming !
How dreadfully we have degenerated ! "
Yes, we have fallen off deplorably," said Mr. Carker,
The peculiarity of their conversation was, that Mrs.
Skewton, in spite of her ecstasies, and Mr. Carker, in
spite of his urbanity, were both intent on watching Mr
244 DOMBEY AND SON.
Dombey and Edith. With all their conversational en-
dowments, they spoke somewhat distractedly, and al
random in consequence.
" We have no faith left, positively," said Mrs. Skewlon,
advancing her shrivelled ear ; for Mr. Dombey was ray-
ing something to Edith. " We have no faith in the dear
old barons, who were the most delightful creatures 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 creature ! She was all heart ! And that
charming father of hers ! I hope you dote on Harry the
Eighth ! "
" I admire him very much," said Carker.
"So bluff!" cried Mrs. Skewton, "wasn't he? So
burly. So truly English. Such a picture, too, he
makes, with his dear little peepy eyes, and his benev-
olent chin !"
" Ah, ma'am ! " said Carker, stopping short ; " but if
you speak of pictures, 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 door-way to where Mr. Dombey and Edith
were standing alone in the centre of another room.
They were not interchanging a word or a look. Stand-
fng together, arm in arm, they had the appearance of
being more divided than if sea* had rolled between them.
There was a difference 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
Df humanity, in all creation. He, self-important, un-
bending, formal, austere. She, lovely and graceful in
DOMBEY AND SON. 245
an uncommon degree, but totally regardless of herself
and him and everything around, and spurning her own
attractions with her haughty brow and lip, as if they
were a badge or livery she hated. So unmatched were
they, and opposed, so forced and linked together by a
chain which adverse hazard and mischance had forged :
that fancy might have imagined the pictures on the walls
around them, startled by the unnatural conjunction, and
observant of it in their several expressions. Grim
knights and warriors looked scowling on them. A
churchman, with his hand upraised, denounced the mock-
ery 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 drowning left? Ruins 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, Mj-s. Skewton was so charmed by the
sight to which Mr. Carker invoked her attention, that
she could not refrain from saying, half aloud, how
sweet, how very full of soul it was ! Edith, overhear-
ing, looked round, and flushed indignant scarlet to her
hair.
" My dearest Edith knows I was admiring her ! " said
Cleopatra, tapping her, almost timidly, on the back with
her parasol. " Sweet pet ! "
Again Mr. Carker saw the strife he had witnessed
BO unexpectedly among the trees. Again he saw the
haughty languor and indifference come over it, and hide
it like a cloud.
246 DOMBEY AND SON.
She did not raise her eyes to him ; but with a slight
peremptory motion of them, seemed to bid her mother
come near. Mrs. Skewton thought it expedient to un-
derstand the hint, and advancing quickly, with her two
cavaliers, kept near her daughter from that time,
Mr. Carker now, having nothing to distract his atten-
tion, began to discourse upon the pictures, and to select
the Irest, and point them out to Mr. Dombey : speaking
with his usual familiar recognition of Mr. Dombey '8
greatness, and rendering homage by adjusting his eye-
glass for him, or finding out the right place in his cata-
logue, 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 good-
ness to assist me, will you ! " which the smiling gentleman
always did with pleasure.
They made the tour of the pictures, the walls, crow',0
nest, and so forth ; and as they were still one little party,
and the major was rather in the shado, being sleepy dur-
ing the process of digestion, Mr. Carker became com-
municative and agreeable. At first, he addressed him-
self for the most part to Mrs. Skewton ; but as that
sensitive lady was in such ecstasies with 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 behavior very
ranch: deeming it as well that somebody should talk.
DOMBEI AND SON. 247
and tiiinking that his remarks, which were, as one might
gay, a branch of the parent establishment, might amuse
Mrs. Granger. Mr. Carker, who po-sessed an excel-
lent 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 peculiar humility, the twilight smile stole over her
face, not as a light, but as a deep black shadow.
Warwick Castle being at length pretty well exhausted,
and the major very much so : to say nothing of Mrs.
Skewton, whose peculiar demonstrations 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 neighborhood* Mr. Dombey cer-
emoniously 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
(here Mr. Dombey made another of his bows), which he
must always highly 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.
" By no means. Where would you wish it taken
from ? " she answered, turning to him with the same
enforced attention as before.
Mr. Dombey, with another bow, which cracked the
tarch in his cravat, would beg to leave .that to the
artist
248 DOMI5EY AND SON.
" I would rather you choose for yourself," said Edith
" Suppose then," said Mr. 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 morn-
ing, and with a seat under one tree, generally 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 introduc-
tion ; and would have been exactly like the first, bul
that its expression was plainer.
"Would 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 indifference, began to sketch.
" My pencils are all pointless," she said, stopping and
turning them over.
" Pray allow me," said Mr. Dombey. " Or Carker
will 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
worse's neck, took the pencils from her hand with F
DOMBEY AND SON. 249
imile and a bow, and sat in the saddle leisurely mend-
ing them. Having done so he begged to be allowed to
hold them, and to hand them to her as they were re-
quired; and thus Mr. Carker, with many commendations
of Mrs. Granger's extraordinary skill especially i
trees remained close at her side, looking over the
drawing as she made it. Mr. Dombey in the mean time
stood bolt upright in the carriage like a highly respecta-
ble 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 un-
usual 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 acknowledgment
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 and delivered to its owner, as if
t had been bargained for and bought. Thinking, per-
naps, that although she had assented with such perfect
readiness to his request, her haughty face, bent over the
250 DCMBEY AND SON.
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, perhaps,
of such things : but smiling certainly, and while 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 stioll among the haunted ruins of Kenil worth, and
more rides to more points of view : most of which, Mi's.
Skewton reminded Mr. Dombey, 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 even-
ing, to hear some of Edith's music; and the three gen-
tlemen 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 full of interest and praise.
There were no other visitors at Mrs. Skewton's.
Edith's drawings were strewn about the room, a little
more abundantly than usual perhaps ; and Withers, the
wan page, handed round a little stronger tea. The harp
was there ; the piano was there ; and Edith sang and
played. But even the music was paid by Edith to Mr
Dombey's order, as it were, in the same uncompromising^
way. As thus.
" Edith, my dearest love," said Mrs. Skewton, half an
hour after lea, " Mr. Dombey is dying to hear you, 1
know."
DOMBEY AND SON. 251
a Mr. Dombey has life enough left to Ray so for him-
lelf, mama, I have no doubt."
" I shall be immensely obliged," said Mr. Dombey.
"What do you wish?"
" Piano ? " hesitated Mr. Dombey.
" Whatever you please. You have only to choose."
Accordingly, she began with the piano. It was the
lame 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 wi-hes he imposed upon
her, and on no one else, was sufficiently remarkable to
penetrate through all the mysteries of picquet, and im-
press 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, who.se
vigilance of eye in respect of Mr. Dombey and Edith
no lynx could liave surpassed that he even heightened
his position in the lady-mother's good graces ; and when
on taking leave he regretted that he would be obliged
to return to London next morning, Cleopatra trusted :
community of feeling not being met with every day :
that it was fa" from being the last time they would
meet.
" I hope so," said Mr. Carker, with an expressive
bok at the couple in the distance, as he drew towards
the door, following the major. " I think so."
Mr. Dombey, who had taken a stately leave of Edith,
oent, or made some approach to a bend, over Cleopatra's
couch, and said, in a low voice:
" 1 have requested Mrs. Granger's permission to call
252 DOMBEY AND SON.
on her to-morrow morning for a purpose and sht
has appointed twelve o'clock. May I hope to have
the pleasure 1 of finding you at home, madam, after-
wards ? "
Cleopatra was so much fluttered and moved, by hear-
ing this, of course incomprehensible speech, that she
could only shut her eyes, and shake her head, and give
Mr. Dombey her hnnd ; which Mr. Dombey, not exactly
knowing what to do with 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 should be called the Three Jolly Bachelors,
in honor of ourselves and Carker." With this the ma-
jor slapped Mr. Dombey on the back, and winking over
his shoulder at the ladies, with a frightful tendency of
blood to the head, carried him off.
Mrs. Skewton reposed on her sofa, and Edith sat
apart, by her harp, in silence. The mother, trifling
with her fan, looked stealthily at the daughter more
than once, but the daughter, brooding gloomily with
downcast eyes, was not to be disturbed.
Thus they remained for a long hour, without a word,
until Mrs. Skewton's maid appeared, according to cus-
tom, to prepare her gradually for night. At night, she
should have been a skeleton, with dart and hour-gla>>,
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 hair
dropped off, the arched dark eyebrows changed to scanty
tufts of gray ; the pale lips shrunk, the skin became
cadaverous and loose ; and old, worn, yellow nodding
woman, with red eyes, alone remained in Cleopatra 3
DOMDKV AND SON. 253
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 be k-
coming here to-morrow by appointment?"
" Because you know it," returned Edith, " mother."
The mocking emphasis she laid on that one word !
" You know he has bought me," she resumed. " Or
that he will, to-morrow. He has considered of his bar-
gain ; 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 I feel it! "
Compress into one handsome face the conscious self-
abas,ement, and the burning indignation of a hundred
women, strong in passion and in pride ;' and there it
hid itself with two white shuddering arms.
" What do you mean ? " returned the angry mother.
" Haven't you from a child "
" A child ! " said Edith, looking at her, " when was I
a child ! What childhood did you ever leave to me ?
I was a woman artful, designing, mercenary, laying
snares for men before I knew myself, or you, or even
understood the base and wretched aim of every new dis-
play I learnt. You gave birth to a woman. Look upon
lier. She is in her pride to-night."
And as she 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
254 DOMBEY AND SON.
married in my youth an old age of design to one
for whom I had no feeling but indifference. Look at
me, whom he left a widow, dying before his inheritance
descended to him a judgment on you ! well deserved I
and tell me what has been my life for ten years
since."
u We have been making every effort to endeavor 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 empha-
sis on the one word. " Is it not so ? Have I been made
the by -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 all your cunning yes, and too
true, with all those false pretences until we have al-
most come to be notorious ? The license of look and
touch," she said, with flashing eyes, " have I submitted
to it, in half the places of resort upon the map of Eng-
land ? 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 this been my late childhood? I
Lad none before. Do not tell me that I had, to-night,
of all nights in my life ! "
" You might have been well married/' said her mother,
'* twenty times at least, Edith, if you had given encour- .
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,
DOMBEY AND SON. 255
" 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 his pur-
chase to his men, I require of him to say which he de-
mands, 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 disappoint him. / 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 your own
mother."
" It eeems 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 yours, 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, " So, as we are gen-
teel and poor, I am content that we should be made rich
by these means ; all I say is, I have kept the only pur-
pose I have had the strength to form I had almost
Baid the power, with you at my side, mother and have
not tempted this man on."
" 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
256 DOMBEY AND SON.
looking round. "Shall I tell you," she Rcntinued, with
her eyes fixed on her mother, " who already knows ua
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 knowl-
edge 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 your
establishment. Why do you look at me so hard ? Are
you ill?"
Edith suddenly let fall her face, as if it had been
stung, and while she pressed her hands upon it, a ter-
rible 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 ap-
peared to have taken off her manner with her charms,
and to have put on paralysis with her flannel gown, col-
lected the ashes of Cleopatra, and carried them away,
ready for to-morrow's revivification.
DOMBEY AND SON. 257
CHAPTER XXVIIL
ALTERATIONS.
"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 expres-
sion not easily described, and further relieving her feel-
ings 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
oere to speak to me, now three times three times I
think, Susan ? "
" Three times, miss," returned the Nipper. " Once
when you was out a-walking with them Sket"
Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper
checked herself.
u With Sir Barnet 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 really couldn't say I ever did. When your poor
VOL ii. 17
258 DOMBEY AND SON.
dear ma died, Miss Floy, 1 was very new in the family,
you see, and my element : " the Nipper bridled, as opin-
ing that her merits had been always designedly ex
tinguished by Mr. Dombey : " was the floor below the
attics."
" To be sure," said Florence, still thoughtfully ; " you
are 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 Susan, " and but what I heard much said,
although the nurse before Mrs. Richards did make un
pleasant 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 required to
leave, and did."
Florence, who was seated at her chamber-window,
with her face resting on her hand, sat looking out
and hardly 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 gentleman 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
l^ardon, Miss Floy, 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. Richards, emphasized "Pitcher'
strongly.
DOMBEY AND SON. 259
u And that Mr. Carker has not fallen off, miss," she
pursued, " bul, has stood his ground, and kept his credit
with your pa, I know from what is always said among
our people by that Perch, whenever he comes to the
house, and though he's the weakest weed in the world,
Hiss Floy, and no one can have a moment's patience
with the man, he knows what goes on in the Ci4y toler-
able well, and says that your pa does nothing without
Mr. Carker, and leaves all to Mr. Carker, and acts ac-
cording to Mr. Carker, and has Mr. Carker always at
bis elbow, and I do believe that he believes (that wash-
iest 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 hia
friend, I am sure."
Florence's mind ran 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 confi-
dence between himself and her a right on his part
to be mysterious and stealthy, in telling her that the
ship was still unheard of a kind of mildly restrained
power, and authority over her that made her wonder,
"Jid caused her great 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
k'o such address as his ; and Florence had none. True,
he had said no more to her than that there was n
260 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 litt
habit of often considering it with wonder and uneasi-
ness, began to invest him with an uncomfortable fasci-
nation in Florence's thoughts. A more distinct remem-
brance of his features, voice, and manner : which she
sometimes courted, 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 vague
impression. And yet he never frowned, or looked upon
her with an air of dislike or animosity, but was always
smiling and serene.
Again, Florence, in pursuit of her strong purpose
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 struggling ten-
dency to dislike and fear him be a part of that misfor-
une in her, which had turned her father's love adrift,
ind left her so alone ? She dreaded that it might be ;
sometimes believed it was : then she resolved that she
would try to conquer this wrong feeling ; persuaded
herself that she was honored 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 ad-
DOMBEY AND SON. 261
vise with no one without seeming to complain against
him gentle Florence tossed on an uneasy sea of doubl
and hope ; and Mr. Carker, like 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, like 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
BO difficult for the young and ardent, even with such
experience as hers, to imagine youth and ardor 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 I he morn-
ing when she was going home, gladly, to her old secluded
life.
Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, accompanied (much against
nis will) by theii valued charge, Master Barnet, wew
already gone back to Brighton, where that young gen-
tleman and his fellow pilgrims to Parnassus were then
262 DOMBET OD SON.
DO doubt, in the continual resumption cf their studies.
The holiday time was past and over ; most of the juve-
nile 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
attention 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 forming with Skettles Junior, on the night when he
burst the Blimberian bonds and soared into freedom with
his ring on, called regularly every other day, and left a
perfect pack of cards at the hall-door ; so many indeed,
that the ceremony was quite a deal on the part of
Mr. Toots, and a hand at whist on the part of the
servant.
Mr. Toots, likewise, with the bold and happy idea of
preventing the family from forgetting him (but there is
reason to suppose that this expedient originated in the
teeming brain of the Chicken), had established a six-
oared 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 insti-
tution of this equipage, Mr. Toots sounded the Chicken
on a hypothetical case, as, supposing the Chicken to be
enamored of a young lady named Mary, and to have
conceived the intention of starting a boat of his own,
what would he call that boat? The Chicken replied,
with divers strong asseverations, that he would either
christen it Poll or the Chicken's Delight. Improving
on this idea. Mr. Toots, after deep study and the exer
DOMBEY AND SON. 2G3
tise 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 crimsoned cushion in his gallant bark
with his shoes in the air, Mr. 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 Bar-
net'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 Toots's Delight as had
filled all the neighboring part of the water-side with as-
tonishment. But whenever he saw any one in Sir Bar-
net's garden on the brink of the river, Mr. Toots alwayp
feigned to be passing there, by a combination of coinci*
dences of the most singular and unlikely description.
" How are you, Toots ! " Sir Barnet would say, wav-
ing his hand from the lawn, while the artful Chicken
steered close in shore.
" How de do, Sir Barnet ! " Mr. Toots would answer.
u What a surprising thing that I should see you here ? "
Mr. Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as i,
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 ex-
claim. " 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 Flor-
ence would reply.
" Won't you come ashore, Toots ?" Sir Barnet would
264 DOMJBEY AND SON.
say then. " Come ! you're in no hurry. Come and see
us."
u Oh it's of no consequence, thank you ! " Mr. Toota
would blurihingly rejoin. "I thought Miss Dombey
might like to know, that's all. Good-by ! " And poor
Mr. Toots, who was dying to accept the invitation, birt
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
splendor, at the garden-steps, on the morning of Flor-
ence's departure. When she went down-stairs to take
leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr. Toots
awaiting her in the drawing-room.
" Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey ? " said the stricken
Toots, always 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 Mr.
Toots. " I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind, in this
fine weather, coming home by water, Miss Dombey.
There's plenty of room in the boat for your maid."
" I am very much obliged to you," said Florence, hesi-
tating. " I really am but I would rather not."
" Oh, it's of no consequence," retorted Mr. Toots.
M Good-morning ! "
" Won't you wait and see Lady Skettles ? " asked
Florence, kindly.
u Oh no, thank you," returned Mr. Toots, " it's of no
consequence at all."
So shy was Mr. Toots on such occasions, and so flur-
DOMBEY AND SON. 265
ried ! 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 im-
mediately clung with the tenacity of desperation.
, " We are losing, to-day, Toots," said Sir Barnet, turn-
ing towards Florence, " the light of our house, I assure
you."
" Oh, it's of no conseq I mean yes, to be sure," fal-
tered 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 was distressing to Florence to receive the commis-
sion, 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 ex-
plain, however, she bowed her head and thanked him ;
und again she thought that the dull 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 re-
maining at the villa, came running from within, and from
the garden, to say good-by. They were all attached
to her, and very earnest in taking leave of her. Even
the household were sorry for her going, and the ser-
vants cnme nodding and courtesying round the carriage-
266 DOMBET AND SON.
door. As Florence looked round on the kind faces, and
saw among them those of Sir Bainet 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 nil
the softer memories connected with the dull 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 soothing influence of the beloved
dead in every action of her daily life ! This new fare-
well 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 tender-
ness for those he left behind, with courage and high
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 a'n't much in it to boast of, but I wouldn't have
it burnt or pulled down, neither ! "
u You'll be glad to go through the old rooms, won't
you, Susan ? " said Florence, smiling.
"Well, miss," returned the Nipper, softening more
and more towards the house, as they approached it
DOMBEY AND SON. 267
nearer, " 1 won't deny but what I shall, ihough I shall
hate 'em again, to-morrow, very likely."
Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace
within it than elsewhere. 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
discouragements 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 sanc-
tuary of such remembrances : although it mouldered,
rusted, and decayed about her : than in a new scene, let
its gayety be what it would. She welcomed back her
old enchanted dream of life, and longed for the old dark
door to close upon her, 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 nearest to her home, and as the dis-
tance 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
Btared at her mistress in amazement.
There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round
Ihe 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 bro&d
268 DOMBEY AND SCX.
street at the side. Ladders were raised against tLe
walls : laborers were climbing up and down ; men were
at work upon the steps of the scaffolding ; painters and
decorators were busy inside ; great rolls of ornamental
paper were being delivered from a cart at the door ; an
upholsterer's wagon 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 : brick-
layers, painters, carpenters, masons : hammer, hod, brush,
pickaxe, saw, and trowel : all at work together, in full
chorus !
Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if
it were, or could be the right house, until she recognized
Towlinson, with a sun-burnt face, standing at the door to
receive her.
" There is nothing the matter?" inquired Florence.
" Oh, no, miss."
" There are great alterations going on."
" Yes, miss, great alterations," said Towlinson.
Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and
hurried up-stairs. The garish light was in the long-
darkened drawing-room, and there were steps and plat-
forms, and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her
mother's picture was gone with the rest of the mov-
ables, and on the mark where it had been, was scrawled
5n 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 bearaa and boards raised against it with
DOMBEY ANL SON. 269
out, balking the daylight. She went up swiftly to that
other bedroom, 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 ques
jf Florence, found her, and said, would she go down i
stairs to her papa, who wished to speak to her.
" At home ! and wishing to speak to me ! " cried Flor-
ence, trembling.
Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Flor-
ence herself, repeated 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 presence. 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 emo-
tion, 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 attention from herself she would
have swooned upon the floor.
" Florence," said her father, putting out his hand : BO
itiffly 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.
270 DOMBEY AND SON.
u 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, address-
ing herself with her natural grace and sweetness to the
two lady strangers. " He is only glad to see me. Pray
forgive him."
She saw in the glance they 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.
" Mrs. Skewton," said her father, turning to the first,
and holding out his hand, " this is my daughter Flor-
ence."
" Charming, I am sure," observed the lady, putting up
her glass. " So natural ! My darling Florence, you
must 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 I
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 her and comfort her. Not one
DOMBEY /LND SON. 271
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. Dom-
bey, " and see how our workmen are doing ? Pray al-
low me, my dear madam."
He said this in offering his arm to Mrs. Skewton,
who had been looking at Florence through 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 Nature. Florence
was still sobbing on the lady's breast, and holding to her,
when Mr. Dombey was heard to say from the conser-
vatory :
" 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 stand-
ing 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 well of me," said the beau-
tiful lady. " Begin by believing that I will try to make
vou happy, and that I am prepared to love you, Flor-
272 DOMBEY AND SON.
Mice. Good-by. We shall meet again, soon. Good-} y !
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 losi old
home, her own mama smiled radiantly upon the hope,
and blessed it. Dreaming Florence!
DOMBEY AND SON. 273
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE OPENIXG OF THE EYES OF MRS. CHICK.
Miss Tox, all unconscious of any such rare appear*
arices in connection with Mr. Dombey's house, as scaf-
foldings 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 house-keepers delight ; went up-stairs to set
forth the bird waltz on the harpsichord, to water and ar-
range the plants, to dust the knick-knacks, and accord-
ing 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 perform 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, and much rumpled,
but a piercing singer, as Princess's-place well knew
VOL. n. 18
274 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 plants, this morn-
ing. 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 spar-
rows hopped over it and back again, brightening as they
passed : or bathed in it like a stream, and became glori-
fied sparrows, unconnected with chimneys. Legends in
praise of Ginger Beer, with pictorial representations of
thirsty customers submerged in the effervescence, 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 fra-
grance had a long way to come, and many counter fra-
grances 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 an-
cestors, and who do their little best to keep those dwell-
ings miserable !), yet it was wafted faintly into Prin-
cess's-place, whispering of nature and her wholesome
air, as such things will, even unto prisoners and cap-
tives, and those who are desolate and oppressed.
Miss Tox sat down upon the window-seat, and thought
DOMBEY AND SON. 275
of her good papa deceased Mr. Tox, of the Customs
Department of the public service ; and of her childhood,
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 blink of sun, Miss Tox thought like-
wise 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 yell
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 murmured she would
be comparatively old before she knew it which seemed
likely.
In her pensive mood, Miss Tox's thoughts went wan-
dering on Mr. Dombey's track ; probably because the
major had returned home to his lodgings opposite, and
had just bowed to her from his window. What other
reason could Miss Tox have for connecting Mr. Dombey
with her summer days and dandelion fetters ? Was he
more cheerful ? thought Miss Tox. Was he reconciled
to the decrees of fate ? Would he ever marry again ;
nd if yes, whom ? What sort of person now !
276 DOMBEY AND SON.
A flush it was warm weather overspread Miss
Tox's face, as, while entertaining these meditations, she
turned 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, an<?
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 arms.
A little stateliness was mingled with Miss Tox's
sweetest friend's demeanor, but she kissed Miss Tox,
and said, u Lucretia, thank you, I am pretty well. I
hope you are the same. Hem ! "
Mrs. Chick was laboring under a peculiar little mon-
osyllabic 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 break-
fasted ? "
" Thank you, Lucretia," said Mrs. Chick, a 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 haa
oome home."
u He is better, I trust, my love," faltered Miss Tox,
" He is greatly better, thank you. Hem ! "
" My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough/ 1
remarked Miss Tox.
" It's nothing," returned Mrs. Chick. " It's merely
change of weather. We must expect change."
44 Of weather ? " asked Miss Tox, in her simplicity
DOMBEY AND SON. 277
" Of everything," 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 at-
tempted to contradict or evade what is so perfecily evi-
dent Change ! " exclaimed Mrs. Chick, with severe
philosophy. " Why, 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 thing?
continually."
" My Louisa," said the mild Miss Tox, " is ever
happy in her illustrations."
" You are so kind, Lucretia," returned Mrs. Chick, a
little softened, " as to say so, and to think so, I believe.
I hope neither of us may ever have any cause to lessen
our opinion of the other, Lucretia."
" I am sure of it," returned 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 discursive kind of irritability, availed
herself of the pause to change the subject.
u Pardon me, my dear Louisa," said Miss Tox, " but
have I caught sight of the manly form of Mr. Chick iu
the carriage ? "
u He is there," said Mrs. Chick, " but pray leave
him there. He has his newspaper, and would be quite
eontcnted 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 be-
tween friends like ourselves, any approach to ceremony
278 DOMBEY AND SON.
would be out of the question. Therefore " Then*,
fore Miss Tox finished the sentence, not in woids but
action ; and putting on her gloves again, which she had
taken off, and arming herself once more with her scis-
sors, began to snip and clip among the leaves with mi-
croscopic 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
Florence is a great deal too old now, to continue to lead
that solitary life to which she has been accustomed. Of
course she is. There can be no doubt about it. I should
have very little respect, indeed, for anybody who could
advocate a different opinion. Whatever my wishes might
be, I could not respect them. We cannot command our
feelings 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, a and if
my brother Paul cannot feel perfectly comfortable in
her society, after all the sad things that have happened,
and all the terrible disappointments that have been un-
dergone, 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 repre-
sentative left for what am I 1 am of no conse-
quence "
" My dearest love," remonstrated Miss Tox.
Mrs. Chick dried her eyes, which were, for the mo-
ment, overflowing ; and proceeded :
* And consequently he is more than ever bound tj
make an effort. And though his having done so, comes
DOMBEY AND SOW. 279
npon me with a sort of shock for mh.e is a very weak
and foolish nature ; which is anything but a blessing I
&m sure ; I often wish my heart was a marble slab, or
a paving-stone "
"My sweet Louisa," remonstrated Miss Tox again.
" Still, it is a triumph to me to know that he is s
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 wor-
thy 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 ref-
erence 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 intimacy that
has subsisted between us, and which I very much hope,
Lncretia confidently hope nothing will occur to dis.
.-urb. Because, why should I do anything else ? There
vs no reason ; it would be absurd. But I wish to ex-
230 DOMBEY AND SON.
press 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 dull."
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 Miss Tox ; and finally
dropping her glance upon Miss Tox, for a moment, on
its way to the ground, said, looking meanwhile with ele-
vated 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 be-
lieve 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 hurry, and returned to
her plants ; clipping among the stems and leaves with
as little favor as a barber working at so many pauper
heads of hair.
" Whether she will be fully sensible of the distinction
conferred upon her," said Mrs. 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, my-
self. If I had been advised with, I have no doubt my
advice would have been cavalierly received, and there-
fore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer it as
H is."
Miss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among
the plants. Mrs. Chick, with energetic shakings of her
DOMBET VND SON. 281
own head fi-ora time to time, continued 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 cir-
cumstance which I regard as a relief from responsibil-
ity," said Mrs. Chick, hysterically, "for I thank Heater
1 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 an-
swered, ' Paul, you must have family, you must have
beaut}% you must have dignity, you must have connec-
tion.' 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 connection !
There is nobody in the world, not mad, who could dream
of daring to entertain such a preposterous idea ! ' '
Miss Tox stopped clipping ; and with her head among
the plants, listened attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox
thought there was hope in this exordium, and in the
warmth of Mrs. Chick.
'' I should have adopted this course of argument/
pursued the discreet lady, " because I trust I am not *
fool. I make no claim to be considered a person of
superior intellect though I believe some people have
been extraordinary enough to consider me so ; one sc
little humored as I am, would very soon be disabused of
any ^uu!i notion ; but I trust I am not a downright fool
282 DOMBEY AND SON.
And to tell ME," said Mrs. Chick with ineffable disdain,
* that my brother Paul Dombey could ever contemplate
the possibility of uniting himself to anybody I don'l
care who" she was more sharp and emphatic in that
short clause than in any other part of her discourse
" not possessing these requisites, would be to insult what
understanding I have got, as much as if I was to be told
that I was born and bred an elephant. Which I may
be told next," said Mrs. Chick, with resignation. " It
wouldn't surprise me at all. I expect it."
In the moment's silence that ensued, Miss Tox's scis-
sors gave a feeble clip or two ; but Miss Tox's face was
still invisible, and Miss Tox's morning gown was agi-
tated. 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 course 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, how-
ever gratifying ; because when Paul went out of town I
had no idea at all that he would form any attachment
out of town, and he certainly had no attachment when
he left here. However, it seems to be extremely desir-
able 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 ar
ranging herself in her chair ; " Edith is at once nncoro-
DOMBEY AND SON. 283
mon, as it strikes me, and distinguished. Consequently,
Lucretia, I have no doubt you will be happy to hear
that the marriage is to take place immediately of
course, you will : " 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 pleasact
attention at various 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 en-
tering ; happily insensible alike of Mrs. Chick's indig-
nant countenance, and of the major at his window over
the way, who had his double-barrelled eye-glass in full
action, and whose face and figure were dilated with
Mephistophelean joy.
Not so the expatriated native, amazed supporter of
Miss Tox's swooning form, who, coming straight up-
.-tairs, 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 delicate burden in his arms, and to receive
the contents of the little watering-pot in his shoe ; both
of which circumstances, coupled with his consciousness
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 failure, combined to render him a
moving spectacle of ment&l 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 his disconcerted face, while
284 DOMBEY AND SOJS.
lhat 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 al-
most 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 re-
covery.
But none of that gentle concern which usually charac-
terizes the daughters 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 demeanor.
Rather 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 mourning), did Mrs. Chick
administer the smelling-bottle, the slapping on the hands,
the dashing of cold water on the face, and thr other
proved remedies. And when, at length, Miss Tox
opened her eyes, and gradually became restored tc ani-
mation and consciousness, Mrs. Chick drew off as from a
criminal, and reversing the precedent of the murdered
king of Denmark, regarded her more in anger than in
sorrow.
" Lucretia ! " said Mrs. Chick. " I will not attempt
to disguise what I feel. My eyes are opened, all at
once. I wouldn't have believed this, if a saint had told
it to me."
.** I am foolish to give way to faintness," Miss Tox
faltered. " I shall be better presently."
u You will be better presently, Lucretia ! " repeated
DOMBEY AND SON. 285
Mrs. Chick, with exceeding scorn. " Do you suppose
I am blind ? Do you imagine I am in my second child-
hood ? 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 Mra
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 m grocers'
shops : ' have fallen 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 allude so cruelly, my love ? "
asked Miss Tox, through her tears.
" Lucretia," said Mrs. Chick, " ask your own heart.
I must entreat you not to address me by any such famil-
iar term as you have just used, if you pleas-* 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.
Chick, who, in default of having any particular argu-
ment to sustain herself upon, relied principally on sacb
repetitions for her most withering effects. " Like that '.
You may well say like that, indeed ! "
Miss Tox sobrsd pitifully.
"The idea !" said Mrs. Chick, "ot your having basked
at my brother's fireside, like a serpent, and wound your-
self, through me, almost into his confidence, Lucretia,
286 DOMBEY AKL SON.
that /ou might, in \secret, entertain designs upon him,
and dare to aspire to contemplate the possibility of his
uniting himself to you ! 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 pay such
dreadful things."
" Dreadful things ! " repeated Mrs. Chick. " Dread-
ful 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 overpow-
ered 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."
u She is going to say," said Mrs. Chick, addressing
herself to the whole of the furniture, in a comprehen-
sive glance of resignation and appeal, " She is going to
Bay I know it that I have encouraged her ! "
u I don't wish to exchange reproaches, dear Louisa,"
Bobbed Miss Tox. " Nor do I wish to complain. But,
in my own defence"
" Yes," cried Mrs. Chick, looking round the room
with a prophetic smile, " that's what she's going to say.
I knew it. You had better say it. Say it openly ! Be
open, Lucretia Tox," said Mrs. Chick, with desperate
sternness, " whatever you are."
" In my own defence," faltered Miss Tox, v and only
in my own defence against your unkind words, my dear
Louisa, I would merely ask you if you haven't often
favored such a fancy, and even said it might happ3n f
for anything we could tell ? "
DOMBEY A_NT> SON. 287
" Thei 3 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 culpable. I
can bear much ; but not too much. What spell was en
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, Lucre-
tia, 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 colors. 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 connection 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 inclined 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. Chick her lord.
Figuratively speaking, that is to say ; for the arms of
Mr. Chick were full of his newspaper. Neither did
that gentleman address his eyes towards his wife other-
wise than by stealth. Neither did he offer any consola-
tion whatever. In short, he sat reading, and humming
288 DOMBEY Am> SON.
fag ends, of tunes, and sometimes glancing furtively at
her without delivering himself of word, good, bad, or
indifferent.
In the mean time Mrs. Chick set swelling and bri-
dling, and tossing her head, as if she were still repeat-
ing 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 forever."
" 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 when she was playing at horses
with that dear child who is now in his grave I never
liked it at the time she should have been hiding such
a double-faced design ! I wonder she was never afraid
that something would happen to her. She is fortunate
if nothing does."
" I really thought, 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 tark
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 Mro.
UOliiJKY AND SON. 28S
Chick, after abandoning herself to her feelings for some
minutes, to Mr. Chick's great terror. " I can bear to
resign Paul's confidence in favor 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 i.*
settled and determined ; but deceit I can not bear, and
with Lucretia Tox I have done. It is better as it is,"
said Mrs. Chick, piously; " much better. It would have
been a long time before I could have accommodated my-
self 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 unworthi-
ness 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.
While 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 friend-
ship towards her impeacher, and had been truly absorbed
And swallowed up in devotion to the magnificence of
Mr. Dombey while poor excommunicated Miss Tox
watered her plants with her tears, and felt that it was
winter in Frincess's-place.
you ii. 19
29C DOMBKY AND SOS-
CHAPTER XXX.
THE INTERVAL BEFORE THE MARR1AOX.
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 work-people went
away, the house was dreary and deserted again ; and
Florence listening to their voices echoing through the
hall and staircase as they departed, pictured to herself
the cheerful homes to which they were returning, and
the children 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 eld
friend, but it came now with an altered face, and looked
more kindly on her. Fresh hope was in it. The beau-
tiful lady who had soothed and caressed her, in the very
room in which her heart had been so wrung, was a spirit
of promise to her. Soft shadows of the bright life
dawning, when her father's affection should be gradually
won, and all, or much should be restored, of what she
DOMBEY AND SON. 29!
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 welcome company. Peep-
ing at the rosy children her neighbors, it was a new and
precious sensation to think that they might soon speak
together and know each other: when she would not fear
aa 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 overflowing her pure heart towards her, Flor-
ence 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-cher-
ished root, she knew. Every gentle word that had fall-
en from the lips of the beautiful lady, sounded to Flor-
ence like an echo of the voice long hushed and silent
How could she love that memory less for living tender-
ness, 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 visit soon
for her book turned on a kindred subject when, mis-
ing her eyes, she saw her standing in the door-way.
" Mama ! " cried Florence, joyfully meeting her
" Come again ! "
" Not mama yet," returned the lady, with a serious
imile, as she encircled Florence's neck with her arm.
" But very soon to be," cried Florence.
u Very soon now, Florence : very soon."
Edith bent her head a little so as to press the bloom-
ing cheek of Florence against her own, and for some
r ew moments remained thus silent There was some-
292 DOMBET AND SON.
thing 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
lost ? "
" 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."
"If I might change them, mama," returned Florence;
" there is one up-stairs I should like much better."
** Is this not high enough, dear girl ? " 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 work-
men here, and everything changing ; but "
Florence dropped her eyes, lest the same look should
make her falter again.
DOMBEY AND SON. 293
"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 though* lt of a proud and lofty kind ; yet her man-
ner was so suOdued 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 s\\f would
have shrunk and hidden from her, rathei than as one
about to love and cherish her, in right of such a r
connection.
She gave Florence her ready promise about her new
room, and said she would give directions about it her-
lelf. 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 ow-
bome.
" We have come to London now, my mother and I,"
laid Edith, " and you shall etay with us until I am mar-
294 DOMBEY AND SON.
tied. I wish that we should know and trust each other
Florence."
" You are very kind to me," said Florence, u dear
mama. How much I thank you ! "
" Let me say now, fur 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, 1
ehall 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-staira
when you are ready."
Slowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone
through the mansion of which she was so soon to be
the lady : and little heed took she of all the elegance
and splendor it began to display. The same indomita-
ble 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 of the little worth of
everything around it, went through the grand saloons
and halls, that had got loose among the shady trees, and
rug^d 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 fuU
length, a woman with a noble quality yet dwelling in
her nature, who was too false to her b<;t'er self, and
DOMBEY AND SOX. 295
too debased and lost, to save herself. She believed thai
nil 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 de-
fied 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 fashion hushed,
and her very pride itself subdued ? Was this the
woman who now sat beside her in a carriage, with her
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 Honorable Mrs. 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 relative (one of the Feenix brood), who
was out of town, and who did not object to lending it,
in the handsomest manner, for nuptial purposes, as thf
loan implied his final release and acquittance from all
further loans and gifts to Mrs. Skewton and her daughter.
[t being necessary for the credit of the family to make
a handsome appearance at such a time, Mrs. Skewton
vith the assistance of an accommodating tradesman resi-
296 DOMBEY AND SON. ,
dent in the parish of Mary-le-bone, who lent out all
sorts of articles to the nobility and gentry, from a eer
vice of plate to an army of footmen, clapped into tbh
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, ami
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 limbs, 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 estab-
lishment from the same convenient source, with several
miscellaneous articles, including a heat chariot and a pair
of bays, Mrs. Skewton cushioned herself on the princi-
pal sofa, in the Cleopatra attitude, and held her court in
fair state.
" And how," said Mrs. Skewton, on the entrance of
her daughter and her charge, " is my charming Flor-
ence ? You must come and kiss me, Florence, if you
please, my love."
Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in
tU3 white part of Mrs. Skewton's face, when that lady
presented her ear, and relieved her 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
DOMBEY AND SOX. 297
our exceedingly precious Florence, or a few years
y ounger ? "
" I have long forgotten, mother."
" For positively, my dear," said Mra. Skewton, " I do
think that I see a decided resemblance to what you were
then, in our extremely fascinating young friend. And
it shows," said Mrs. Skewton, in a lower voice, which
conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very un-
finished state, " what cultivation will do."
" It does, indeed," was Edith's stern reply.
Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feel-
ing herself on unsafe ground, said, as a diversion :
" My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me
once more, if you please, my love."
Florence complied, of course, and aMin imprinted her
lips on Mrs. Skewton's ear.
" And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet," said
Mrs. 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."
" M} darling Edith," urged her mother gayly, " is it
possible you have not told Florence ? "
" Why should I tell Florence ? " she returned, so sud-
denly 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,
wid that he would no doubt be charmingly surprised to
see her ; as he had spoken last night of dressing in the
city, and had known nothing of Edith's design, the ex-
ecution of which, according to Mrs. Skewton's expecta
E98 DOMBEY AND SON.
tion, would throw him into a perfect ecstasy. Florence
was 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 re-
turn home, without involving her father in her expla-
nation, she would have hurried back on foot, bareheaded,
breathless, and alone, rather than incur the risk of meet-
ing 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, endeavoring to un-
derstand and to reply to the bald discourse 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 this agitation, pushed Flor-
ence 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
his awful step in the room.
He saluted his intended mother-in-law, and his in-
tended bride. The strange sound of his voice thrilled
through the whole frame of his child.
" My dear Dombey," said Cleopatra, " come here and
tell me how your pretty Florence is."
" Florence is very well," said Mr. Dombey, advancing
towards the couch.
DOMBEY AND SON. 29
At home ? "
" At home," said Mr. Dombey.
" My dear Dorabey," returned Cleopatra, vnth be-
witching vivacity ; " now are you sure you are not de-
ceiving me ? I don't know what my dearest Edith wiD
say to me when I make such a declaration, but upon my
honor I am afraid you are the falsest of men, my dea*
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 pres-
ence 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 Flor-
ence, instantly.
" Now confess, my dear Dombey," said Mrs. Skewton,
giving him her hand, " that you never were more sur-
prised 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 de-
cidedly, " Yes, I really am very glad indeed to meet
Florence here."
" You wonder how she comes here ? " said Mrs. Skew-
.on, " don't you ? "
" Edith, perhaps". suggested Mr. Dombey.
300 DOMBET AND S().
" Ah ! wicked guesser ! " replied Cleopatra, shaking
her head. "Ah! cunning, cunning man! One shouldn't
tell these things ; your sex, ray dear Dombey, are so
vain, and so apt to abuse our weaknesses ; but, you
know my open soul very well ; immediately."
This was addressed to one of the very tall young
men who announced dinner.
" 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 natural 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 Cleopatra, squeezing his hand. " But I
am growing too serious ! Take me down-stairs, like
an angel, and let us see what these people intend tc
give us for dinner. Bless you, dear Dombey ! "
Cleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable brisk-
ness, 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
veneration was imperfectly developed, thrusting his
tongue into his cheek, for the entertainment of the
3ther very tall young man on hire, as the couple turned
into the dining-room.
Florence and Edith were already ther^, and sitting
*ide by side. Florence would have risen when her
father entered, to resign her chair to him; but Edith
DOMBEY AND SON. 301
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 word, 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, whea the dessert
was put upon the table, and the silver-headed butler had
withdrawn. " Even the lawyer's preparations ! "
" Yes, madam," replied Mr. Dombey ; " the deed of
srtt lenient, the professional gentlemen inform me, is now
ready, and as I was mentioning to you, Edith has only
to do us the favor to suggest her own time for its exe-
cution."
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 ap-
proaches, reminds me of the days, when that most
agreeable of creatures, her papa, was in your situa*
tion ! "
" I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you
please," said Edith, scarcely koking over the table at
Mr. Dombey.
" To-morrow ? " suggested Mr. Dombey.
" If you please."
" Or would next day," said Mr. Dombey, " suit yout
ttigagements better ? "
302 DOMBEY AND SOW.
"I hare no engagements. I am always at jour dis-
posal. Let it be when you like."
" No engagements, my dear Edith ! " remonstrated
her mother, " when you are in a most terrible state of
flurry all day long, and have a thousand and one ap-
pointments with all sorts of tradespeople ! "
" They are of your making," returned Edith, turning
on her, with a slight contraction of her brow. u You
and Mr. Dombey can arrange between you."
" Very true indeed, my love, and most considerate of
you ! " said Cleopatra. u My darling Florence, you
must really 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 em-
bracing, and perhaps had never been, unconsciously, so
useful in her life.
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 fellow-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 honors 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 uncongeniality in an air of scan!
DOMBET AND SON. 303
and gloomy state that pervaded the room, in color 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 ex-
hausted negroes holding up two withered branches of
candelabra on the sideboard, and a musty smell prevail-
ing as if the ashes of ten thousand dinners were on-
tombed in the sarcophagus below it. The owner of the
house lived much abroad ; the air of England seldom
agreed long with a member of the Feenix family ; and
the room had gradually put itself into deeper and still
deeper mourning for 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 ma-
hogany on which the fruit dishes and decanters lay at
anchor ; as if the subjects of his thoughts were rising
towards the surface one by one, and plunging down
again. Edith was there in all her majesty of brow and
figure ; and close to her came Florence, with her timid
head turned to him, as it had been, for an instant, when
the left the room ; and Edith's eyes upon her, and
Edith's hand put out protectingly. A little figure in
low arm-chair came springing next into the light, and
looked upon him wonderingly, with its bright eye-) and
its old-young fa^e, gleaming as in the flickering of an
evening fire. Again came Florem e cljse upon it, and
absorbed his whole attention. "Whether as a foredoomed
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
304 DOMBEY AND SON.
he could stoop to think, as claiming, at such a time, to ba
no more estranged ; or whether as a hint to him that ihe
mere appearance of caring for his own blood should be
maintained in his new relations ; he best knew. Indif-
ferently well, perhaps, at best ; for marriage company
and marriage altars, and ambitious scenes still blotted
here and there with Florence always Florence
turned 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 mean time Florence and Mrs.
Skewton talked together (Cleopatra being very anxious
to keep her close to herself), or Florence touched the
piano softly for Mrs. Skewlon's delight ; to make no
mention of a few occasions in the course of the evening,
when that affectionate lady was impelled to solicit an-
other kiss, and which always happened after Edith had
said anything. They were not many, however, for Edith
eat apart by an open window during the whole time (in
spite of her mother's fears that she would take cold),
and remained there until Mr. Dombey took leave. He
was serenely gracious to Florence when he did so ; and
Florence went to bed in a room within Edith's, so happy
and hopeful, that she thought of her late self as if it were
wme other poor deserted girl who was to be pitied for
jer 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 ;
nd Florence was always of the party. Florence was to
^o to the wedding. Florence was to cast off her mourn
ing, and to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The
milliner's intentions on the subject of this dress the
DOMBEY AXD SON. 305
milliner was a Frenchwoman, and greatly resembled
Mrs. Skewtbn 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 commended by Mrs.
Skewton and the milliners, and were put away without
a word from her. Mrs. Skewton made their plans for
every day, and executed them. Sometimes Edith sat in
the carriage when they went to make purchases ; some-
times, when it was absolutely necessary, she went into
the shops. But Mrs. Skewton conducted the whole
business, whatever it happened to be ; and Edith looked
on as uninterested and with as much apparent indiffer-
ence as if she had no concern in it. Florence might
perhaps have thought she was haughty and listless, but
that she was 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 Mrs.
Skewton's head was no better yet, though she expected
to recover permanently to-morrow were that lady,
Edith, and Mr. Dombey. Edith was at her open win-
dow looking out into the street ; Mr. Dombey and Cleo-
patra were talking softly on the sofa. It was growing
late; and Florence being fatigued, had gone -to bed."
" My d^ar Dombey," said Cleopatra, " you will leave
me Florence to-morrow, when you deprive me of mj
sweetest Edith."
VOL. ii. 20
306 DOMBET AND SON.
Mr. Dombey said he would, with pleasure.
" To have her about me, here, while you are both a<
Paris, and to think that, at her age, I am assisting in the
formation of her mind, my dear Dombey," said Cleopa-
tra, " will be a perfect balm to me in the extremely shat-
tered 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 admirable guardianship.
" My dear Dorabey," returned Cleopatra, " a thousand
thanks for your good opinion. I feared you were going,
with malice aforethought, as the dreadful lawyers say
those horrid prosers ! to condemn me to utter soli-
tude."
" Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam?"
said Mr. Dombey.
"Because my charming Florence tells me so posi-
tively she 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 commands on Florence ; and if I had, there are
no commands like your wish."
u My dear Dombey," replied Cleopatra, " what a
oourtier you are ! Though I'll not say so, either ;
for courtiers have no heart, and yours pervades your
eharming-life and character. And are you really going
BO early, my dear Dorabey ! "
Oh, indeed ! it was late, and Mr. Dombey feared he
must
DOMBEY AND SON. 30<
u Is this a fact, or is it all a dream ! " lisped Cleopatra
* Can I believe, my dearest Dombey, that you are coin-
ing back to-morrow morning to deprive me of my swet't
companion ; my own Edith ! "
Mr. Dombey, who was accustomed to take things
literally, reminded Mrs. Skewton that they were to mee
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 combined with a naturally
delicate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of the
pastry-cook who has undertaken the breakfast, is almost
too much 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 dear-
est 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 tow-
ards him, and said nothing. Mr. Dombey, with a lofty
gallantry adapted to his dignity and the occasion, betook
his creaking boots towards her, put her hand to his lips,
and said, " To-morrow morning I shall have the happi-
ness of claiming this hand as Mrs. Dombey's," and
bowed himself solemnly out.
Mrs. Skewton rang for candles as soon as the house-
door hail closed upon him. With the candles appeared
ber maid, with the juvenile dress that was to delude the
world to-morrow. The dress had savage retribution in
It, as such dresses ever have, and made her infinitely
jlder and more hideous than her greasy flannel gown
But Mrs. Skewton tried it on with mincing satis
308 DOMBEY AND SON.
em irked at her cadaverous self in the glass, as h
thought of its killing effect upon the major ; and suf
fering her maid to take it off 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 motbei
were at last left alone, she moved from it for the first
time that evening, and came opposite to her. The yawn-
ing, 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 downward upon her, had
a conscious air upon it, that no levity or temper could
conceal.
" I am tired to death," said she. " You can't be
trusted for a moment. You are worse than a child.
Child! No child would be half so obstinate and un-
dutiful."
" Listen to me, mother," returned Edith, passing these
words by with a scorn that would not descend to trifle
with them. " You must remain alone here until I re-
turn."
" 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, 1
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 with a look of quick alarm, in~
no degree diminished 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 will have no guileless nature un
DOMBEY AND SON. 309
lenniued, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the leisure
of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Flor
ence must go home."
" You are an idiot, Edith," cried her angry mother.
u 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
labor, and when you are going, through me, to be ren-
dered independent," her mother almost shrieked in her
passion, while her palsied head shook like a leaf, " that
there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am
not fit company for a girl ! What are you, pray ? What
are you ? "
" I have put the question to myself," said Edith, ashy
pale, and pointing 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 dif-
ferent I might have been ! "
Sensible that any show of anger was useless here, her
mother restrained herself, and fell a-whimpering, and be-
wailed that she kad lived too long, and that her only
child had cast her off, and that duty towards parents was
forgotten in these evil days, and that she had heard un-
aatural taunts, and cared for life no longer.
" If one is to go on living through continual scenes
Ijke this," she whined, " I am sure it would be much
better for me to think of some means of putting an end
310 DOMBEY AND SON.
to my existence. Oh ! The idea of your being my
daughter, Edith, and addressing rae in such a strain!"
" Between us, mother," returned Edith, mournfully,
u the time for mutual reproaches is past."
" Then why do you revive it ? " whimpered he*
ino'her. "You know that you are lacerating me in
the cruellest manner. You know how sensitive I am
to unkindness. 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 she first addressed her, " I have said that Flor-
ence must go home."
" Let her go ! " cried the afflicted and affrighted par-
ent, 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, Edilb,"
whined her mother, "perhaps not ; very likely not. But
such extremely cutting words "
u They are past and at an end between us now," said
Edith. fr Take your own way, mother ; share as you
please in what you have gained ; spend, enjoy, make
DOMBEY AND SON. 311
much of it ; and be as happy as you will. The object
of our lives is won. Henceforth let us swear it silently.
My lips are closed upon the past from this hour. I for-
give 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 re-
paired 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
spurned 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 compan-
ionship. Thus, in the dead time of the night before
her bridal, Edith Granger wrestled with her unquiet
spirit, tearless, friendless, silent, proud, and uncomplain-
ing.
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 herself 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
312 DOMBEY AND SON.
upon the rock. He? 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 before her bri-
dal. Thus the sun found her on her bridal morning.
Aon,
t^-^
'ii'- i. : / iiBridr-oiuF -laughter uvin and come b&t
ami"i itiii..drripping on the floor iefore her. da.v.
p.'lavinf "hfi heo-d against ihnn. and stiU rocku.i
.no fr" witha ftv.;iy frajiuc tieijaon^trauoji of winch i.
capsble
DOMBEY AND SON
VOLDMK OH.
DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE WEDDING.
DAWN, with its passionless blank face, steals shiver-
ing to the church 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 cor-
ners of the building. The steeple-clock, perched up
above the houses, emerging from beneath another of
(he countless ripples in the tide of time that regularly
roll and break on the eternal shore, is grayly 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
churdi-wall bow their heads, and wring their many
hands in sympathy. Night, growing pale before it,
gradually fades out of the church, but lingers in the
vaults below, and sits upon the coffins. And now comes
bright day, burnishing the steeple-clock, and reddening
die spire, and drying up the tears of dawn, and stifling
fe DOMBEY AND SON.
its 3ornplaining ; 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, until night returns, refreshed, to drive it out.
And now, the mice, who have been busier with the
prayer-books than their proper owners, and with the
hassocks, more worn by their little teeth than by human
knees, hide their bright eyes in their holes, and gather
close together in affright at the resounding clashing of
the church-door. For the beadle, that man of power,
comes early this morning with the sexton ; and Mrs. Miff,
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 bon-
net, and eke a thirsty soul for sixpences and shillings.
Beckoning to stray people to come into pews, has given
Mrs. Miff an air of mystery ; and there is reservation
in the eye of Mrs. Miff, as always knowing of a softer
seat, but having her suspicions of the fee. There is no
such fact as Mr. Miff, 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 undertake 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 Mrs. Miff to say, about the
wedding they are going to have. Mrs. Miff is told, that
the new furniture and alterations in the house cost full
five thousand pound if they cost a penny; and Mrs. Miff
has heard, upon the best authority, that the lady hasn'l
DOMBEY AND SON. *
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-by
she'll soap-and-water that 'ere tablet presently, againat
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 uncommon handsome ? The information Mrs. Miff
has received being of this nature, Mr. Sownds the
beadle, who, though orthodox and corpulent, is still an
admirer of female beauty, observes, with unction, yes,
he hears she is a spanker an expression that seems
somewhat forcible to Mrs. Miff, or would from any lips
but those of Mr. Sownds the beadle.
In Mr. Dombey's house, at this same time, there ia
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.
Mr. Towlinson is an object of greater consideration than
usual to the house-maid, and the cook says at breakfast-
time that one wedding makes many, which the house-
maid can't believe, and don't think true at all. My
Towlinson reserves his sentiments on this question
being rendered something gloomy by the engagement of
a foreigner with whiskers (Mr. Towlinson is whisker-
less himself), who has been hired to accompany the
Uappy pair to Paris, and who is bnsy 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
10 DOMBEY AND SON.
ladies with prejudice, says, look at Bonaparte, who was
at the. head of 'era, 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 tall 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 tall young man is conscious of this fail-
ing in himself ; and informs his comrade that it's his
" exciseman." The very tall young man would say ex-
citement, 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 first are practising in a back set-
tlement near Battlebridge ; the second put themselves in
communication, through their chLf, with Mr. Towlinson,
to whom they offer terms to be bought off; and the third,
in the person of an artful trombone, lurks anl dodges
round the corner, waiting for some traitor tradesman to
reveal the place and hour of breakfast, for a bribe. Ex-
pectation and excitement extend further yet, and take a
wider range. From 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 splendor from a secret corner of the gallery,
und thither to convey the Chicken : for it is Mr. Toots'?
desperate intent to point out Florence to the Chicken.
toen and there, an 1 openly to say, " Now, Chicken, 1
will not deceive you any longer ; the friend I have
tometimes mentioned to you is myself; Miss Dombey
DOMBEY AND SON. 11
s 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,
if. the mean while, 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 shilling in the hands of Mrs. Miff, and see the
ceremony, which has a cruel fascination for her, from
some lonely corner. The quarters of the Wooden Mid-
shipman are all alive ; for Captain Cuttle, in his ankle-
jacks and with a huge shirt-collar, is seated at his
breakfast, listening to Rob the Grinder as he reads the
marriage-service to him beforehand, under orders, to the
end that the captain may perfectly understand the so-
lemnity he is about to witness : for which purpose, the
captain gravely lays injunctions on his chaplain, from
time to time, to " put 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 Rob the Grinder, with
sonorous satisfaction.
Besides all this, and much more, twenty nursery-maids
in Mr. Dombey'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 hia
portly figure on the church-steps, waiting for the mar-
riage hour. Truly, Mrs. 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
12 DOMBET AND SON.
to attend the marriage. Cousin Feenix was a man about
town, forty years ago ; but he is still so juvenile in figure
and in manner, and so well got up, that strangers are
amazed when they discover latent wrinkles in his lord-
ship'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 Feenix, getting up at half-past seven o'clock or
BO, 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 gen-
eral whisking 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
courtesies ; 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 Mr.
Dombey's new blue coat, fawn-colored 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 ? "
" Major," says Mr. Dombey, " how are You ? "
" By Jove, sir," says the major, " Joey B. is in such
rase this morning, sir," and here he hits himself hard
ipnn the breast " in such case this morning, sir, that,
DOMBEY AND SON. 13
damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make a double
marriage of it, sir, and take the mothei."
Mr. Dombey smiles ; but faintly, even for him ; for
Mr. Dombey feels that he is going to be related to the
mother, and that, under those circumstances, she is not
to be joked about.
J
" Dombey," says the major, seeing this, " I give yon
joy. I congratulate you, Dombey. By the Lord, sir,"
aays the major, " you are more to be envied, this day,
than any man in England ! "
Here again, Mr. Dombey's assent is qualified ; be-
cause 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 (he 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 '
Are we on that footing of unreserved intimacy, Dornbey,
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, will
* gratified air, " you are quite warm."
14 DOMBEY AND SON.
" By gad, sir," says the major, " I am warm. Joseph
B. does not deny it, Dombey. He is warm. This is
an occasion, sir, that calls forth all the honest sympathies
remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used up, invalided,
J. B. carcass. And I tell you what, Dombey at such
a time a man must blurt out what he feels, or put a muz-
zle 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 ques-
tion. 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.
"Dombey, I deny it!"
" Your friendship I will say then," pursues Mr. Dom-
bey, " 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, with appropriate action,
* that is the hand of Joseph Bagstock ; of plain old Joey
B., sir, if you like that better ! That is the hand, cf
which His Royal Highness the late Duke of York did mo
the honor to observe, sir, to His Royal Highness the late
Duke of Kent, that it was the hand of Josh. ; a rough
ind tough, and possibly an up-to-snuff, old vagabond.
Dombey, may the present moment be the least unhappy
of our lives. God bless you ! "
Now, enters Mr. Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smil-
ing like a wedding-guest indeed. He can scarcely let
(Mr. Dombey's hand go, he is so congratulatory ; and he
shakes the major's hand so heartily at the same time
DOMBEY AND SON. 15
that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it
comes sliding from between his teeth.
' The very day is auspicious," says Mr. Carker. " The
brightest and most genial weather ! I hope I am not a
moment late ? "
" Punctual to your time, sir," says the major.
u I am rejoiced, I am sure," says Mr. Carker. *' I was
afraid I might be a few seconds after the appointed
time, for I was delayed by a procession of wagons
and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook-street'
this to Mr. Dombey " to leave a few poor rari-
ties of flowers for Mrs. Dombey. A man in my posi-
tion, and so distinguished as to be invited here, is proud
to offer some homage in acknowledgment of his vassal-
age : and as I have no doubt Mrs. Dombey is over-
whelmed with what is costly and magnificent ;" with a
strange glance at his patron ; " I hope the very poverty
of my offering, may find favor for it."
" Mrs. Dombey, that is to be," returns Mr. Dombey,
condescendingly, " will be very sensible of your atten-
tion, Carker, I am sure."
" And if she is to be Mrs. Dombey this morning, sir,"
says the major, putting down his coffee-cup, and looking
at his watch, "it's high time we were off!"
Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr. Dombey, Major Bag-
stc ck, and Mr. Carker, to the church. Mr. Sownds the
beadle has long risen from the steps, and is in waiting
with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs. Miff courtesies
and proposes chairs in the vestry. Mr. Dombey prefers
remaining in th.3 church. As he looks up at the organ,
Miss Tox in the gallery shrinks behind the fat leg
of a eherub on a monument, with cheeks like a young
Wind. Captain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up nud
16 DOMBEY AND SON.
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-colored 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. Miff are eying 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 courtesy, 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 suffer-
ing ; 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 figure, stand-
ing there, composed, erect, inscrutable of will, resplen-
dent and majestic in the zenith of its charms, yet beating
down, and treading on, the admiration that it challenges.
There is a pause while Mr. Sownds the beadle glides
Into the vestry for the clergyman and clerk. At this
juncture, Mrs. Skewton speaks to Mr. Dombey ; more
distinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and mov-
ing, at the same time, close to Edith.
" My dear Dombey," says the good mama, " I fear 1
must relinquish darling Florence after all, and suffer her
to go home, as she herself proposed. After my loss of
DOMBEY AND SON. 17
to-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not have spirits,
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
^ha] I be better alone. Besides, my dearest Edith will
De her natural and constant guardian 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 ear-
nestly.
" To be serious, my dear Dombey," she resumes, " I
will relinquish our dear child, and not inflict my glnora
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 Mrs. Miff, and Mr.
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 Feenix does that. He has come from Baden-
Baden on purpose. " Confound it," Cousin Feenix says
good-natured 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 off sideways by reason
nf his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be married
18 DOMBEY AND SON.
to this man, at first to wit, a bridesmaid of some con-
dition, 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, full at the " good lady " whom
Cousin Feenix giveth to be married to this man ac-
cordingly.
And will they in the sight of heaven ?
Ay, that they will : Mr. Dombey says he will. And
what says Edith ? She will.
So, from that day forward, for better for worse, for
richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and
to cherish, till 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 adjourn to the vestry. " There
a'n't a many ladies comes here," Mrs. Miff says with
a courtesy to look at Mrs. Miff, at such a season, is
to make her mortified bonnet go down with a dip
" writes their names like this good lady ! " Mr. Sownds
the beadle thinks it is a truly spanking signature, and
worthy of the writer this, however, between himself
and conscience.
Florence signs too, but unapplauded, for her hand
shakes. All the party sign ; Cousin Feenix last ; who
puts his noble name into a wrong place, and enrolls him-
self as having been born, that morning.
The major now salutes the bride right gallantly, and
carries out that branch of milifary tactics in reference to
all the ladies : notwithstanding Mrs. Skewton's being
extremely hard to kiss, and squeaking shrilly in the
sacred edifice. The example is followed by Cousin
and even by Mr. Dombey. La>tly, Mr. Car-
DOMBEY AND SON. 19
ker, with his white teeth glistening, approaches Edith,
Biore 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 super-
fluous, applied to such a union."
" I thank you, sir," she answers, with a curled lip,
and a heaving bosom.
But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she
knew that Mr. Dombey would return to offer his al-
liance, that Carker knows her thoroughly, and reads he''
right, and that she is more degraded by his knowledge
of her, than by aught else ? Is it for this reason th*
her haughtiness shrinks beneath his smile, like snow
within the hand that grasps it firmly, and that her im-
perious glance droops in meeting his, and seeks tb<.
ground ?
" I am proud to see," says Mr. Carker, with a eervila
stooping of his neck, which the revelations making b
his eyes and teeth proclaim to be a lie, " I am proud to
see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs. Dorabey'p
hand, and permitted to hold so favored a place in so joy-
ful an occasion."
Though she bends her head, in answer, there is some-
thing in the momentary action of her hand, as if she
would crush the flowers it holds, and fling them, with
contempt, -pon the ground. But, she puts the hand
through the arm of her new husband, who has been
standing near, conversing with the major, and i* proud
tgain, and motionless, and silent.
20 DOMBEY AND SON.
The carriages are once more at the church-door. Mr.
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 color of her every article of dress from that mo-
ment, and reproduces it on her doll, who is forever being
married. Cleopatra and Cousin Feenix enter the same
carriage. The major hands into a second carriage, Flor-
ence, and the bridesmaid who so narrowly escaped being
given away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and ia
followed by Mr. Carker. Horses prance and caper ; coach-
men and footmen shine in fluttering favors, flowers, aitd
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 moral-
ists 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 cherub's leg, when
all is quiet, and comes slowly down, from the gallery.
Miss Tox's eyes are red, and her pocket-handkerchief
is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, and
she hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to her-
self 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-colored
\>antaloons, 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
uy 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,
nOMBET AND SON. 21
The gallant Mr. Toots, attended by the faithful Ch:cken :
leaves the building in torments of love. The Chicken ia
us vet 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 servants come cut
of their hiding-places, and prepare to rush to Brook-
street, when they are delayed by symptoms of indisposi-
tion on the part of Mrs. Perch, who entreats a glass of
water, and becomes alarming ; Mrs. Perch gets better
soon, however, and is borne away ; and Mrs. Miff, and
Mr. Sownds the beadle, sit upon the steps to count what
they have gained by the affair, and talk it over, while
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 Feenix halls. Now, the rest of the wedding-
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 Florence, as she passes,
think, with a tremble, of her childhood, when she was
lost, and of the visage of good Mrs. Brown ?
Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest
of days, and mor? company, though not much ; and now
they leave the drawing-room, and range themselves at
table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no confec-
tioner can brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted
uegroes with as many flowers and love-knots as he will
.1
22 DOMBEY AND SON.
The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though,
and a rich breakfast is set forth. Mr. and Mrs. Chick
have joined the party, among others. Mrs. Chick ad-
mires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect
Dombsy ; and is affable and confidential to Mrs. Skew
ton, whose mind is relieved of a great load, an 1 who
takes her share of the champagne. The very tall young
man who suffered from excitement early, is better ; but
H 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 pic-
tures looking down upon them, by any excess of mirth.
Cousin Feenix and the major are the gayest there ; but
Mr. Carker has a smile for the whole table. He haa
an especial smile for the bride, who very, very, seldom
meets it.
Cousin Feenix rises, when the company have break-
fasted, and the servants have left the room ; and won-
derfully young he looks, with his white wristbands al-
most covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and
the bloom of the champagne in his cheeks.
" Upon my honor," says Cousin Feenix, " although it's
nn unusual sort of thing in a private gentleman's house,
I must beg leave to call upon you to drink what is usu-
ally 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 Feenix beginning
*gain, thus, comes to a dead stop.
DOMBEY AND SON. 2*
family 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 congratulate both my friend Dorabey and my
lovely and accomplished relative, on the present oc-
casion."
The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with great
applause, and Mr. Dombey returns thanks on behalf of
himself and Mrs. Dombey, J. B. shortly afterwards pro-
poses 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 mean time, have been break-
fasting below. Champagne has grown 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
alludes to the exciseman. His comrade's eye begins to
emulate his own, and he, too, stares at objects without
taking cognizance thereof. There is a general redness
in the faces of the ladies ; in the face of Mrs. Perch
particularly, who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far
above the cares of life, that if she were asked just now
to direct 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,
jmd with emotion ; for he half begins to think he w an
i)ld retainer of the family, and that he is bound to be
affected by these changes. The whole party, and es-
pecially the ladies, are very frolicsome. Mr. Dombey's
24 DOMBEY AND SON.
solemnly return? the bow ; everybody is more or less
gratified and affected by this extraordinary, and perhaps
unprecedented, appeal to the feelings.
" 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 honor to his head, and,
in point of fact, to his heart ; for it has been my mis-
fortune to be, as we used to say in my time in the
House of Commons, when it was not the custom to al-
lude to the Lords, and when the order of parliamentary
proceedings was perhaps better observed that it is now
to be in in point of fact," says Cousin Feenix, cher-
ishing his joke, with great slyness, and finally bringing it
out with a jerk, " ' in another place ! ' "
The mnjor falls into convulsions, and is recovered with
difficulty.
" But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey," re-
sumes Cousin Feenix in a graver tone, as if he had
suddenly become a sadder and a wiser man, " to krow
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 re-
ceive my friend Dombey, and everybody here, at Baden-
Baden, and to have an opportunity of making 'em known
to the Grand Duke), still I know enough, I flatter my
self, of my lovely and accomplished relative, to kno
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 congra'.ulato the
DOMBEY AND SON. 2o
" Hear, hear ! " says the major, in a tone of convic-
tion.
Mr Carker softly claps his hands, and bending for-
ward over the table again, smiles and nods a great many
more tiraeSfthan before, as if he were particularly struck
by this last observation, and desired personally to ex-
press 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 honor of seconding the address,
\va in fact, was laid up for a fortnight with the con-
sciousness of failure "
The major and Mr. Carker are so much delighted by
this fragment of personal history, that Cousin Feenix
laughs, and addressing them individually, goes on to
say :
' And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill still,
you know, I feel that a duty devolves upon me. And
when a duty devolves upon an Englishman, 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 accom-
plished 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 i? to say, with a man, at whom the finger of scorn
ran never in fact, with my honorable friend Dombey,
if he will allow me to call him so."
Cousin Fefinix bows to Mr. Dombey ; Mr. Dombej
26 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 in-
cluded) has agreed to this ; even the native who is tiger-
ish in his drink, and who alarms the ladies (Mrs. Percb
particularly) by the rolling of his eyes. One of the
very tall young men has even proposed a ball after the
play, and it presents itself to no one (Mrs. Perch in-
cluded) in the light of an impossibility. Words have
arisen between the house-maid and Mr. Towlinson ; she,
on the authority of an old saw, asserting marriages to
be made in heaven : he, affecting to trace the manufac-
ture 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
him. To calm these flying taunts, the silver-headed
butler rises to propose the health of Mr. Towlinson,
whom to know is to esteem, and to esteem is to wish
well settled in life with the object of his choice, where-
ever (here the silver-headed butler eyes the house-maid)
she may be. Mr. TowHnson returns thanks in a speech
replete with feeling, of which the peroration turns on
foreigners, regarding whom he says they may find favor,
sometimes with weak and inconstant intellects that can
be led away by hair, but all he hopes, is, he may never
hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of no trav-
elling chariot. The eye of Mr. Towlinson is so severe
and so expressive here, that the house-maid is turning^
hysterical, when she and all the rest, roused by the in-
telligence that the Bride is going away, hurry up-staira
to witness her departure.
The chariot is at the door ; the Bride is descending to
the hall, where Mr. Dombey waits for her. Florence i
DOMBEY AND SON. 2 1
ready on the staircase to depart too ; and Miss Nipper,
Who has held a middle state between the parlor and the
kitchen, is prepared to accompany her. As Edith ap-
pears, Florence hastens towards her, to bid her farewell
Is Edith cold, that she should tremble ! Is there any-
thing 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 hurry in this going
away, that Edith, with a wave of her hand, sweeps on,
and is gone !
Mrs. Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a
mother, sinks on her sofa in the Cleopatra attitude,
when (he clatter of the chariot wheels is lost, and sheds
several tears. The major, coming with the rest of the
company from table, endeavors 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
Mr. 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 tall
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 net so much attached to his home, as he used to be,
when they were only nine in family. Mr. Towlinson
has a singing in his ears and a large wheel going round
and round insida his head. The house-maid wifihes it
wasn't wicked to wish that one was dead.
There is a general delusion likewise, in these lower
, ^
regions, on the subject of time everybody vdiiceivmg
28 UOMBEY AND SON.
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 pro-
jected visit to the play. Any one reviving the notion
of the ball, would be scouted as a malignant idiot.
Mrs. Skewton sleeps up-stairs, two hours afterwards,
and naps are not yet over in the kitchen. The hatch-
ments in the dining-room look down on crumbs, dirty
plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale discolored
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 break-
fast. Mr. Dotnbey's servants moralize 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 con-
firmed 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 pre-
pared for any amount of dissipation, 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
.Iic 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
iear Paul, and sits down to read, with Diogenes winking
and blinking on the ground beside her. But Florence
DOMBEY AND SON. 29
cannot read to-night. The house seems strange s.nd
uew, 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. Wal-
ter, 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-colored 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 Feenix. While Cousin
Feenix, who ought to be at Long's, and in bed, finds him-
self, instead, at a gana ing-table, where his wilful legs have
taken him, perhaps, in his own despite.
Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to
roof, and holds dominion through the silent hours. Pule
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, when tht
great door clashes, and Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff, tread-
\ng the circle of their daily lives, unbroken as a marriage
ring, come in. Again the cocked-hat and the mortified
bonnet stand in the background at the marriage hour ;
SO DOMBEY AND SON.
and again this man taketh this woman, and this .vomau
taketh this man, on the solemn terms:
~ To have and to hold, from this daj forward, for
belter 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 re-
peating, with his mouth stretched to the utmost, as lie
picks his dainty way.
DOMBEY AND 8ON.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THB WOODEX MIDSHIPMAN GOES TO PIECES.
HONEST Captain Cuttle, as the weeks flew over Liia
in his fortified retreat, by no means abated any of \A.i
prudent provisions against surprise, because of the non-
appearance of the enemy. The captain argued that his
present security was too profound and wonderful to en-
dure 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 deter-
mined and dauntless character of Mrs. MacStinger, to
doubt that that heroic woman had devoted herself to the
task of his discovery and capture. Trembling beneath
the weight of these reasons, Captain Cuttle lived a very
close and retired life ; seldom stirring abroad until after
dark; venturing even then only into the obscurest streets;
never going forth at all on Sundays ; and both within
and without the walls of his retreat, avoiding bonnets,
as if they were worn by raging lions.
The captain never dreamed that in the event of his being
pounced upon by Mrs. MacStinger, 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
\n a hackney-coach, and carried off to his old lodging-.
He foresaw that, once immured there, he was a lost man ;
ais hat gone ; Mrs. MacStinger watchful of him day and
32 DOMBEY AND SOW.
night ; reproaches heaped upon his head, b fore the in-
fant 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 uresented
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 Rob,
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
well polished.
But not to throw away a chance : and to secure to
himself a means, in case of the worst, of holding com-
munication with the external world ; Captain Cuttle
soon conceived the happy idea of teaching Rob the
Grinder some secret signal, by which that adherent
might make his presence and fidelity known to his com-
mander, in the hour of adversity. After much cogita-
tion, the captain decided in favor 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 instruc-
tions on his mind :
" Now, my lad, stand by ! If ever I'm took "
" Took, captain ! " interposed Rob, with his ronnd
eyes wide open.
" Ah ! " said Captain Cuttle darkly, " if ever I goea
iway, meaning to come back to supper, and don't come
within hail again twenty-four hours arter my loss, go you
DOMBEY AND SON. 83
to Brig-place and whistle that 'ere tune near my old
moorings not as if you was a-meaning of it, you un-
derstand, but as if you'd drifted there, promiscuous. If
I answer in that tune, you sheer off, ray lad, and come
back four-and-twenty hours arterwards ; if I answer in
another tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till 1
throw out further signals. Do you understand them
orders, now ? "
" What am I to stand off and on of, captain ? " in-
quired Rob. " The horse-road ? "
" Here's a smart lad for you ! " cried the captain, ey-
ing 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, relent-
ing. " Do it ! "
That he might do it the better, Captain Cuttle some-
times condescended, of an evening, after the shop was
shut, to rehearse the scene : retiring into the parlor for
the purpose, as into the lodgings of a supposititious Mac-
Stinger, and carefully observing the behavior of hia
ally, from the hole of espial he had cut in the wall.
Rob the Grinder discharged himself of his duty with so
tnuch exactness and judgment, when thus put to the
proof, that the captain presented him, at divers times,
with seven sixpences, in token of satisfaction ; and grad-
ually fell 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, bjp
being a whit more venturesome than before. Though
he considered it a point of good-breeding in himself, as" a
vo),. in. 3
34 DOMBEY AND SON.
>
general friend of the family, to attend Mr. Dombey*!
wedding (of which he had heard from Mr. Perch), and
to show that gentleman a pleasant and approving coun-
tenance 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. MacStinger, but that the lady's attendance on
the ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech rendered it
peculiarly unlikely that she would be found in commun-
ion with the Establishment
The captain got safe home again, and fell into the or-
dinary 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 heavier 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 own hopes
of the generous, handsome, gallant-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 FlorenceT If he had had
good news to carry to her, the honest captain would
have braved the newly decorated house and splendid
furniture though these connected with the lady he had
seen at church, were awful to him and made his way
\nto her presence. With a dark horizon gathering around
their common hopes, however, that darkened every hour,
the captain almost felt as if he were a new misfortune
and affliction to her ; and was scarcely less afraid of a
risit from Florence, than from Mrs. MacStinger herself
DOMBEY AND SON. 35
It was a chill dark autumn evening, and Captain Cut-
tle had onlered a fire to be kindled in the little back-
parlor, now more than ever like the cabin of a ship.
The rain fell fast, and the wind blew hard ; and straying
out on the house-top by that stormy bedroom of his old
friend, to take an observation of the weather, the cap-
tain'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 in-
fluence, 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 house-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 Rob 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 rusty pivot as the
shrill blast spun him round 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
bardly maintain himself aslant against the stiff nor'wes-
ter 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
vaptain thought, as he held his hat on, it certainly kep'
36 DOMBEY AND SON.
house, and wasn't out of doors ; so the captain, shak-
ing his head in a despondent manner, went in to look
for it.
Captain Cuttle descended slowly to the little back
parlor, and, seated in his accustomed chair, looked for
t in the fire ; but it was not there, though the fire waa
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 vapor 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 reckon-
ings 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,
how 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 par-
lor broken up, and scattered far and wide. Here was
no audience for Lovely Peg, even if there had been
anybody to sing it, which 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 nc
Sright face of " Wal'r" in the house ; here the captair
V AND SON. 37
transferred his sleeve for a moment from the midship-
man's uniform to his own cheek; the familiar wig and
buttons of Sol Gills were a vision of the past ; Rich-
ard Whittington was knocked on the head ; and every
plan and project, in connection 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 acquaintance, and partly in the
absence of his mind, a knocking at the shop-door com-
municated a frightful start to the frame of Rob 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 Rob the
Grinder.
The captain, with an abashed and guilty air, immedi-
ately sneaked on tiptoe to the little parlor and locked
himself in. Rob, opening the door, would have par-
leyed with the visitor on the threshold if the visitor had
come in female guise ; but the figure being of the male
sex, and Rob's orders only applying to women, Rob
held the door open and allowed it to enter: which it
did very quickly, glad to get out of the driving rain.
" A job for Burgess and Co. at any rate," said (ho
visitor looking over kis shoulder compassionately at
bis own legs, which were very wet and covered will
Oli, bow-de-do, Mr. Gills ? "
88 DOMBEY AND SON.
The salutation, was addressed to the captain, now
emerging from the back-parlor with a most transpar-
ent and utterly futile affectation of coming out by ac-
cident
" Thankee," the gentleman went 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 Roli
the Grinder, in the absence of any other resource,
shook hands with him in a most affectionate and cor-
dial manner.
" I say ; I should like to speak a word to you, Mr.
Gills, if you please," said Toots at length, with surpris-
ing presence of mind. " I say ! Miss D. 0. M. you
know ! "
The captain, with responsive gravity and mystery,
immediately waved his hook towards the little parlor,
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 ;
u you don't happen to know the Chicken at all ; do you
Mr. Gills ? *
" The Chicken ? " said the captain.
" The Game Chicken," said Mr. Toots.
The captain shaking his head, Mr. Tocts explained
that the man alluded to was the celebrated public char-
acter who had covered himself and his country with
glory in his contest with the Nobby Shropshire One .
AND SON. 35
but this piece of information did not appear to enliglu*>
the captain ^ery much.
"Because he's outside: that's all," said Mr. Toots,
u 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 would have the goodness to let him sii
in the shop with your young man," chuckled Mr. Toots,
U I should be glad ; because you know, he's easily of-
fended, and the damp's rather bad for his stamina. .Til
call him in, Mr. Gills."
With that, Mr. Toots, repairing to the shop-door, sent
a peculiar whistle into the night, which produced a
stoical gentleman in a shaggy white great-coat and a
flat-brimmed hat, with very short hair, a broken nose,
and a considerable tract of bare and sterile country be-
hind 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 a'n't no drain of nothing short handy, ia
there ? " said the Chicken, generally. " Tin's here sluic-
ing night is hard lines to a man as lives on his con-
dition."
Captain Cuttle proffered a glass of rum, which tho
Chicken, throwing back his head, emptied into himself,
as into a cask, after proposing the brief sentiment, " Tow-
urds us ! " Mr. Toots and the captain returning then
to tli3 parlor, and taking their seats before the fire, Mr
Toots began :
" Mr. Gills "
40 DOMBEY AND SOX.
u Awast I " said the captain. " My name's Cuttle."
Mr. Toots looked greatly disconcerted, while the cap-
tain proceeded gravely :
" Cap'en Cuttle is my name, and England is my na-
tion, this here is my dwelling-place, and blessed bo
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 astern, to a ship becalmed. But you can't
see Sol Gills. And why can't you see Sol Gills ? " said
the captain, apprised by the face of Mr. Toots that he
vas making a profound impression on that gentleman's
mind. " Because he's inwisible."
Mr. Toots in his agitation was going to reply that it
\vas of fto consequence at all. But he corrected him-
self, 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 ; than you do. One morning at daybreak, he
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.
DOMBEY AND SON. -11
" Why, I ask you, as a feeling heart," said the cap-
tain, 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 affabil-
ity, with a what's the good of saying so? you know
her."
" I should hope so," chuckled Mr. Toots, with a con-
scious blush that suffused his whole countenance.
u 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 by a angel."
Mr. Toots instantly seized the captain's hand, and re-
quested the favor of his friendship.
" Upon my word and honor," said Mr. Toots, earnest-
ly, " I should be very much obliged to you if you'd im-
prove 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 per-
haps in the world ; there's not a move he isn't up to,
everybody says so but I don't know he's not every"
thing. So she is an angel, captain. If there is an
angel anywhere, it's Miss Dombey. That's what I've
always said. Really though, you know," said Mr. Toots,
* I should be very much obliged to you if you'd culti-
vate my acquaintance."
Captain Cuttle received this proposal in a polite man-
ner, but still without committing himself to its accept-
ance ; merely observing, " Ay, ay, my lad. We shal"
42 DOMBEY AND SON.
gee, we shall see ; " and reminding Mr. Toots of his im-
mediate mission, by inquiring to what he was indebted
for the honor 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 ex-
pression of face, indicative of his regarding that young
woman with serious respect.
u 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 neighborhood 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 honor, I don't think it's possible to
form an idea of the angel Miss Dombey was this after-
noon."
The captain answered with a jerk of his head, imply-
ing 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."
The captain seemed, for the moment, to object to this
proceeding ; and leaning back in his chair, looked at Mr.
Toots with a distrustful, if not threatening visage.
" Where she brought out," said Mr. Toots, " this news-
paper. She told me that she had kept it from Misa
Dombey all day, on account of something that was in it,
about somebody that she and Dombey used to know
and then she read the passage to me. Very well. Then
DOMBEY AND SON. >
Bhe said wait a minute ; what was it, she said
though ! "
Mr. Toots, endeavoring to concentrate his mental pow-
ers on this question, unintentionally fixed the captain's
eye, and was so much discomposed by its stern expres-
sion, that his difficulty in resuming the thread of his
subject was enhanced to a painful extent.
" Oh ! " said Mr. Toots after long consideration. " Oh,
ah ! Yes ! She said that she hoped there was a bare
possibility that it mightn't be true ; and that as she
couldn't very well come out herself, without surprising
Miss Dombey, would I go down to Mr. Solomon Gills
the Instrument-maker's in this street, who was the
party's uncle, 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 by ! " 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 hurriedly.
" Well," pursued Mr. Toots, " the reason why I'm
rather late is, because I went up as far as Finchley first,
to get some uncommonly fine chickweed that grows
there, for Miss Dombey's bird. But I came on here,
directl}' afterwards. You've seen the paper, I suppose ? "
The captain, who had become c? utious of reading the
news, lest he should find himself advertised at full
length by Mrs. MacStinger, shook his head.
" Shall I read the passage to you ? " inquired Mr.
Toots.
The captain making a sign in the affirmative, Mr.
Foots read as follows, from the Shipping Intelligence :
" ' Southampton. The barque Defiance, Henry James,
44 DOMBEY AND SON.
Commander, arrived in this port to-day, with a cargo of
sugar, coffee, 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.
" Ay ! " cried the captain, striking his clinched hand
on the table. " Heave ahead, my lad ! "
u latitude," repeated Mr. Toots, with a startled
glance at the captain, " and longitude so-and-so, ' the
lookout observed, half an hour before sunset, some frag-
ments 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 rigging 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 H " were yet plainly legible. No vestige
of any dead body was to be seen upon the floating frag-
ments. Log of the Defiance states, that a breeze
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 Son and Heir, port of London,
bound for Barbadoes, are now set at rest forever ; that
she broke up in the last hurricane ; and that every soul
on board perished.' "
Captain Cuttle, like all mankind, little knew how
much hope had survived within him under discourage-
ment, 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 00
DOMBEY AND 8ON. 45
bis glazed bat, which, in his visitor's hono , he had laid
upon the table, the captain turned his back, and bent his
head down on the little chimney-piece.
" Oh, upon my word and honor," cried Mr. Toots,
whose tender heart was moved by the captain's unex-
pected 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 nevei
should have looked forward so much, to coming into my
property, if I had known this. I never saw such a
world. It's i\ great deal worse than Blimber's."
Captain Cuttle, without altering his position, signed tc
Mr. Toots not to mind him ; and presently turned round,
with his glazed hat thrust back upon his ears, and hi*
hand composing and smoothing his brown face.
" Wal'r, my dear lad," said the captain, u farewell !
Wal'r, my child, my boy, and man, I loved you ! He
warn't my flesh and blood," said the captain, looking sit
'.lie fire " I a'n't got none but something of what a
f;itli<-r feels when he loses a son, I feel in losing Wal'r.
For why ? " said the captain. " Because it a'n'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 parlor, 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 clown
with Wal'r. It a'n't one Wal'r. There wa* a dozen
Wal'rs that I know'd and loved, all holding round hi?
46 DOMBEY AND SON.
neck when he went down, and they're a-holding round
mine now ! "
Mr. Toots sat silent : folding and refolding the news-
paper as small as possible upon his knee.
" And Sol Gills," said the captain, gazing at the fire,
* poor nevyless old Sol, where are you got to ! you was
left in charge of me ; his last words was, ' Take care of
my uncle.' What came over you, Sol, when you went
and gave the go-by to Ned Cuttle ; and what am I to
put in my accounts that he's a-looking down upon, re-
specting you ! Sol Gills, 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.
" 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 en-
tered on the ship's log, and that's the truest book as a
man can write. To-morrow morning," said the captain,
" I'll step out and make inquiries ; but they'll lead to nc
good. They can't do it. If you'll give me a look-in in
the forenoon, you shall know what I have heerd ; but
ell 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 griz-
zled head despairingly, and tossed the handkerchief in
again, with the indifference of deep dejection.
u Oh I I assure you," said Mr. Toots, " really 1 am
ireadfully sorry. Upon my word I am, though I wa<?n''
DOMBEY AND SON. 47
cq minted with the party. Do you think Miss Donibey
will be very much affected, Captain Gills I mean Mr.
Cuttle ? "
" Why, Lord love you," returned the captain, with
Something of compassion for Mr. Toots's innocence.
"When she warn't no higher than that, (hey were as
fond of one another as two young doves."
" Were they though ! " said Mr. Toots, with a cc
eiderably lengthened face.
"They were made for one another," said the captain,
mournfully ; " but what signifies that now ? "
"Upon my word and honor," cried Mr. Toots, blurt-
ing 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
BO re with loving her;" the burst with which this con-
fession forced itself out of the unhappy Mr. Toots, be-
spoke 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 a'n't a selfish affection, you know,"
said Mr. Toots, in the confidence engendered by his
Laving 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 anything of that sort for
M-iss 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 pre-
vent its reaching the jealous ears of the Chicken, who
objected to the softer emotions ; which effort of restraint,
coupled with th 1 , intensity of his feelings, made him rod
48 DOMBEY AND SON.
to the tips of his ears, and caused him to present such an
affecting spectacle of disinterested love to the eyes of
Captain Cuttle, that the good captain patted him con-
solingly on the back, and bade him cheer up.
u Thank'ee, Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, " it's kind
of you, in the midst of your own troubles, to say sc.
I'm very much obliged to you. As I said before, I
really want a friend, and should be glad to have your
acquaintance. All hough I am very well off," said Mr.
Toots, with energy, " you can't think what a miserable
beast -1 am. The hollow crowd, you know, when they
Bee me with the Chicken, and characters of distinction
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'll be a satis-
faction to me to come back to-morrow, or to come buck
fifty times."
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 ngtice, before the Chicken's pene-
trating 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 fa-
vor as he took leave of Mr. Toots ; but followed his
pa trun without being otherwise demonstrative of his ill-
will; leaving the captain oppressed with sorrow; uid
Rob the Grinder elevated with joy, on account of hav
ing had the honor of staring for nearly half an hour, at
the conqueror of the Nobby Shropshire One.
Ixing after Rob was fast asleep in his bed under the
counter, the captain sat looking at the fire ; and long
tfter there was m fire to look at, the captain sat gazing
DOMBEY AND SON. 49
0n 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 with it ; and the captain rose up in the morning,
sorrowful and unrefreshed.
As soon as the city offices were open, the captain
issued forth to the counting-house of Dombey and Sou.
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 man-
ager's benison gravely and silently, Captain Cuttle made
bold to accompany him into his own room.
" Well, Captain Cuttle," said Mr. Carker, taking up
his usual position before the fireplace, and keeping on
his hat, " this is a bad business."
" You have received the news as was in print yester-
day, sir ? " said the captain.
" Yes," said Mr. Carker, " we have received it ! It
was accurately stated. The underwriters suffer a con-
siderable 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
Vhe crew. I understand there were some of our very
Ueet men among 'em. It always happens so. Many
tnen with families too. A comfort to reflect that poor
jay had no family, Captain Cuttle ! "
The captain .-tood rubbing his chin, and looking at the
50 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 Cut-
tle ? " he asked, looking off it, with a smiling and ex-
pressive glance at thu door.
"I wish you could set my mind at rest, sir, on soni'*-
thing it's uneasy about," returned the captain.
" Ay ! " exclaimed the manager, " what's that ? Come,
Captain Cuttle, I must trouble you to be quick, if you
please. I am much engaged."
" Look'ee here, sir," said the captain, advancing a
step. " Afore my friend Wal'r went on this here dis-
astrous 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 very early
on your day's allowance, captain, if you don't remember
that 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 uneasiness as that."
" My lad," returned the captain, slowly u you are
a'most a lad to me, and so I don't ask your pardon fcr
that slip of a word, if you find any pleasure in this
here sport, you a'n't the gentleman I took you for, and-
if you a'n't the gentleman I took you for, may be my
mind has call to be uneasy. Now this is what it is, Mr.
Carker. Afore that poor lad went away, according to
orders, he told me that he wara't a-going away for his
own good, or for promotion, he know'd. It was my be-
DOMBEY AND SON. 5l
lief that lie was wrong, and I told him so, and I .'ome
here, your head governor being absent, to ask a question
or two of you in a civil way, for my own satisfaction
Thsm questions you answered free. Now it'll 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'll overhaul the book it's in, and thereof make
a note to know once more, in a word, that I warn't
mistaken ; that I warn't back'ard in my duty when I
didn't tell the old man what Wal'r told me ; and that the
wind was truly in his sail, when he highsted of k for
Barbadoes Harbor. Mr. Carker," said the captain, ia
the goodness of his nature, " when I was here last, we
was very pleasant together. If I a'n'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 off, my name is Ed'ard Cuttle,
and I ask your pardon."
" Captain Cuttle," returned the manager, with all pos-
sible politeness, " I must ask you to do me a favor."
" 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 jargon 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 forefinger at him, and showing him all his
teoth, but still amiably smiling, "I was much too lenient
with you when you caine here before. You belong to
an artful and audacious set of people. In my desire to
52 DOMBET AND SON.
save young what's-his-name from being kicked out of
this place, neck and crop, my good captain, I tolerated
you ; but for ouce, and only once. Now go, ray
friend!"
The captain was absolutely rooted to the ground, and
speechless.
" Go," said the good-humored 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, 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 dis-
covery 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
M stand by ? " But in a whisper.
" You hatch nice little plots, and hold nice little coun-
cils, and make nice little appointments, and receive nice
Uttle visitors, too, captain, hey ? " said Carker, bending
iris 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 hidera,
DOMBEY AND SON. 55
nd runners-away, should know better than that. Will
j ou oblige me by going ? "
" My lad," gasped the captain, in a choked and trem-
bling voice, and with a curious action going on in the
ponderous ft?t ; " there's a many words I could wish to
ay to you, but I don't rightly know where they're
Btowed 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 will_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 fel-
low, if we do," returned the manager, with the same
frankness ; " for you may rely, I give you fair warning,
upon my detecting and exposing you. I don't pretend
to be a more moral man than my neighbors, my good
captain ; but the confidence of this House, or of any
member of this House, is not to be abused and under-
mined while I have eyes and ears. Good-day ! " said
Mr. Carker, nodding his head.
Captain Cuttle, looking at him steadily (Mr. Carker
looked full as steadily at the captain), went out 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 through the outer
counting-house, at the desk where he knew poor Walter
jiad 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-parlor. The asso-
ciation of ideas, thus awakened, did the captain ;i greal
54 DOMBEY AND SON.
deal of good ; it softened him in the very height of hia
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 indigna-
tion, strong as it was, could make no head against hia
grief. Passion seemed not only to do wrong and vio-
lence to the memory of the dead, but to be infected by
death, and to droop and decline beside it. AH the living
knaves and liars in the world, were nothing to the hon-
esty and truth of one dear friend.
The only thing the honest captain made out clearly,
in this state of mind, besides the loss of Walter was,
that with him almost the whole world of Captain Cuttle
had been drowned. If he reproached himself some-
times, and keenly loo, for having ever connived at Wal-
ter'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 recall ; 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 Rob the Grinder (who in the unnatural
'wilight was fast asleep), the captain sallied forth with
Viis attendant at his heels, and the door- key in his pocket,
DOMBEY AND SON. 55
and repairing to one of those convenient slop-selling
establishments of which there is abundant choice at the
eastern end of London, purchased on the spot two suits
of mourning one for Rob the Grinder, which was im-
mensely too small, and one for himself, which was im-
mensely too large. He also provided Rob with a species of
hat, greatly to be admired for its symmetry and usefulness
ns well as for a happy blending of the mariner with the
coal-heaver ; which is usually termed a sou'wester ; and
which was something of a novelty in connection with the
instrument business. In their several garments, which
the vendor declared to be such a miracle in point of fit
as notliing but a rare combination of fortuitous circum-
stances ever brought about, and the fashion of which
was unparalleled within the memory of the oldest in-
habitant, the captain and Grinder immediately arrayed
themselves: 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
young 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 seas 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 con-
>ideration of Mr. Toots'^ offer of friendship, and thna
dismissed him. Captain Cuttle's spirits were so low, in
truth, that he half determined, that day, to take no fur-
ther precautions against surprise from Mrs. MacStinger,
but to abandon himself recklessly to chance, and be indif-
56 DOMBET AND SON.
feront to what might happen. As evening came on, h
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. Roh
did not blush to hear the captain earnest in his praises,
but sat staring at him, and affecting to snivel with sym-
pathy, and making a feint of being virtuous, and treas-
uring 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 spectacles on entering
into the Instrument Trade, though his eyes were like a
hawk's and opened the prayer-book at the Burial Ser-
vice. And reading softly to himself, in the little back-
parlor, and stopping now and then to wipe his eyes, the
captain, in a true and simple spirit, committed Walter's
body to the deep.
DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XXXIH.
CONTRASTS.
TURN we our eyes upon two homes; not lying sid
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 preten-
sions as to size ; but it is beautifully arranged, and taste-
fully 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
veranda with sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined
about the pillars, the simple exterior of the house, the
well-ordered offices, though all upon the diminutive
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 hou^e of refinement and luxury. Rich colors, excel-
lently blended, meet the eye at every turn ; in the fur-
niture 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 ir
through the odd glass-doors and windows here and there
There are a few choice prints and pictures, too : ii-
^uaint nooks and recesses there is no want of bookd.
58 DOMBEY AND SON.
and there are games of skill and chance set forth oi
tables fantastic chessmen, dice, backgammon, cards,
and billiards.
And yet, amidst this opulence of comfort, there is
something in the general air that is not well. Is it tha\
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
commemorate 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 color and
no more ? Is it that the books have all their gold out*
side, and that the titles of the greater part qualify them
to be companions of the prints and pictures ? Is it that
the completeness and the beauty of the place is here and
there belied by an affectation of humility, in some unim-
portant and inexpensive regard, which is as false as the
face of the too truly painted portrait hanging yonder, or
its original at breakfast 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 him-
self, which gives a vague expression of himself to every-
thing about him ?
It is Mr. Carker the manager who sits in the easy-
chair. A gaudy parrot in a burnished cage upon the
table tears at the wires with her beak, and goes walking,
upside down, in its dome-top, shaking her house and
screeching ; but Mr. Carker is indifferent to the bird,
find looks with a musing smile at a picture on the op-
posite wall.
" A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly,'
says he.
Perhaps it is a Juno ; perhaps a Potiphar's wife ;
DOMBEY AND SON. 59
perhaps some scornful nymph according as the Pic-
ture dealers found the market, when they christened it.
It is the figure of a woman, supremely handsome, who,
turning away, but with her face addressed to the spec-
tator, 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 triumph? No; yet more like that. An insolent
salute wafted from his lips ? No ; yet like that too he
resumes his breakfast, arid calls to the chafing and im-
prisoned bird, who, 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
neighborhood in which it stands has as little of the coun-
try to recommend it, as it has of the town. It is neither
of the town or 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,
timong a few tall chimneys belching smoke all day and
night, and among the brick-fields and the lanes where
turf 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 cornea
60 DOMBEY AND SOX.
occasionally, though he swears every time to come M
more this second home is to be found.
She who inhabits it, is she who left the first in her
devotion to an outcast brother. She withdrew from that
borne its redeeming spirit, and from its master's breast
his solitary 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 forgotten 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 witness !
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 struggle of
a poor existence. But it is beauty still ; and still a
gentle, quiet, and retiring beauty 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 figure, neatly dressed
in homely stuffs, and indicating nothing but the dull,
household virtues, that have so little in 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 young but worn
and gray, is she his sister, who, of all the world, went
aver to him in his shame and put her hand in his, and
with a sweet composure and determination, led him
hopefully upon his bairen way.
"It is early, John," she said. "Why do you go so
early?"
DOMBEY iND SON. 61
" Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If 1
have the time to spare, I should like, I think it's a
fancy to walk once by the house where I took leave
of him."
" I wish I had ever seen or known him, John."
" It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate."
" 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 noth-
ing!"
" 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 hesi-
tation :
" No, not quite."
" True, true," he said ; " you think I might have don*
him no harm if I had allowed myself to know him bet-
ter ? "
" 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.
" II is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lightel
*b to) I limit of tarn, Bar flat wftidh aaide it
fciHwitsr 34ifnuT lie cindboi baaself ia IK taaa af aaaV
ndh%- 3* sn** apaa'her as he sni "Gooi-ty.*
* Go3-fty, -dear Jala! Is te cverag, M He H
iirot iooi jiHaoe, I teffl eel
- - --:-::-- ;s< :.:-.
f IHB funa&OKMft ami grittf; fir in Ae dhni ke aw
-..--. ::?_-
V
- >.; ---- f -- r ::..'.: r.vlit ;.-' -' --.
3wac. ami Ihsgjft, lie saw t&e lfesr ffirwte rf IB ail <
- :if 5,.:>: .'--::.
at be ANT Utn* after ioa^ widi iae
MMiJy daysi it carih aAn^ as he aafc Ma way
- - - -.^ ,-,-- i;i-.; s.^;
, -/
- '
dhanc. Wlbewsrer he
iu he Ja farflanCalaiDe rUmBip Bbe m igjht
* ic. ---T -.:.: ..- ; -.,:: -- .. -;
.. - f.r : : :-:!.: a;- :./ ': r-
' You are *&**, r 2 " dbe
'I tote dat Ba.illj, a> he
64 DOMBEY AND SUN.
After a moment's hesitation, she opened the door. :m<l
gave him admission to the little parlor. The gentleman
sat down there, drew his chair to the table over against
her, and said, in a voice that perfectly corresponded 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 en-
tirely of the character of compliments. It was so plain,
grave, unaffected, and sincere, that she bent her head,
as if at once to thank him and acknowledge his sin-
cerity.
" The disparity between our ages," said the gentle-
man, " and the plainness 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 bo pride,
which is mere duty. I hope I cherish no other."
" For yourself," he said.
" For myself."
"But pardon me" suggested the gentleman.
For your brother John ? "
* Proud of his love, I am," said Harriet, looking full
DOMBEY AND SON. 63
upon her visitor, and changing her manner on the in-
stant 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 life, and repeated it to me when you wer
here last "
" Merely to .make my way into your confidence," in-
terposed the gentleman. " For Heaven's sake, don't sup-
pose "
" I am sure," she said, " you revived it, in my hear-
ing, 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 jus-
tice, 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
eay 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 uncom-
plaining expiation, the true repentance, the terrible re-
gret, the pain I know he has even in my aflfecfion, 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 are ever wronged, never, for any wrong, in-
flict a punishment that cannot be recalled; while there
is a GOD above us to work changes in the hearts He
made."
"Your bi other is an altered man," returned the gentle-
man, compassionately. " I assure you, I don't doubt it."
" He was an altered man when he did wrong," said
VOL. in. 5
66 DOMBET AND SON.
Harriet. " He is an altered man again, and is bis true
self now, believe me, sir."
" But we go on," said her visitor, rubbing his fore-
head, in an absent manner, with bis 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 metaphysi-
cal sort of thing. We we 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-like," said the gentle-
man, walking to the window, and back, and sitting down
again, in a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vex-
ation.
" I am sure," said the gentleman, rubbing his fore-
head again, and drumming on the table as before ; " I
have good reason to believe that a 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 anything ; that's the fact We go on taking every-
thing 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
igain and back: seriously uneasy, though giving his
uneasiness this peculiar expression.
" Miss Harriet," he said, resuming his chair, " 1
wish you would let me serve you. Look at me : I
DOMBEY AND SON. 6V
ought to look honest, for I know I am so, at present
Ho 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 hav-
ing done so, let me do something. I ask it in all honor
and respect. You inspire me with both, in the highest
degree. Let me do something."
" We are contented, sir."
" No, no, not quite," returned the gentleman. " I
think not quite. There are some little comforts that
might smooth your life, and his. And his ! " he re-
peated, 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, rais-
ing 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 WT 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
iierit of his unassisted, obscure, and forgotten repara-
tion would be to diminish the comfort it will be tc
88 DOMBEY AND SON
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 Harriet, " when
he is restored, in part, to the position he lost"
" Restored ! " cried the gentleman, quickly. " How
can that be hoped for? In whose hands does the
power of any restoration lie ? It is no mistake of
mine, surely, to suppose that his having gained the
priceless blessing of his life, is one cause of the ani-
mosity shown to him by his brother."
" You touch upon a subject that is never breathed be-
tween 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
gentleman, rubbing his head, as despondently as before,
"let me; though a stranger, yet no stranger; ask two
favors."
'* What are they ? " she inquired.
"The first, that if you should see cause to change
your resolution, you will suffer me to be as your right
hand. My name shall then be at your service ; it is
useless now, and always insignificant."
" Our choice of friends," she answered, smiling faintly,
'' is nut so great, that I need any time for consideration.
f can promise that."
u The second, that you will allow me sometimes, say
DOMBEY AND SON. 69
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 win-
dow. I don't ask to come in, as your brother will 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, gray-haired already, and fast growing grayer
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 ac-
quaintance with his history. I am glad of it, for it is
out of the ordinary course of things, and habit again!"
said the gentleman, 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 unconstrained respect and un-
affected 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
rery 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 *he sat at the
window, plying her needle ; and his words seemed newly
70 DOMBET AND SON.
spoken, again and again. He had touched the spring
that opened her whole life; and if she lost him for a
short space, it was only among the many shapes of
the one great recollection of which that life was
made.
Musing and working by turns ; now constraining her-
self 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, Har-
riet Carker found the hours glide by her, and the day
steal on. The morning, which had been bright and
clear, gradually becan.e overcast ; a sharp wind set in ;
the rain fell heavily ; and a dark mist droopmg over the
distant town, hid it from the view.
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, footsore 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 tow-
ards 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 church-yards, 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, rais-
ug her eyes from the work on which she bad long since
DOMBEY AND SON. 7'1
been engaged with unremitting constancy, saw one of
these travellers approaching.
A woman. A solitary woman of some thirty years of
age ; tall ; well-formed ; handsome ; miserably dressed ;
the soil of many country roads in varied weather du^t,
chalk, clay, gravel clotted on her gray cloak by the
streaming wet ; no bonnet on her head, nothing to de-
fend her rich black hair from the rain, but a torn hand-
kerchief; 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-burnt forehead,
swept across her face, and threw aside the hindrances
that encroached upon it, there was a reckless and re-
gardless beauty in it ; a dauntless and depraved indif-
ference 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 beautiful 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, try-
Ing with her eager eyes to pierce the mist in which the
city was enshrouded, and glancing, now and then, from
72 DOMBEY AND SON.
side (o 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
aaet those of Harriet.
In a moment, Harriet was at the door ; and the other,
rising from her seat 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.
" But there are many places of shelter near here.
This," referring to the little porch, fa 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 fragment; 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 wept. Not like a
woman, but like a stern man surprised into that weak-
ness ; with a violent heaving of her breast, and struggle
for recovery, that showed how unusual the emotiou was
with her.
DOMBEY AND SON. TJ
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. Harriet then put before
her fragments of her own frugal dinner, and when she
had eaten of them, though sparingly, besought her, be-
fore 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 handkerchief 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 ; seiz-
ing 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.
u 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 almanac where
I have been. Ten or a dozen years. I don't know this
part. It's much altered since I went away."
" Have you been far ? "
" Very far. Months upon months over the sea and
far away even then. I have been where convicts go,"
she added, looking full upon her entertainer. " I have
been one myself."
" Heaven help you and forgive you ! " was the gentle
answer.
" Ah ! Heaven help me and forgive me ! " she re-
74 DOMBEY AND SON.
turned, nodding her head at the fire. "If man would
help some of us a little more, God would forgive us all
the sooner perhaps."
But she was softened by the earnest manner, and the
cordial face so full of mildness and so free from judg-
ment, of her, and said, less hardily:
" We may be about the 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 peni-
tent "
" No," she answered. " I am not ! I can't be. I am
no such thing. Why should / be penitent, and all the
world go free. They talk to me of my penitence.
Who's penitent for the wrongs that have been done
to me ! "
She rose 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
DOMBET AND SON. 75
"No. I live here with my brother. We have not
much to spare, or I would give you more."
" Will you let me kiss you ? "
Seeing no scorn or repugnance in her face, the object
of her 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 ; urging her way on towards the mist-en-
shrouded city where the blurred lights gleamed; and
with her black hair and disordered head-gear, fluttering
round her reckless face.
76 DOMBEY AND SON
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 crouch-
ing 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 asleep, it revealed no ob-
jects that needed to be jealous of a better display. A
heap 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 77
if she were watching at some witch's altar for a favor-
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 be-
longed.
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 recall the figure of Good Mrs.
Brown ; notwithstanding that her childish recollection of
that terrible old woman was as grotesque and exagger-
ated a presentment of the truth, perhaps, as the shadow
on the wall. But Florence was not there to look on ;
and Good Mrs. Brown remained unrecognized, 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 shoul*
rter.
" 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, startiag
up.
" Ay, from beyond seas."
The old woman raked the fire together, hurriedly, and
"8 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 un-
resisting 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 ut-
tered a querulous cry of disappointment and misery.
"What is the matter?" asked her visitor.
u Oho ! Oho ! " cried the old woman, turning her face
upward, with a terrible howl.
u 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've 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, wring-
ing her hands.
" Have you no light here ? " said the other, 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
ihrusting it into the fire with a trembling hand, lighted
it with some difficulty and set it on the table. Its dirty
wick burnt dimly at first, being choked in its own grease ;
and when the bleared eyes and failing sight of the old
woman could distinguish anything by its light, her visitor
was sitting with her arms folded, her eyes turned down
DOMBEY A^D SON. 79
wards, and a handkerchief she had worn apon 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
% ;me moments. " What did she say ? "
" Look," returned the visitor.
The old woman repeated the word in a scared uncer-
tain 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 suffered 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 be-
fore 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 capa-
ble.
' Yes, mother," returned Alice, stooping forward for a
noment, and kissing her, but endeavoring, even in the
Bet, to disengage herself from her embrace. " I am
here, at last. Let go, mother ; let go. Get up, and sit
In your chair. What good does this do ? "
" She's come back harder than she went ! " cried the
paother, looking up in her face, and still holding to her
80 DOMBEY AND SOW.
knees. " She don't care for me ! after all these years,
and all ihe 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,
arid rolling herself from side to side, continued moaning
and wailing to herself.
Alice 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.
" 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'n't that ! " cried the mother. " She knows it ! "
u What is it then ? " returned the daughter. " It had
best be something that don't last, mother, or my way out
is easier than my way in."
" Hear that ! " exclaimed the mother. " After all
Ihese years she threatens to desert me in the moment of
her coming back again ! "
" 1 tell you, mother, for the second time, there have
nOMBEY AND SON. I
been years r or me as well as you," said Alice. " Come
hack 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
ilear mother didn't," she returned, sitting with her folded
arms, and knitted brows, and compressed lips as if she
were bent on excluding, by force, every softer feeling
from her breast. " Listen, mother, to a word or two.
If we understand each other now, we shall not fall out
any more, perhaps. I went away a girl, and have come
back a woman. 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 her 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 course 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
bur head, but whether angrily, or remorsefully, or in de-
nial, 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
Verrible derision of herself, " born, among poverty and
neglect, and nured in it. Nobody taught her, nobody
stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her."
82 DOMBEY AND SON.
" 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.
44 1 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
you 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 ! n 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 naturo
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, when she was an innocent and help-
'ess little wretch ! and how solemn and religious it alj
was ! I have thought of that, many times since, to bo
sure ! "
DOMBEY AND SON. 83
She folded her arms tightly on her breast, and
laughed iu a tone that made the howl of the old woman
musical.
fe So Alice Marwood was 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 ia
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 work.
There's ciowds 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 sub-
ject. " 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
ner, both of face and form, which, even in its worst ex-
pression, could not but be recognized as such by any one
regarding her with the least attention. As she subsided
nto silence, and her face which had been harshly agi-
84 DOMBEY AND SON.
tated, 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 sor-
row ; there shone through all her wayworn misery and
fatigue, a ray of the departed radiance of the fallen an-
gel.
Her mother, after watching her for some time without
speaking, ventured to steal her withered hand a little
nearer to her across the table ; and finding that she per-
mitted 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 by degrees, she bound up her
daughter's hair afresh, took off her Avet shoes, if they
deserved the name, spread something dry upon her shoul-
ders, and hovered humbly about her, muttering to her-
self, as she recognized her old features and expression
more and more.
" You are very poor, mother, I see," said Alice, look-
ing 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 beau-
tiful 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 deferentially, before
her child, and inclined her head, as if in a pitiful eu-
Ireaty to be spared any further reproach.
" How have you lived ? "
u By begging, my deary."
a And pilfering, mother ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. 85
" Sometimes, Ally in a very small way. I jun old
and timid. I Lave 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. J Lave
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 be-
fore.
u What family ? "
" Hush, darling. Don't be angry with me, I did it for
the love of you. In memory of my poor gal beyond
seas." She put out her hand deprecatingly, and draw-
ing 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 could it be his ? You know he has
none."
" Whose then ? " returned the daughter. " You said
his."
" Hush, Ally ; you frighten me, deary. Mr. Dom-
l>ey's only Mr. Dombey's. Since then, darling, I
Lave seen them often. I have seen him."
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 pas-
sion, she remained still : except that she clinched her
arras tighter and tighter within each other, on her bosom,
-is if to restrain them by that means from doing an m-
B6 DQMBET AND SON.
jury to herself, or some one else, in the blind fury of
the wrath that suddenly possessed her.
" Little he thought who I was ! " said the old woman,
shaking her clinched hand.
" And little he cared ! " muttered her daughter, l>e-
tween her teeth.
" But there we were," said the old woman, " face t/)
fe.ce. I spoke to 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 daugh-
ter disdainfully.
" Ay, 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 bespeak-
ing the violent and dangerous character of the woman
who made it. But it succeeded, and she asked, after
a silence :
" Is he married ? " v
" No, deary," said the mother.
" Going to be ? "
"Not that I know of, deary. But his master find
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. " Noth-
ing but joy to us will come of that marriage. Mind
e!"
The daughter looked at her for an explanation.
* But you are wet and tired : hungry and thirsty,
DOMBEY AND SON. 87
said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard : " and
there's little here, and little " diving down into her
pocket, and jingling a few halfpence on the table
u 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 re-
taining in her hand, and gazing on. " Humph ! six and
six is twelve and six eighteen so we must make
the most of it. I'll go buy something to eat and drink."
With greater alacrity than might have been expected
in one of her appearance for age and misery seemed
to have made her as decrepit as ugly she began to
occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on
her head, and folding a torn shawl about herself: still
eying 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
fidgers, " of no love at all, and much pride and hate, my
vleary. The joy of confusion and strife among 'em,
^roud as they are, and of danger danger, Alice ! "
" What danger ? "
" / have seen what I have seen. / know what I
88 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 daughter regarded her, her hand involuntarily
closed upon the money, the old woman made more speed
to secure it, and hurriedly added, " but I'll go buy some-
thing ; I'll 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 everything
but not coming in heaps ! "
" 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."
14 The giver, eh, deary ? " retorted the old woman,
whose dimmed eyes glistened as she took it. " Ay !
I'll kiss it for the giver's sake, too, when the giver can
make it go farther. But I'll go spend it, deary. I'll 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."
u Know ! " croaked the old woman, coming back a step
or two, " I know more than you think. I know more
than he thinks, deary, as I'll tell you by-and-by. I know
nil about him."
The daughter smiled incredulously.
w I know of his brother. Alice," said the eld woman
DOMBEY AND SON. 89
stretching out her neck with a leer of malice absolutely
frightful, "who might have been where you have been
for stealing money and who lives with his sister,
over yonder, by the north road out of London."
" Where ? "
" By the north road out of London, deary. You shall
see the house, if you like. It a'n't much to boast of,
genteel as his own 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-morrow, deary,
if it's fine, and you are in the humor. But I'll go
spend "
" Stop ! " and the daughter flung herself upon her,
with her former passion raging like a fire. "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
email green porch."
Again the old woman nodded.
" In which I sat to-day ! Give me back the money."
" Alice ! Deary ! "
" Give me back the money, or you'll be hurt."
She forced it from the old woman's hand as she spoke,
rind utterly indifferent 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 effect upon her than
upon the wind and rain and darkness that encompassed
them. Obdurate and fierce in her own purpose, and in-
90 DOMBEY AND SON.
diffei-ent to all besides, the daughter defied the weather
and the distance, as if she had known no travel ot
fatigue, and made for the house where she had been
relieved. After some quarter of an hour's walking, the
old woman, spent and out of breath, ventured to hold by
her skirts ; but she ventured no more, and they travelled
on in silence through the wet and gloom. If the mother
now and then uttered a word of complaint, she stifled
it lest her daughter should break away from her and
leave her behind ; and the daughter was dumb.
It was within an hour or so of midnight, when they
left the regular streets behind them, and entered on the
deeper gloom of that neutral ground where the house
was situated. The town lay in the distance, lurid and
lowering ; the bleak wind howled over the open space ;
all around was black, wild, desolate.
" This is a fit place for me ! " said the daughter, stop-
ping to look back. "I thought so, when I was here
before, to-day."
"Alice, my deary," cried the mother, pulling her
gently by the skirt. u Alice ! "
"What now, mother?"
" Don't give the money back, my darling ; please
don't We can't afford it We want supper, deary.
Money is money, whoever gives it Say what you will,
bat keep the money."
" See there ! " was all the daughter's answer. u That
is the house I mean. Is that it ? "
The old woman nodded in the affirmative ; and a few
more paces brought them to the threshold. There was
the light of fire and candle in the room where Alice had
sat to dry her clothes ; and on her knocking at the doot
John Carker appeared from that room.
DOMBEY AND SON. 9Tl
He was surprised to see such visitors at such an Lour,
and asked Alice what she wanted.
" I want your sister," she said. " The woman who
gave me money to-day."
At the sound of her raised voice Harriet came out
" Oh ! " said Alice. " You are here I Do you re-
member me ? "
" Yes ? " she answered, wondering.
The face that had humbled itself before her, looked on
her now with such invincible hatred and defiance ; and the
hand that had gently touched her arm, was clinched with
such a show of evil purpose, as if it would gladly strangle
her ; that she drew close to her brother for protection.
" That I could speak with you, and not know you !
That I could come near you, and not feel what blood
was running in your veins, by the tingling of my own I"
said Alice with a menacing gesture.
" What do you mean ? What have I done ? "
" Done ! " returned the other. " You have sat me by
your fire ; you have given me food and money ; you
have bestowed your compassion on me ! You ! whose
name I spit upon ! "
The old woman, with a malevolence that made her
ugliness quite awful, shook her withered hand at the
brother and sister in confirmation of her daughter, but
plucked her by the skirts again, nevertheless, imploring
her to keep the money.
" If I dropped a tear upon your hand, may it wither it
np ! If I spoke a gentle word in your hearing, may it
deafen you ! If I touched you with my lips, may the
touch be poison to you ! A curse upon this roof that
gave me shelter ! Sorrow and shame upon your head !
Ruin upon all belonging to you ! "
?2 LiOMBET AND SON.
As s-he said the words, she threw the money down
npon the ground, and spurned it with her foot.
- 1 tread it in the dust : I wouldn't take it if it paved
my way to Heaven! I would the bleeding foot that
brought me here to-day, had rotted off, before it led me
lo your house ! "
Harriet, pale and trembling, restrained her brother,
and suffered her to go on uninterrupted.
- It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by
yon, or any one of jour name, in the first hour of my
return ! It was well that you should act the kind good
lady to me ! Ill thank you when I die ; I'll pray for
yon, and all your race, yon may be sure!"
With a fierce action of her hand, as if she sprinkled
hatred on the ground, and with it devoted those who
were standing there to destruction, she looked up once
at the black sky, and strode out into the wild night
The mother, who had plucked at her skirts again and
again in vain, and had eyed the money lying on the
threshold with an absorbing greed that seemed to con-
centrate her faculties upon it, would have prowled about,
until the house was dark, and then groped in the mire
on the chance of repossessing herself of it. But the
daughter drew her away, and they set forth, straight, on
their return to their dwelling ; the old woman whimper-
ing and bemoaning their loss upon the road, and fret-
fully bewailing, as openly as she dared, the undutiful
conduct of her handsome girl in depriving her of a sup-
per, on the very first night of their reunion.
Supperless to bed she went, saving for a few coarse
fragments; and those she sat mumbling and munching
over a scrap of fire, long after her undutiful daughter
lay asleep.
DOMBET AND SON. 9d
Were this miserable mother, and this miserable
daughter, only the reduction to Iheir lowest grade, of
certain social vices sometimes prevailing higher up ? In
this round world of many circles within circles, do we
make a weary journey from the high grade to the low,
to find at last that they He close together, that the two
extremes touch, and that our journey's end is but our
starting-place ? Allowing for great difference of stuff
nd texture, was the pattern of this woof repeated
among gentle blood at all?
Say, Edith Dombey ! And Cleopatra, best of mothers,
let us have your testimony I
94 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE HAPPY PAIR.
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 cast 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 altai 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 cum-
brous 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 estab-
lishment, and priced the silks and damasks by the yard
jtnd exhausted every interjection in the dictionary an
out of it expressive of admiration and wonder. T!
yphoLiterer's foreman who has left his hat, with
DOMKEY AND SON. 95
pocket-handkerchief in it, both smelling strongly of var*
nish, under a chair in the hall, lurks about the house,
gazing upward at the cornices, and downward at the
carpets, and occasionally, in a silent transport of enjoy
ment, taking a rule out of his pocket, and skirmishingly
measuring expensive objects, with unutterable feeling
Cook is in high spirits, and says give her a place where
there's plenty of company (as she'll bet you sixpence
there will be now), for she is of a lively disposition, and
she always was from a child, and she don't mind who
knows it ; which sentiment elicits from the breast of Mrs*
Perch a responsive murmur of support and approbation.
All the house-maid 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
pays that's his opinion too, and give him war besides,
and down with the French for this young man has a
general impression that every foreigner is a Frenchman,
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 room?,
nndisturbed in his blissful revery !
Florence is ready to receive her father and her new
mama. Whether the emotions that are throbbing in her
breast originate in pleasure or in pain, she hardly know?.
But the fluttering heart sends added color to her cheeks.
and brightness to her eyes ; and they say down-stairs,
drawing their heads together for they always speak
96 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 house-
maid 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. Towlinson, who now descries an op-
portunity 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 persua-
sively, " but Miss Florence can't well be the worse for
any change, Tom." Mr. Towlinson's rejoinder, preg-
nant with frightful meaning, 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 fret-
ful, 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 sstate ;
considering her quarterly stipend much safer than here-
tofore, and foreseeing a great improvement in her board
and lodging.
Where are the happy pair, for whom this brave home
DOMBEY AND SON. 97
(a waiting ? Do steam, tide, wind, and horses, all abate
their speed, to linger on such happiness ? Does tho
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 brier?
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 an-
ticipates the rush of Mr. Towlinson and party to open
it ; and Mr. Dombey and his bride alight, 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, put-
ting out his hand.
A? Florence, trembling, raised it to her lips, she met
Ins glance. The look was cold and distant enough, but
ft stirred her heart to think that she observed in it
something more of interest than he had ever shown be-
fore. It even expressed a kind of faint surprise, and
not a disagreeable surprise, at sight cf her. She dared
dot raise her eyes to his any more; but she felt that
VOL. in. 7
98 DOMBEY AND SOK.
he looked at her once again, and not less favorably
Oil ! 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 him, through her new
and beautiful mama !
" You will not be long dressing, Mrs. Dombey, I pre-
sume ? " said Mr. Dombey.
" I shall be ready immediately."
" Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour."
With that Mr. Dombey stalked away to his own dress-
ing-room, and Mrs. Dombey went up-stairs to hers.
Mrs. Skewton and Florence repaired to the drawing-
room, where that excellent mother considered it incum-
bent 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.
u Gay as ever," said Mrs. Skewton, "of course."
" Not particularly. I thought it dull," said Mr. Dom-
bey.
" Fie, my dearest Dombey !" archly ; " dull! "
u It made that impression upon me, madam," said Mr.
Dombey, with grave politeness. " I believe Mrs. Dom-
bey found it dull too. She mentioned once or twice that
the thought it so."
" Why, you naughty girl ! " cried Mrs. Skewton, rally
ing her dear child, who now entered, " what dreadfullj
heretical things have you been saying about Paris ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. 99
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 hand-
gome garniture, and barely glancing at them as she
passed, sat down by Florence.
" My dear Dombey," said Mrs. Skewton, " how charm
ingly these people have carried out every idea that wt
hinted. They have made a perfect palace of the house,
positively."
" It is handsome," said Mr. Dombey, looking round.
u 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 his wife, but
not a word said she.
" I hope, Mrs. Dombey," addressing her after a mo-
ment'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 new and different ex-
pression, 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 already for his com-
olete enlightenment ; and at that moment it might have
100 DOMBEY AND SON.
been effected by the one glance of the dark eye that
lighted on him, after it had rapidly and scornfully sur-
veyed 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 own sake, one look of softened recog-
nition 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 hia
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. Sweep-
ing past the gold and silver demonstration on the side-
board 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 him-
self, was well enough pleased to see his handsome wife
immovable and proud and cold. Her deportment being
always elegant and graceful, this as a general behavior
was agreeable and congenial to him. Presiding, there-
fore, with his accustomed dignity, and not at all reflect-
ing on his wife by any warmth or hilarity of his own,
\je performed his shar of the honors of the table witb
DOMUET AND SON. 101
& cool satisfaction ; and the installation dinner, though
aot 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 continually behind her fan, retired
to bc-d. 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 drawing-room with her little work-bas-
ket, found no one there but hex 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, leoking round over hia
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 little table
with her work : finding herself for the first time in her
life for the very first time within her memory from
her infancy to that hour alone with her father, as his
companion. She, his natural companion, his only child,
who in her lonely life and grief had known the 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
fldnes. and dislike, with patient unexacting lov*
102 DOMBEY AND SON.
excusing him, and pleading for him, like his better
nngel !
She trembled, and her eyes were dim. His figure
seemed to grow in height and bulk before her as he
paced the room : now it was all blurred and indistinct ;
now clear 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, inno-
cent 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 shad-
owy corner at some distance, where there was an easy-
chair, covered his head wi'ih a handkerchief, and com-
posed himself to sleep.
It was enough for Florence to sit there, watching
him ; turning her eyes towards his cliair 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 tliaf
his sight was free, and that it never wandered from her
face an instant. That when she looked towards him, iu
the obscure dark corner, her speaking eyes, more earnest
and pathetic in their voiceless speech than all the orators
DOMBEY AND SON. 103
cf all the world, and impeaching him more nearly iu
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 turn his eyes away !
And what were his thoughts meanwhile ? With what
emotions did he prolong the attentive gaze covertly di-
rected 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 stern-
est 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 engendered them. Some simple eloquence dis-
tinctly heard, though only uttered in her eyes, uncon-
sciou^hat 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 rny heart, oh, father, turn to me
uud seek a refuge in my love before it is too late I " may
have arrested them. Mearer and lower thoughts, as that
his dead boy was now superseded by new ties, and he
?( uld forgive (he having been supplanted in his affection,
1 04 DOMBEY AND SON-
may have occasioned them. The mere association 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 ac-
tion 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
> him. The words " Florence, come here ! " were rising
to his lips but slowly and with difficulty, they were so
very strange when they were checked and stifled by
a footstep on the stair.
It was his wife's. She had exchanged her dinner-
dress for a loose 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
nnd kissed her hand. He hardly knew his wife. She
was 30 changed. It was not merely that her smile was
new to him though that he had never seen ; fttt hei
manner, the tone of her voice, the light of her eyes,
the interest, and confidence, 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 corner
where he was, and he knew that face and manner very
veil.
DOMBEY AND SON. 103
" 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 sil
up-stairs and talk with you. But, going to your room,
I found ray 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
ghe did Florence.
" Come, dear ! "
" Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he
wakes," hesitated Florence.
" Do you think he will, Florence ? " said Edith, look-
ing 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 thai
night. All 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 rS-
more room where little Paul had died, talked together
tor 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 little and
little from the ante-room, whither he had retired in
i06 DOMBEY AND SON
dudgeon, he soon appeared to comprehend, that with the
most amiable intentions he had made one of those mis-
takes 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, lis-
tening to the conversation.
It turned, at first, on Florence's books and favorite
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."
a You a great sorrow, Florence ! "
" Yes. 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 brother, mama. After dear Paul died,
we said we would be brother and sister. I had known
him a long time from a little child. He knew Paul,
\Mio 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 107
drowned in shipwreck 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, clinging 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 earnestly, that Florence did not need her re-
straining hand upon her lips. " Tell me all about Wal-
ter 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 bad
concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith,
holding her hand, listened with close attention, and when
a silence haff 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 aa
before, " that I am not a favorite 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
composure until its proud beauty was as fixed as death,
Edith looked down upon the weeping girl, and ono?
108 DOMBEY AND SON.
kissed her. Then gradually disengaging herself, and
putting Florence away, she said, stately and quiet, as a
marble image, and in ft 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 Isarn from you ? " repeated Florence, in sor*
prise.
" That I should teach you how 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 ^nd 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 all 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 lasl
time."
DOMBET AND SON. 109
Florence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to
hear her proceed, but kept her eyes riveted on the beau-
tiful 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 off from me because it is not
here. Little by little you will know me better, and the
time will come when you will know me, as I know my-
self. 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; but she preserved it, and
continued :
" I have seen what you say, and know how true it is.
But believe me you will 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 ven-
turing to breath^ meanwhile, as dim and imperfect shad-
ows of the truth, and all its daily consequences, chased
each other through her terrified, yet incredulous imagi-
nation. Almost as soon as she had ceased to speak,
Edith's face began to subside from its set composure to
lhat quieter and more relenting aspect, which it usually
wore when she and Florence were alone together. She
shaded it, after this change, with her hands ; and when
she arose, and with an affectionate embrace bade Flor-
ence good-night, W2nt quickly, and without looking
110 DOMBEY AND SON.
But when Florence was in bed, and the room was
dark except for the glow of the fire, Edith returned, and
eaying 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
Doble figure before them, crowned with its flowing hair,
and in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back their light, be-
came confused and indistinct, and finally were lost in
slumber.
In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an un-
defined 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 wildernesses, 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 plain-
live 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, awfully serene and still. In every vision,
Edith came and went, sometimes 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
law what 1 another Edith lying at the bottom.
DOMBFT ANT> SON. 1 1 I
In the terror of this dream, she cried out, and awoke
Fhe thought. A soft- voice seemed to whisper io her ear
" Florence, dear Florence, it is nothing but a dream !
and stretching out her arms, she returned the caress ol
her new mama, who then went out at the door in the
light of the gray morning. In a moment, Florence sat
up wondering whether this had really taken place or
not ; but she was only certain that it was gray morning
indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire were oo
the hearth, and that she was alone.
So passed the night on which the happy pair came
home.
DOMBBY AND SUN.
CHAPTER XXXVL
HOUSE-WARMING.
MANT succeeding days passed in like manner ; ex-
cept 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, witli her new
mama, who was imperious and proud to all the house but
her Florence could not but observe that and who,
although she always sent' for her or went to her when
she came home from visiting, and would always go into
her room at night, before retiring to rest, however 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 mar-
riage, could not help sometimes comparing the bright
house with the faded dreary place out of which it had
arisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin
to be a home ; for that it was no home then, for any
me, though everything went on luxuriously and regu-
larly, 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 as-
DOMBET AND SON. 113
surance her new mama had given her so strongly, that
there was no one on the earth more powerless than her
gelf 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, hew
hopeless of being subdued or changed her father's cold
ness 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 en-
courage any faint foreshadowings of the truth as it con-
cerned her father ; tender of him, even in her wander-
ing 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 Mrs. 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 '9
being at home upon a certain evening, and by Mr. and
Mrs. Dombey's requesting the honor of the company of
a great many incongruous people to dinner on the same
day.
Accordingly Mr. Dombey produced a list of sundry
oastern magnates who were, to be bidden to this feast
oil his behalf; to which Mr?. Skewton, acting for her
dearest child, who was haughtily careless on the sub-
ject, subjoined a western list, comprising Cousin Feenix,
aot yet returned to Baden Baden, greatly to the "letri-
114 DOMBEY 1ND SON.
ment 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 her-
self, without any lasting injury to their wings. Florence
was enrolled as a member of ihe dinner-party, by Edith's
command elicited by a moment's doubt and hesitation
on the part of Mrs. Skewton ; and Florence, with a
wondering heart, and with a quick instinctive sense of
everything that grated on her father in the least, toot
her silent share in the proceedings of the day.
The proceedings commenced by Mr. Dombey, in a
cravat of extraordinary height and stiffness, walking rest-
lessly about the drawing-room until the hour appointed
for dinner ; punctual to which, an East India Director,
of immense wealth, in a waistcoat apparently constructed
in serviceable deal by some plain carpenter, but really
engendered in the tailor's art, and composed of the ma-
terial called nankeen, arrived, and was received by Mr.
Dombey alone. The next stage of the proceedings was
Mr. Dombey sending his compliments to Mrs. Dombey,
with a correct statement of the time ; and the next, the
East India Director's falling prostrate, in a conversa-
tional point of view, and as Mr. Dombey was not the
man to pick him up, staring at the fire until rescue
appeared in the person of Mrs. Skewton ; whom the
Director, as a pleasant start in life for the evening,
mistook for Mrs. Dombey, and greeted with enthu-
siasm.
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
DOMBEY AND SON. 115
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 themselves ir
that direction, and would do him the honor 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 with-
out 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 neck-
cloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for him, and a
pair of trousers that were too spare ; and mention being
made of the Opera by Mrs. Skewton, he said he very
seldom went there, for he couldn't afford it. It seemed
greatly to delight and exhilarate him to say so ; and he
beamed on his audience afterwards, with hia hands in hia
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 unob-
served : 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 direc-
tors, chairmen of public companies, elderly ladies carry-
ing burdens on their heads for full dress, Cousin Feenix,
116 DOMBEY AND SOW.
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, remarkably coolly dressed as to
her back and shoulders, who spoke with an engaging
lisp, and whose eyelids 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 sympathy between them,
Mrs. Dombey's list, 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 scfas,
and had doors opened smartly from without against their
heads, and underwent every sort of discomfiture.
When dinner was announced, Mr. Dombey took down
an old lady like a crimson velvet pincushion stuffed with
bank-notes, who might have been the identical old lady
of Threadneedle-street, she was so rich, s.nd looked so
unaccommodating ; Cousin Feenix took down Mrs. Dom-
bey ; Major Bagstock took down Mrs. Skewton ; th
young thing with the shoulders was bestowed, as an ex-
tinguisher, upon the East India Director ; and the re
maining ladies were left on view in the drawing-room
by the remaining gentlemen, until a forlorn hope volun-
teered 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
aall. When all the rest were got in and were seated,
DOMBEY AND SON. 117
one of these mild men still appeared, b smiling con-
fusion, 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 ; 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 glitter
ing 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. Mr.
Dombey, as Tiddler, looked his character to admiration ;
and the long plateau of precious metal frosted, separat-
ing him from Mrs. Dombey, whereon frosted Cupids
offered scentless flowers to each of them, was allegorical
to see.
Cousin Feenix was in great force, and looked aston-
ishingly young. But he was sometimes thoughtless in
his good humor his memory occasionally wandering
like his legs and on this occasion caused the company
to shudder. It happened thus. The young lady with
the back, who regarded Cousin Feenix with sentiments
of 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 Di-
rector 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 Feenix and the young
lady were very lively and humorous, and the young lady
laughed so much at something Cousin Feenix related to
her, that Major Bagstock begged leave to inquire on
behalf of Mrs. Skewton (they were sitting opposite, a
118 DOMBET AND SOW.
little lower down), whether that might not be considered
public property.
"Why, upon my life," said Cousin Feenix, "there's
nothing in it ; it really is not worth repeating ; in point
of fact, it's merely an anecdote of Jack Adams. I dart
say my friend Dombey ; " for the general attentioc was
concentrated on Cousin Feenix ; " may remember Jack
Adams, Jack Adams, not Joer 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 some-
body's borough. We used to call him in my parliamen-
tary time W. P. Adams, in consequence of his being
Warming Pan for a young fellow who was in his minor-
ity. Perhaps my friend Dombey may have known the
man?"
Mr. Dombey, who was as likely to have known Guy
Fawkes, replied in the negative. But one of the seven
mild men unexpectedly leaped into distinction, by saying
he had known Urn, and adding, " always wore Hessian
boots ! "
" Exactly," said Cousin Feenix, bending forward to
gee the mild man, and smile encouragement at him down
the table. " That was Jack-. Joe wore "
" Tops ! " cried the mild man, rising in public ettima*
tion 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
MI his success. " One of the best fellows I ever knew."
DOMBEY AND SON. Ifr
" No doubt you have heard the story ? " said Cousir
Feenix.
" I shall know," replied the bold mild raan, " when I
have heard your Ludship tell it." With that, he leaned
hack 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 humor.
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 marriage in Anyshire," with a
pleasant sense of the readiness of this joke, " goes. Just
as some of us having had the honor 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
6ne 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 tho
nuptial?, a man he knew, meeting him in the lobby of
the House of Commons, says, ' Well, Jack, how are tne
ill-matched couple ? ' l Ill-matched,' says Jack. ' Not
%t all. It's a perfectly fair and equal transaction. Sh
& regularly bought, and you may take your oatb he \t
<*a regularly sold ! ' "
120 DOMBEY AHTD SOBT.
In his full enjoyment of this culminating point of his
story the shudder, which had gone all round the table
like 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 fore-
knowledge of the fctory as the child unborn, had the ex-
quisite misery of reading in every eye that he was re-
garded 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 li Very good." There was a rapid glance
from Edith towards Florence, but otherwise she re-
mained, 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 sono-
rous music of incessant double knocks, announcing the
arrival of visitors, whose portion of the feast was limited
to the smell thereof. When Mrs. Dombey rose, it was
a sight to see her lord, with stiff throat, and erect head,
hold the door open for the withdrawal of the ladies
find 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 unoccupied rnd of the table, in
* state of solitude ; and the major was a military sight.
DOMBEY AND SON. 121
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 thought-
ful sight, as he smoothed his long wristbands and stealth-
ily adjusted his wig. But all these sights were of short
duration, being speedily broken up by coffee, and the
desertion of the room.
There was a throng in the state-rooms up-stairs, in
creasing every minute ; but still 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 everything around appeared at ease with both
divisions of guests, and not marked as exclusively be-
longing 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
uim every now and then, by an attraction of dislike and
distrust that she could not resist. Yetiier thoughts were
busy with other things ; for as she sat apart not unad-
mired 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
122 DOMBET AJfD SON.
ap 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 con.
Bultation of his wishes, or in welcome of his friends,
opened her lips. It was not the less perplexing or pain*
ful 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 be-
tween 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 feel
had never come there, if the old dulness and decay
had never been replaced by novelty and splendor, 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
uot so quietly developed in her mind. This good matron
had been outraged m the first instance by not receiv-
ing an invitation to dinner. That blow partially recov-
ered, she had gone to a vast expense to make such a
figure before Mrs. Dombey at home, as should dazzle
the senses of that lady, and heap mortification, moun-
tains high, on the head of Mrs. Skewton.
"But I am made," said Mrs. Chick to Mr Chick,
DOMBEY USD SON. 125
* of no more account than Florence ! Who takes the
imallest notice of me ? No one ! "
" No one, my dear," assented Mr. Chick, who waa
seated by the side of Mrs. Chick against the wall, and
could console himself, even there, by soray 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 candor, " don't sit there
humming tunes. How any one with the most distant
feelings of a man, can see that mother-in-law of Paul's,
dressed as she is, going on like that, with Major Bag-
stock, 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 Mrs. Chink 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 irreconciU
able with humming or whistling, and looked very con-
templative.
" But I hope I know what is due to myself," said MM.
Chick, swelling with indignation, " though Paul has for-
gotten what is due to me. -I am not going to sit here,
124 DOMBEY AND SOTS.
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
BO, about the day after to-morrow. " And I shall go. 1
will not say ^vhatever 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
Feenix (who went away from the dinner-table), con-
fidentially 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 married somebody nearer his own age,
not quite so handsome, and a little better off. The gen-
eral 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-
oey ; and the speechless female in the black velvet hat
DOMBEY AND SON. 125
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 whispered disparage-
ment on stairs and in by-places. The general dissatis-
faction and discomfort so diffused itself, that the assem-
bled footmen 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 to-
gether apart, and Mrs. 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 Carkor,
the latter advanced obsequiously to take leave.
" I trust," he said, " that the fatigues of this delight-
ful evening will not inconvenience Mrs. Dombey to-
morrow."
" Mrs. Dombey," said Mr. Dombey, advancing, u has
sufficiently spared herself fatigue, to relieve you from
any anxiety of that kind. I regret to say, Mrs. Dom-
bey, that I could have wished you had fatigued your-
self 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 awai
hei eyes without speaking.
126 DOMBEY AND SON.
" 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 dis-
tinction 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 ac-
quainted 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 con-
fer a distinction upon me : " and Mr. Dombey drew him-
self 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 must demand, to be released. Slight and
unimportant as this difference is "
Mrs. Skewton, who had been intent upon her daugh-
ter's face, took him up here.
" My sweetest Edith," she said, " and my deare?'
Dombey ; our excellent friend Mr. Carker, for so I a-
Bure I ought to mention him "
Mr. Carker murmured, " Too much honor."
UOMBEY AND SON. 127
" has used the very words that were in my mind,
and that T have been dying, these ages, for an oppor
tunity of introducing. Slight and unimportant ! Mj
sweetest Edith, and my dearest Dombey, do we not
know that any difference between you two No, Flow-
ers ; 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 unimportant ? What
words could better define the fact ? None. Therefore
I am glad to take this slight occasion this trifling
occasion, that is so replete with Nature, and your indi-
vidual 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, un-
like most mamas-in-law (that odious phrase, dear Dom-
bey ! ) 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 hid-
den between these rambling words. That purpose, prov-
idently to detach herself in the beginning from all tin 1
ciankings of their chain that were to come, and to
shelter herself with the fiction of her innocent belief
128 DOMBET AND SON.
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 con-
duct thus early in our married life, to which I object,
and which, I request, may be corrected. Carker," with
nod of dismissal, " good-night to you ! "
Mr. 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 off 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 dis-
dain and haughtiness in which she sat before him the
cold inflexible resolve with which her every feature
seemed to bear him down, and put him by he had
no resource against ; and he left her, with her whole
overbearing beauty concentrated on despising him.
Was he coward enough to watch her, an hour after-
wards, on the old well staircase, where he had once seen
Florence in the moonlight, toiling up with Paul ? Or
was he in the dark by accident, when, 'looking up, he
saw her coming, with a light, from the room where Flor-
ence lay, and marked again the face so changed, which
t could not subdue.
DOMBET AND SON. 121)
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 the re-
turn ; and often since ; and which deepened on it now
as he looked up.
130 DOMBEY AND BOH.
CHAPTER XXXVIL
MORE WARNINGS THAN
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 trousers, 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 Ser-
pent 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 youthful cuffs and frills, and performing
a kind of private coronation ceremony on her, with a
peach-colored 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,"
Baid 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 131
was looking out, with her back turned on the toilet of
her esteemed mother, suddenly withdrew from it, as if it
had lightened.
" My darling child," cried Cleopatra, languidly, " you
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.
u My dear love," drawled Mrs. 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 in-
formed the servant who was waiting, " Mrs. Dombey
is going out. Get along with you," and shut it on
him.
But the servant came back after a short absence,
and whispered to Withers again, who once more, and
not very willingly, presented himself before Mrs. Dom-
bey.
" If you please, ma'am, Mr. Carker sends his re-
spectful compliments, and begs you would spare him
one minute, if you could for business, ma'am, if you
please."
" Really, my love," said Mrs. Skewton in her raildesi
manner; for her daughter's face was threatening; "if
you would allow me to offer a word, I should recom-
mend "
" Show him this way," said Edith. As Withers dis-
132 DOMBEY AND SON.
appeared 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, hur*
riedly.
Edith nodded yes, but on her way to the door Flor-
ence met the visitor coming in. With the same disar
greeable mixture of familiarity and forbearance with
whicli 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 an-
swer had scarcely had the honor 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 condescending hand, and lastly bowed to
Edith. Coldly returning his 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, still her
old conviction that she and her mother had been known
by this man in their worst colors, from their first ac-
quaintance ; 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 under-
mined 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 iti-
DOMBEY AND SON. 133
trusioi., and the dark lashes of her eye sullenly veiling
their light, that no ray of it might shine upon him
and submissively as he stood before her, with an en
treating injured manner, but with complete submission
lo her will she knew, in her own soul, that the case*
were reversed, and that the triumph and superiority were
his, and that he knew it full well.
u 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," 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, " really very charming
of Mr. What's-his-name. And full of heart ! "
" For I do," said Mr. Carker, appealing to Mr?. Skew-
toil with a look of grateful deference, "! do venture
to call it a painful occasion, though merely because if
was so to me, who had the misfortune to be present
80 slight a difference, as between the principals be-
tween those who love each other with disinterested de-
votion, and would make any sacrifice of eelf, ic such
134 DOMBEY AND SOX.
R cause is nothing. As Mrs. Skewton herself ex
pressed, with so much truth and feeling last night, it ia
nothing."
Edith could not look at him, but she said after a few
moments,
"And your business, sir"
'* Fdith, my pet," said Mrs. Skewton, "all this time
Mr. Carker is standing 1 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 bid-
den by her, and was resolved to be bidden by her.
Edith, in spite of herself, sat down, and slightly mo-
tioned with her hand to him to be sealed too. No ac-
tion 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 sal
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 im-
part it to you who are her best and dearest friend
next to Mr. Dombey ? "
Mrs. Skewton would have retired, but Edith stopped
her. Edith would have stopped him too, and indignantly
ordered him to speak openly or not at all, 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
DOW. As he bent forward, to be nearer, with the utmost
DOMBEY AND SON. 135
show of delicacy and respect, and with his teeth persua-
Bively arrayed, in a self-depreciating smile, she felt as if
she could have struck him dead.
" Miss Florence's position," he began, " has been on
unfortunate one. I have a difficulty in alluding to it tc
you, whose attachment to her father is naturally watch-
ful 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
be 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 admira-
tion of Mr. Dombey's character, may I say, without
offence 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."
" You know it ! " said Mr. Carker, with a great ap-
pearance of relief. " It removes a mountain from my
breast. May I hope you know how the neglect origi-
nated ; in what an amiable phase of Mr. Dombey's pride
character I mean ? "
" You may pass that by, sir," she returned, " 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 forgive
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
the altar again and again for her acceptance, and
136 DOMBEY AND SON.
pressing it upon her like the dregs of a sickening cop
phe 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, nat-
urally, 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 fortu-
nately dead now : and some very undesirable associa-
tion, I regret to say, with certain coasting sailors, of
anything but good repute, and a runaway old bank-
rupt."
" I have heard the circumstances, sir," said Edith,
flashing her disdainful glance upon him, " and I know
that you pervert them. You may not know it, I hope
so."
" Pardon me," said Mr. Carker, " I believe that no-
body 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
honored husband, and which has blessed him as even
his merits deserve I must respect, defer to, bow be-
fore. 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 fully ascertained them. In my execution
of that trust ; in my deep concern, which you can so
Weil understand, for everything relating to him, inten-
DOMBEY AND SON. 137
gified, if you will, (for I fear I labor under your dis-
pleasure), by the lower motive of desire to prove my
diligence, and make myself the more acceptable ; I have
'ong pursued these circumstances by myself and trust-
worthy instruments, and have innumerable 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 per-
plexity, I presume to take counsel with you, and to con-
sult your pleasure. I think I have observed that you
are greatly interested in Miss Florence ? "
What was there in her he had not observed, and did
aot 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 com-
posure on it, and distantly inclined her head in reply.
" This interest, madam so touching an evidence of
everything associated with Mr. Dombey being dear to
you induces me to pause before I make him acquainted
with these circumstances, which, as yet, he does not
know. It so far shakes me, if I may make the confes-
sion, 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 smile, 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 some time felt on the subject,
irises in this : that the mere circumstance of such asso-
ciation often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence,
138 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 occa-
sionally contemplated it) of separation and alienation of
her from his home. Madam, bear with me, and remem-
ber my intercourse with Mr. Dombey, and my knowledge
of him, and my reverence for him, almost from child-
hood, when I say that if he has a fault, it is a lofty stub-
bornness, rooted in that noble pride and sense of power
which belong to him, and which we must all defer to ;
which is not assailable like the obstinacy of other char-
acters ; and which grows upon itself from day to day,
and year to year."
She bent her glance upon him still ; but, look as stead-
fast as she would, her haughty nostrils dilated, and her
breath came somewhat deeper, and her lip-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 illus-
trate 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. Dora-
bey 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 Learning-
,on. There I saw you. There I could not help know-
ing what relation you would shortly occupy towards him
to his enduring happiness and yours. There I re-
solved to await the time of your establishment a' home
DOMBET AND SON. 139
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. Dora-
bey, 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
confidence, on such a theme, in you or him. For the
reasons I have mentioned, I would select you. May I
aspire to the distinction of believing that my confidence
is accepted, and that I am relieved from my responsibil-
ity ? "
He long remembered the look she gave him who
could see it, and forget it ? and the struggle that en-
sued 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."
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
white-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 presently, 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 diver"
140 DOMBEY AND SON.
milliners and others in consequence. Therefore, Mrs,
Skewton asked no questions, and showed no curiosity.
Indeed, the peach-velvet bonnet gave her sufficient occu-
pation 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. Skewton's company, and would 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 super-
annuated 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. Cleo-
patra was arrayed in full dress, with the diamonds, short-
sleeves, rouge, curls, teeth, and other juvenility all com-
plete ; 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 remedies were resorted
DOMBEY AND SON. . 141
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 : some-
tiraos making inarticulate sounds in answer to such
questions as did she know who were present, and the
like: sometimes giving no reply either by sign or gcs-
p ture, or in her unwinking eyes.
Ai length she began to recover consciousness, and in
ome 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 im-
mediately provided, thinking she was going to make a
will, or write some last request ; and Mrs. Dombcy
being from home, the maid awaited the result with
solemn feelings.
After much painful scrawling and erasing, and putting
in of wrong characters, which seemed to tumble out of
I he pencil of their own accord, the old woman produced
(hi* document :
" Rose-colored curtains."
The maid being perfectly transfixed, and with tolera-
ble reason, Cleopatra amended the manuscript by adding
two words more, when it stood thus :
" Rose-colored 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 correct-
ness of this opinion, which she was soon able to estab-
lish for herself, the rose-colored curtains were added to
her bed, and she mended with increased rapidity frorc
142 DOMBEY AND SON.
that hour. She was soon able to sit up, in curls 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 off
her youthful tricks upon him as if he had been the
major ; but an alteration in her mind that ensued on the
paralytic stroke was fraught with as much matter for
reflection, and was quite as ghastly.
Whether the weakening of her intellect made her
more cunning and false than before, or whether it con-
fused her between what she had assumed to be and what
she really had been, or whether it had awakened any
glimmering of remorse, which could neither struggle into
light nor get back into total darkness, or whether, in the
jumble of her faculties, a combination of these effects
had been shaken up, which is perhaps the more likely
supposition, the result was this : That she became
hugely exact 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. Further, in place of remem-
bering that compact made between them for an avoid-
ance of the subject, she constantly alluded to her daugh-
ter'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 commen-
tary on her levity and youthfulness.
" Where is Mrs. Dombey ? " she would say to her
maid.
" Gone out, ma'am."
" Gone out ! Does she go out to shun her mama
V lowers ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. 143
"La bless you, no ma'am. Mrs. Doinbey lias 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 opposite display of the diamonds, or the i.eacli-
velvet bonnet (she sat in the bonnet to receive visitors,
weeks before she could stir out of doors), or the dressing
of her up in some gaud or other, usually stopped the
tears that began to flow .hereabouts ; and she would re-
main in a complacent state until Edith came to see her $
when, at a glance of the proud face, 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 coining to such an artificial and ungrateful
state, that I begin to think there's no Heart or any-
thing 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? Jl
i your own fault if there be."
4i My own fault ! " beginning to whimper. " The par-
ent I have been to you, Edhh : making you a companion
from your cradle ! And when you neglect me, and have
10 more natural affection for me than if I was a stran-
Sjor not a twentieth part of the affection that jou
144 DOMBEY AND SON.
have for Florence but I am only your mother and
should corrupt her in a day! you reproach me with
its being my own fault."
" Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Why
w ill yo\i always dwell on this ? "
" Isn't it natural that I should dwell on this, when 1
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
tht Past rest."
" Yes, rest ! And let gratitude to me, rest ; and let
affection for me, rest ; and let tM 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 married 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
soul what did they call him ? Granger if he
hadn't died. And who have you to thank for all "his,
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
bettor mama than I have been to you. And don't let
<nc become a perfect fright with teasing and wearing
myself at your ingratitude, or when I'm out again in
DOMBEF AND SON. 145
Bociety, no soul will know me, not even that hateful ani-
mal, 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 some-
times 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-
wlored curtains could not make otherwise than seared
and wild.
The rose-colored 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 the doll that had tumbled down be-
fore the mirror. They blushed too, now and then, upon
an indistinctness in her speech, which she turned off with
a girlish giggle, and, on an occasional failing in her
memory, that had no rule in it, but came and went fan-
tastically ; 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 in-
fluence, they never blusbed upon her loveliness irradi-
ated by a smile, or softened by the light of filial love, in
.tti stern beauty.
VOL. III. 10
30MBKT AJTO MB.
MISS rox IJCFBOVES AS ou> ACQUAIXTAXC*.
THE forlorn Miss Tox, abandoned by hei friend Loo-
isa Qiick, 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 displaj
which Locretia reserved for holiday occupation be-
came depressed in her spirits, and suffered much from
melancholy. For a time the Bird Waltz was unheard
in Princess's-place, the plants were neglected, and dust
collected on the miniature of Miss Tor's ancestor with
the powdered head and pigtafl.
Miss Tox, however, was not of an age or of a dis-
position long to abandon herself to unavailing regrets.
Only two notes of the harpsichord were dumb from dis-
use when die Bird Waltz again warbled and billed in
the crooked drawing-room; only one slip of geranium
fell a Tictim to imperfect nursing, before she was gar-
dening at her green baskets again, regularly every morn-
jig ; die powdered-beaded ancestor had not been under
a cloud for more than six. weeks, when Miss Toi
breathed on his benignant visage, and polished him ap
with a piece of wash-leather.
SOL, Miss Tox was lonely, and at a loss. Her attach-
eats, however ludicrously shown, were real and strong;
DOMBET AXD SOS. 147
nod she was, as be expressed it, "deeply hurt by die
unmerited contumely die had met with from Louisa.**
But there was no such thing as anger in Miss Tax**
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 Chide in the street one day, at a considerable
distance, so overpowered her milky nature, that she wa*
fain to seek immediate refuge in a pastry-cook's, "d
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 plenti-
fully.
Against Mr. Dombey Miss Tox hardly felt that she
had any reason of complaint. Her sense of that gen-
tleman's magnificence was such, that once removed from
him, she felt as if her distance always had been im-
measurable, 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
proposition, and fully admitted it twenty times a day.
She never recalled the lofty manner in which Mr. Dom-
bey had made her subservient to his convenience and
caprices, and had graciously permitted her to be one of
Vie nurses of his little son. She only thought, in her
OTn words, u that she had passed a great many happy
uours in that house, which she must ever remember with
(ratification,, and that she could never cease to regard
Mr. Dombey as one of the most impressive and dig-
nified of men."
Cut off, however, from the implacable Louisa, and
H8 DOMBET AND SON.
being shy of the major (whom she viewed with son*
distrust now), Miss Tox found it very irksome to know
nothing of what was going on in Mr. Dombey's establish-
ment. And as she really had got into the habit of con-
sidering Dombey and Son as the pivot on which tho
world in general turned, she resolved, rather than be
ignorant of intelligence which so strongly interested 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 commu-
nication with his servants. Perhaps Miss Tox in seek-
ing out the Toodle family, had the tender motive hid-
den in her breast of having somebody to whcm 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 three
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 young Toodle
on each knee, and two more making tea for him, and
plenty more scattered about Mr. Toodle was never
DOMBEY AND SON. 149
wit of children, but always kept a good supply on hand
" You a'n'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 in-
finitely, " 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 a'n't got to be at all secret-like has he, Pol-
ly ? " inquired Mr. Toodle.
" No ! " said Mrs. Toodle, plumply.
" I'm glad he a'n'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, look-
ing round upon his family, "wotever you're up to in a
honest wayj it's my opinion as you can't do better than
k>e open. If you find yourselves in cuttings or in tun-
nels, don't you play no secret games. Keep your whia-
ties 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' Rob, I'm sure. I starts
light with Rob only ; I comes to a branch ; I takes on
what I finds there; and a whole train of ideas gets
150 DOMBEY AND SON.
coupled on to him, afore I knows where I am, or \vherc
they comes from What a Junction a man's thoughts
is," said Mr. Toodle, "to-be-sure!"
This profound reflection Mr. Toodle washed down
with a pint mug of 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, al-
though 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 ex-
pectant circle, by holding out great wedges of bread and
butter, to be bitten at by the family in lawful succession,
and by serving out small doses of tea in like manner
with a spoon ; which snacks had such a relish in the
mouths of these young Toodles, that, after partaking of
the same, they performed private dances of ecstasy
among themselves, and stood on one leg .apiece, and
hopped, and indulged in other saltatory tokens of glad-
ness. These vents for their excitement found, they grad-
ually closed about Mr. Toodle again, and eyed him hard
ds he got through more bread and butter and tea : affect-
ing, 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
letting an awful 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 con-
UOMBEY AND SOy. 15\
templating the rest over a barrier of bread and butter
when Rob the Grinder, in his sou'wester hat and mourn-
ing slops, presented himself, and was received with a
general rush of brothers and sisters.
"Well, mother!" said Rob, 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 Rob the Grinder, whose withers were not unwrung.
caught the words as they were spoken.
" What ! father's been a-saying something more again
me, has lie ? " 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 should be always a-
throwing it in his face behind his back ! It's enough,"
cried Rob, resorting to his coat-cuff in anguish of spirit,
" to make a cove go and do something out of spite ! "
" My pqor boy ! " cried Polly, " father didn't mean
anything."
" If father didn't mean anything," blubbered the in-
jured Grinder, " why did he go and say anything,
mother? Nobody thinks half so bad of me as my own
father does. What a unnatural thing ! I wish some-
body'd take and chop my head off. Father wouldn't
inind doing it, I believe, and I'd much rather he did
that than t'other."
At these desperate words all the young Toodlea
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 girls ; and this so touched the youngest Toodle buf
152 DOMBEY AND SON.
one, who was easily moved, that it touched him not only
in his spirit but in his wind too ; making him so purple
that Mr. Toodle in consternation carried him out to the
water-butt, and would have put him under the tap, but
for his being recovered by the sight of that instru-
ment.
Matters having reached this point, Mr. Toodle ex-
plained, and the virtuous feelings of his son being there-
by 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 to-
gether."
" And how is master, Rob ? " said Polly.
" Well, I don't know, mother ; not much to boast on.
There a'n'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
gee 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 a'n't the way to make money, though, is it ? "
said Polly.
" Money, mother ! He'll never make money. He has
such ways as I never see. He a'n't a bad master though
DOMBEY AND SON 15?k
HI say that for him. But that a'n't much to me, for 1
don't think I stall stop with him long."
" Not stop in your place, Rob ! " 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
pou know but never you mind, mother, just now ;
I'm all right, that's all."
The indisputable proof afforded in these hints, and in
(he Grinder's mysterious manner, of his not being sub-
ject 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
opportune 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 Mrs. Richards shone with a hos-
pitable reply, and Miss Tox, accepting the proffered
chair, and gracefully recognizing Mr. 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 ill-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
154 DOMBEY AND SON.
hopeless seclusion from his friends and family, caused
him to struggle with great violence, and to utter suffo-
cating cries. Being released, his face was discovered
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 how do you find yourself, sir ? " inquired Miss
Tox, blandly.
" Hearty, ma'am, thank'ee," replied Toodle. " How
do you find yourself, ma'am. Do the rheumaticks keep
off pretty well, ma'am ? We must all 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," returned Mr. Too-
dle. " Many people at your time of life, ma'am, is
martyrs to it. There was my mother " But catch-
ing his wife's eye here, Mr. Toodle judiciously buried
the rest in another mug of tea.
" You never mean to say, Mrs. Richards," cried Miss
Tox, looking at Rob, " 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 leath-
ers as Mr. Dombey made a Grinder on."
The recollection almost overpowered Miss Tox. The
subject of it had a peculiar interest for her directly
DOMBEY AND SON. 15a
She asked him to shake hands, and congratulated hia
mother on his frank, ingenuous face. Rob, overhearing
her, called up a look, to justify the eulogium, but it was
hardly the right look.
" And now, Mrs. Richards," said Miss Tox, " and
you too, sir," addressing Toodle " I'll tell you, plainly
and truly, what I have come here for. You may be
aware, Mrs. Richards and, possibly you may be aware
too, sir that a little distance has interposed itself be-
tween 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 ha^ 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 sufficient for me to say, that I have the
greatest possible respect for, and interest in, Mr. Dom-
bey ; " 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 doubl
of offering a remark that would be received with acqui
escence, was greatly confounded.
156 DOMBEY AND SOX.
" All that I wish to say, Mrs. Richards," resumed Miss
Tox, " and I address myself to you too, sir, is thi&
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.
Richards about the family, and about old times. And
&& Mi's. Richards and I never had the least indifference
(though I could wisli now that we had been better ac-
quainted, 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 backwards and forwards
here, when I like, without being a stranger. Now, I
really hope Mrs. Richards," said Miss Tox, earnestly,
" that you will take this, as I mean it, like a good-hu-
mored 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. Richards," said Miss Tox " and I
hope you see too, sir there are many little ways in
which I can be slightly useful to you, if you will make
no stranger of me ; and in wlych I shall be delighted
to be so. For instance, I can teach your children some-
thing. I shall bring a few little books if you'll allow
me, and some work, and of an evening now and then,
they'll learn dear me, they'll learn rf great deal, I
trust, and be a credit to their teacher."
Mr. Toodle, who had a great respect for learning,
jerked his head approvingly at his wife, and moistened
bis hands with dawning satisfaction.
" Then, not being a stranger, I shall be in nobody's
way," said Miss Tox, " nd everything will go on just
DOMBEY AND SON. 157
as if I were not here. Mrs. Richards will do her mend-
ing, or her ironing, or her nursing, whatever it is, with-
out minding me : and you'll smoke your pipe, too, if
you're so disposed, sir, won't you ? "
" Thank'ee mum," said Mr. Toodle. " Yos ; 111 lake
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'll enter into this little
bargain comfortably, and easily, and good-naturedly,
without another word about it."
The bargain was ratified on the spot ; and Miss Tox
found herself so much at home already, 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 waa
something to Miss Tox, to be seen home by a youth
whom Mr. Dombey had first inducted into those manly
garments which are rarely mentioned by name, she very
readily accepted the proposal.
After shaking hands with Mr. Toodle and Polly, and
kissing all the children, Miss Tox left the house, there-
fore, 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 iU
158 DOMBEY AND SON.
Rob 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 ex-
pressed 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 wire. There
never was a better or more promising youth a more
affectionate, steady, prudent, sober, honest, meek, candid
young man than Rob drew out that night.
-" I am quite glad," said Miss Tox, arrived at her own
door, " to know you. I hope you'll 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 Rob, " but really I
couldn't think of depriving you."
" I commend your independent spirit," said Miss Tox,
u but it's no deprivation, I assure you. I shall be of-
fended if you don't take it, as a mark of my good-will.
Good-night, Robin."
** Good-night, ma'am," said Rob, " and thank you ! "
Who ran sniggering off to get change, and tossed it
away with a pieman. But they never taught honor
at the Grinders' School, where the system that pre-
vailed was particularly strong in the engendering of
hypocrisy Insomuch, that many of the friends ar
masters of past Grinders said, if this were what car.
pf education for the common people, let us have noi
DOMBEY AND SON. !5b
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
Rssurtirig that they could have only turned out well be-
cause of it. Which settled the business of those ob
Sectors out of hand, and established the glory of the
it finders' Institution.
160 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN EDWARD CUTTLR
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 Cap-
tain Cuttle began to look at it of an evening, with feel-
ings of mystery and uneasiness.
The captain, in' his honor, 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 first 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 contemplated 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-
parlor 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 con-
spicuously among the coals, or took up an advantageous
position on the whitewash.
DOMBET AND SON. 161
In respect of Heart's Delight, the c&ptain's parental
regard and admiration knew no change. But since hia
last interview with Mr. Carker, Captain Cuttle had come
to entertain doubts whether his former intervention in
behalf of that young lady and his dear boy Wal'r, had
proved altogether so favorable 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 mod-
esty 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 overboard for a
dangerous person.
Self-buried, therefore, among the instruments, the cap-
tain 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 Rob the Grinder, whom he esteemed as a pat-
tern of disinterested attachment and fidelity. In this
retirement, the captain, gazing at the packet of an even-
ing, would sit smoking, and thinking of Florence and
poor Walter, until they both seemed to his homely fancy
to be dead, and to have passed away into eternal youth,
the beautiful and innocent childrei* of his first remem
orance.
The captain did not, however, in his musings, neglect
'ais own improvement, or the mental culture of Rob the
VOL. III. 11
162 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 implicitly 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 certain Divine
Sermon once delivered on a Mount ; and although be
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.
Rob the Grinder, whose reverence for the inspired
writings, under the admirable system of the Grinders'
School, had been developed by a perpetual bruising of
hi* 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 Rob the Grinder made a
mighty show of being edified when the captain ceased to
read, and generally yawned and nodded while the read-
ing 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 wagons and other
vehicles : which he observed in that quarter, to set west-
ward in the morning and during the greater part of the
lay, and eastward towards the evening. Two or threa
DOMBEY AND SON. 163
stragglers appearing in one week, who " spoke him "
BO 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-parlor 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 forebore to decide against him for
the present ; merely eying him, with a sagacity not to be
described, whenever he approached the subject that was
nearest to his heart.
" Captain Gills," blurted out Mr. Toots, one day all at
once, as his manner was, " do you think you could think
favorably of that proposition of mine, and give me the
pleasure of your acquaintance ? "
" Why, I'll tell you what it is, my lad," replied the
captain, who had at length concluded on 8 course el
action ; " I've beeti turning that there, over."
" Captain Gills, it's very kind of you," retorted Mr.
loots. "I'm much obliged to you. Upon my word
164 DOMBEY AND SON.
and honor. 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 Gills/' replied
Mr. Toots, steadfast to his point, " if you don't give me
the pleasure of your acquaintance."
The captain seemed struck by the originality and
power of this remark, and looked at Mr. Toots as if
he thought there was a great deal more in him than
he had expected.
" Well said, my lad," observed the captain, nodding
his head thoughtfully ; " and true. Now look'ee here :
You've made some observations to me, which gives me
to understand as you admire a certain sweet creetur.
Hey ? "
" Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, gesticulating vio-
lently with the hand in which he held his hat, " Ad-
miration is not the word. Upon my honor, 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 all my
property, I could get transmigrated into Miss Dombey's
dog I I really think I should never leave off wag-
ging 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 compas-
sion, " if you're in arnest "
" Captain Gills," cried Mr. Toots, " I'm in such a state
&f mind, and am so dreadfully in earnest, that if I could
DOMBEY AND SON. 16J
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 hurt myself, as a relief to my
feelings." And Mr. Toots looked hurriedly about the
room, as if for some sufficiently painful means of accom
plishing his dread purpose.
The captain pushed his glazed hat back upon his
nead, 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 into his face with much atten-
tion and some wonder.
" If you're in arnest, you see, my lad," said the cap-
tain, " you're a object of clemency, and clemency is the
brightest jewel in the crown of a Briton's head, for
which you'll overhaul the constitution, as laid down in
Rule Britannia, and, when found, that is the charter m
them garden angels was a-singing of, so many times over.
Stand by ! This here proposal o' your'n 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, and may be don't wish for none. Steady ! You
hailed me first, along of a certain young lady, as yon
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'
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'll excuse me, Captain Gills," replied Mr
Toots, " if I don't quite follow you sometimes. But
upon ray word I it's . hard thing, Captain Gills, noi
166 DOMBEY AND SON.
to be able to mention Miss Dombey. I really have got
puch 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 Gills," 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 Gills, if
you'll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance, I shall
be very happy to accept it on your own conditions. I
wish to be honorable, Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots,
holding back his extended hand for a moment, " and
therefore I am obliged to say that I can not help think-
ing 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*, an; wer 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 gra-
cious show of condescension, bestowed his acquaintance
upon him formally. Mr. Toots seemed much relieved
ind gladdened by the acquisition, and chuckled raptur
DOMBEY AND SOX. 167
Busly d'jr'.ng the remainder of his visit. The caplain,
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
in want of any pigeons, may you, sir?"
" No, my lad," replied the captain.
" Because I was wishing to dispose of mine, captain,'"
said Rob.
" Ay, ay ? " cried the captain, lifting up his bushy
eyebrows a little.
" Yes ; I'm going, captain, if you please," said Rob.
" 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 spec-
tacles, 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 Rob, rubbing his hands, and getting up. " If you
3ould be so good as provide yourself soon, captain, it
would be a great convenience to me. You couldn't
provide yourself by to-morrow morning, I am afraid.
Captain; could you, do you Ihink?"
168 DOMBEY AND SON.
'And you're a-going to desert your colors are you
my lad ? " said the captain, after a long examination of
his face.
" 01:, it's very hard upon a cove, captain," cried the
tender Rob, 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 call a poor cove names, captain. It a'n't be-
cause 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, u give my
crime a name ! What have I been and done ? Have I
stolen any of the property ? Have I set the house afire ?
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."
All of which the Grinder howled forth in a lachry-
mose whine, and backing carefully towards the door.
"And so you've got another berth, have you, my lad ?"
eaid the captain, eying 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 ray
DOMBEY AND SON. 16S
DWD 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 fox
your good, captain? How can you so demean your-
gelf ? "
" Look ye here, my boy," replied the peaceful cap-
tain. " 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."
" Because," pursued the captain calmly, " you have
heerd, maybe, 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'll
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 Rob,
exulting in his success. "But mind! / never asked to
go at once, captain. You are not to take away my char-
acter again, because you s^end me off of your own accoid.
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. Rob, snivelling and sobbing, and griev-
ously wounded in his feelings, took up the pieces one
by one, with a sob and a snivel for each, and tie<l them
170 DOMBEY AND SOST.
np 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 part-
ing 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 Rob the Grinder was scam-
pering 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 in-
deed, and now Mr. Carker deceived and jeered him
cruelly. They were all represented in the false Rob, to
whom he had held forth many a time on the recollections
that were warm within him ; he had believed in the false
Rob, and had been glad to believe in him ; he had made
a companion of him as the last of the old ship's com-
pany ; he had taken the command of the little midship-
man with him at his right hand; he had meant to do hia
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 Rob had
brought distrust, treachery, and meanness into the very
parlor, which was a kind of sacred place, Captain Cuttle
DOMBEY AND SON. 171
felt a;> if the parlor might have gone down next, and not
surprised him much by its sinking, or given him any
very great concern.
Therefore Captain Cuttle read the newspaper with
profound attention and no comprehension, and therefore
Captain Cuttle said nothing whatever about Rob to him-
self, or admitted to himself that he was thinking about
him, or would recognize in the most distant manner
that Rob had anything to do with his feeling as lonely as
Robinson 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 shut-
ters of the Wooden Midshipman every night and morn-
ing. He then called in nt the eating-house to diminish
by one half the daily rations theretofore supplied 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 guar-
dian of the property.
From this bed Captain Cuttle daily rose thenceforth,
and clapped on his glazed hat at six o'clock in the morn-
ing, with the solitary air of Crusoe finishing his toilet
with his goat-skin cap ; and although his fears of a visi-
tation from the savage tribe, MacStinger, were somewhat
cooled, as similar apprehensions on the part of that lone
mariner used to be by the lapse of a long interval with-
out any symptom? of the cannibals, he still observed a
regular routine of defensive operations, and never en-
172 DOMBEY AND SON.
countered 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 ho
was out uf town) his own voice began to have a strange
sound in his ears : and he acquired such habits of pro-
found 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 presence of Rob the Grinder,
whp had brought it to him, and as he had an idea that
it would be regular and ship-shape to open it in the pres-
ence of somebody, he was sadly put to it for want of a
witness. In this difficulty, he hailed one day with un-
usual delight the announcement in the Shipping Intel-
ligence of the arrival of the Cautious Clara, Captain
John Bunsby, from a coasting voyage ; and to that phi-
losopher immediately despatched a letter by post, enjoin-
ing inviolable secrecy as to his place of residence, and
requesting to be favored with an early visit, in the even-
ing season.
Bunsby, who was one of those sages who act upon
conviction, took some days to get the conviction thor-
oughly into his mind, that he had received a letter to
this effect. But when he had grarpled with the fact,
and mastered it, he promptly sent his boy with the mes-
sage, " 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 prepara
DOMBEY AND SON. 173
tion of pipes and rum and water, and awaited his visitor
in the back-parlor. At the hour of eight, a deep lowing,
as of a nautical bull, outside the shop-door, succeeded by
the knocking of a stick on the panel, announced 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," replied the voice within Bunsby, unaccom-
panied by any sign on the part of the commander him-
self, " Hearty, hearty."
" Bunsby ! " said the captain, rendering irrepressible
homage to his genius, " here you are ! a man as can give
an opinion as is brighter than di'monds and give me
the lad with the tarry trousers as shines to me like
di'monds bright, for which you'll overhaul the Stanfell'a
Budget, and when found 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.
" Ay, ay ? " growled Bunsby.
" Every letter," said the captain.
"For why?" growled Bunsby, looking at his fnend
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
age submitted to be helped off with his pilot-coat, and
accompanied his friend into the back-parlor, where his
IT4 DOMBEY AND SON.
hand presently alighted on the rum-bottle, from which
he brewed a stiff glass of grog; and presently after-
wards on a pipe, which he filled, lighted, and began to
smoke.
Captain Cuttle, imitating his visitor in the matter of
these particulars, though the rapt and imperturbable
manner of the great commander was far above his pow-
ers, sat in the opposite corner of the fireside, observing
him respectfully, and as if he waited for some encourage-
ment 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 any-
thing but warmth and tobacco, except once, when taking
his pipe from his lips to make room for his glass, he
incidentally remarked with exceeding gruffness, that his
name was Jack Bunsby a declaration that presented
but small opening for conversation the captain bespeak-
ing 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,
teemed to listen for the contents. The captain there
fore hemmed to clear his throat, and read the lettei
aloud.
DOMBEY AND SON. 175
" ' My dear Ned Cuttle. When I left home for (he
West Indies'"
Here the captain stopped, and looked hard at Bun.by,
who looked fixedly at the coast of Greenland.
" ' in forlorn search of intelligence of tuy dear boy,
I knew that if you were acquainted" with my de-sigu,
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 will 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
nay 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 meditat-
ing; "no more. There he lays, all his days"
Mr. Bunsby, who had a musical ear, suddenly bel-
lowed, " 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.
" Well, well ! " said the captain with a sigh, as the
lament of Bunsby ceased to ring and vibrate in the sky-
light. " Affliction sore, long time he bore, and let ua
overhaul the wollume, and there find it"
" Physicians," observed Bunsby, " was in vain."
" Ay, ay, to be sure," said the captain, " what's the
good o' them in two or three hundred fathoms o' water!"
i'lien, returning to the letter, he read on : " ' But if
ho should be by, when it is opened ; ' " the captain in-
voluntarily looked round, and shook his head ; " ' or
should know of it at any other time;"' the captain shook
\is head again " ' my blessing on- him In case t*ie
I7C DOMBEY AND SON.
accompanying paper is not legally written, 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) other-
wise, 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.' Buns-
by ! " 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 prompti-
tude, " 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 bear-
ings of this obserwation lays in tlie 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; ' Buns-
by," said the captain, quite confounded by admiration,
" you carry a weight of mind easy, as would swamp one
of my tonnage soon. But in regard o' this here will, 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 Gills,
is living and '11 come back, strange as it is that he a'n't
forwarded no dispatches. Now, what is your opinion,
TJun.;by, 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 Green-
DOMBEY AND SON. 177
land or elsewhere, to this proposal, it was carried into
execution ; and that great rnan, bringing his eye into the
present for a moment, affixed his sign-manual to thfc
cover, totally abstaining, with characteristic modesty,
from the use of capital letters. Captain Cuttle, having
attached his own left-handed signature, 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 fire 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.
How the captain, even in the satisfaction 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 forever re-
main mere points of speculation, or vague charges
against destiny. But by that unlocked door, at this
quiet moment, did the fell MacStinger dash into the
parlor, bringing Alexander MacStinger in her parental
arms, and confusion and vengeance (not to mention Ju-
liana MacStinger, and the sweet child's brother, Charlea
MacStinger, popularly known about the scenes of hia
youthful sports, as Chowley) in her train. She came
so swiftly and so silently, like a rushing air from the
neighborhood 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 misfortune, self-preservation dictated an at
VOL in. 12
178 DOMBEY AND SON.
tempt at flight. Darting at the little door which openeo
from the parlor 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 effort he would probably have succeeded,
but for the affectionate dispositions of Juliana and Chow-
ley, 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.
MacStinger, who never entered upon any action of im-
portance without previously inverting Alexander Mac-
Stinger, to bring him within the range of a brisk bat-
tery of slaps, and then sitting him down to cool as the
reader first beheld him, performed that solemn rite, aa
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 MacStingers, and the wail-
ing of young Alexander, who may be said to have
passed a piebald childhood, forasmuch as he was black
in the face during one half of that fairy period of exist-
ence, 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. Mao
Stinger, its terrors were at their height.
" Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cuttle ! " said Mrs. Mac-
Stinger, making her chin rigid, and shaking it in unison
with what, but for the weakness of her sex, might be
described as her fist. " Oh, Cap'en Cuttle, Cap'en Cut-
tle, do you dare to look me in the face, and not be struck
down in the herth ! "
DOMBEY AND SON. 17$
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. Mao-
Stinger. " To think of the benefits I've showered on
that man, and the way in which I brought my children
up to love and honor him as if he was a father to 'em,
when there a'n'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. MacStinger
used the last word for the joint sake of alliteration and
aggravation, rather than for the expression of any idea
" and when they 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. MacStinger stopped to fetch her breath ; and
her face flushed with triumph in this second happy in-
troduction of Captain Cuttle's muzzlings.
" And he runs awa-a-a-ay ! " cried Mrs. MacStinger,
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 ! From a
woman ! Sitch is his conscience ! ' He hasn't the cour-
age to meet her hi-i-i-igh ; " long syllable again ; " but
steals away, lik? a felion. Why, if that baby of mine,"
V*id Mrs. MacStinger, with sudden rapidity, " was to
offer to go and steal away, I'd do my duty as a mother
by him, till he was covered with wales
ISO DOMBEY AND SON.
The young Alexander, interpreting this into a posi
live promise, to be shortly redeemed, tumbled over \vitb
fear and grief, and lay upon the floor, exhibiting the
goles of his shoes and making such a deafening outcry,
that Mrs. MacStinger found it necessary to take him up
hi 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.
MacStinger, with a sharp stress on the first syllable
of the captain's name, u to take on for and to lose
sleep for, and to faint along of and to think dead for-
sooth 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.
MacStinger, with severe reaction in her voice and man-
ner, " 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
op.
" Cap'en Cuttle," repeated Mrs. MacStinger, 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 sug-
gested something to the effect of " not making so much
aoise about it"
" Ay, ay, ay," said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. " Awast,
my lass, awast ! "
" And who may YOU be, if you please ! " retorted Mrs.
MacStinger, with chaste loftiness. " Did you ever lodge
% Number Nine, Brig-place, sir? My memory may b
DOMBEY AND SOX. 181
bad, but not with me, I think. There was a Mrs. Jolt
on lived at Number Nine before me, and perhaps you're
mi.-uiking me tor her. That is my only ways of ac-
counting for yoi.r 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 IJunsby, advancing boldly, put his shaggy blue arm
round Mrs. MacStinger, 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.
Speechless and utterly amazed, the captain saw him
gradually persuade this 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 Cap-
tain 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 off, with Mrs. MacStinger at
their head. He had scarcely time to take down his
canister, and stealthily convey some money into the
hands of Juliana MacStinger, his former favorite, and
Chowley, who had the claim upon him that he was nat-
urally 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
went aboard, shut the door upon himself, as the last
member of the party.
Some uneasy ideas that he must be walking in hia
sleep, or that he had been troubled with phantoms, and
Ib2 DOMBEY AND SON.
not a family of flesh and blood, beset the cap;ain at first,
when he went back to the little parlor, and found himself
alone. Illimitable faith in. and immeasurable admira-
tion of, the commander of the Cautious Clara, succeeded,
and threw (he captain into a wondering trance.
Still, as time wore on, and Bunsby failed to reapj>ear,
the captain began to entertain uncomfortable doubts of
another kind. Whether Bunsby had been artfully de-
coyed to Brig-place, and was there detained in safe cus-
tody as hostage for his friend ; in which case it would
become the captain, as a man of honor, to release him,
by the sacrifice of his own liberty. Whether he had
been attacked and defeated by Mrs. MacStinger, and
was ashamed to show himself after his discomfiture.
Whether Mrs. MacStinger, 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 endeavoring to lose the family
amid the wilds and savage places of the city. Above all,
what it would behoove him, Captain Cuttle, to do, in case
of his hearing no more, either of the MacStingers or of
Bunsby, which, in these wonderful and unforeseen con-
junctions 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 still no Bunsby. At length,
when tbe captain had given him up, for that night, at
least, and had begun to undress, the sound of approach-
ing wheels was heard, and, stopping at the door, was
succeeded by Bunsby's hail.
The captain trembled to think that Mrs. MacSli tiger
was not to be got rid of, and had been brought back in a
DOMBEY AND SON. 183
But no. Bunsby was accompanied by nothing but
& large box, which he hauled into the shop with his own
hands, and as soon as he had hauled in, sat upon. Cap-
tain Cuttle knew it for the chest he had left at Mrs. Mac-
Stinger's house, and looking, candle in hand, at Bunsbj
more attentively, 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 ? "
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 effect of which
attempt, in his condition, was nearly to overbalance him.
He then abruptly opened the door, and shot away to
rejoin the Cautious Clara with all speed supposed to
be his invariable custom, whenever he considered he had
made a point.
As it was not his hv-mor 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
bave elapsed. The captain, therefore, renewed his soli-
tary life next morning, and thought profoundly, many
mornings, noons, and nights, of old Sol Gills, and Buns-
by's sentiments concerning him, and the hopes there were
vf his return. Much of such thinking strengthened Cap-
184 DOMBEY AND SON.
tain Cuttle's hopes ; and he humored them and himself
by watching for the Instrument-maker at the door as h-2
ventured to do now, in his strange liberty and setting
his chair in its place, and arranging the little parlor as it
used to be, in ca.se he should come home unexpectedly.
He likewise, in his thoughtfulness, took down a certain
little miniature of Walter as a schoolboy, from its ac-
customed nail, lest it should shock the old man on his
return. The captain had his presentiments, too, some-
times, that he would come on such a day ; and one par-
ticular Sunday, even ordered a double allowance of din-
ner, he was so sanguine. But come, old Solomon did
not ; and still the neighbors noticed how the seafaring
man in the glazed hat, stood at the shop-door of an even*
ing, looking up and down the street
DOMBEY AND SON. 185
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 im-
perious asperity of his temper ; or that the cold hard
armor 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 nature
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 exacting claims, foster
it too, no less. The evil that is in it finds equally its
means of growth and propagation in opposites. It draws
support and life from sweets and bitters ; bowed down
before, or unacknowledged, it still enslaves the breast in
which it has its throne ; and, worshipped or rejected, i3
as hard a master as the Devil in dark fables.
Towards his first wife, Mr. Dombey, in his cold and
iofty arrogance, had borne himself like the removed
being he almost conceived himself to be. He had been
* Mr. Dombey " with her when she first saw him, and he
was " Mr. Dombey " when she died. He had asserted
his greatness during their whole married life, and she
had meekly recognized it. He had kept his distant seal
186 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 him-
self haughtier than ever, with Edith's haughtiness sub-
servient to his. He had never entertained the possibil-
ity 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 armor, too, bears with him ever an-
other heavy retribution. It is of proof against concilia-
tion, 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 bpy ! Who was it who had shown him that
DOMBEY AND SON. 187
new victory, as he sat in the dark corner ! Who was
it whose least word did what his utmost moans 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 fulfilled, 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 memorable 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 promised to be of him, the greater claim he
was disposed to antedate upon her duty and submission.
When had she ever shown him duty and submission ?
Did she "race his life or Edith's? Had her attrac-
O
lions 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. 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 inrulted him
with %n unnatural triumph.
*i88 DJMBEY AND SON.
It may have been that in all this there were mutter
ings of an awakened feeling in his breast, however
selfishly aroused by his position of disadvantage, in com-
parison with what she might have made his life. But
he silenced the distant thunder with the rolling of his
sea of pride. He would bear nothing but his pride. And
in his pride, a heap of inconsistency, 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 wil-
ful 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 re-
cognition from Edith ! He little knew through what a
storm and struggle she had been driven onward to the
crowning honor 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 eat 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 dislik*
ing, pleasure or displeasure, than if he had been her
groom. Her cold supreme indifference his own un-
questioned attribute usurped stung him more than
any other kind of treatment could have done ; and he de-
termined to bend her to his magnificent and stately wilL
DOMBEY AND SON. 189
He had been long communing with these thoughts,
when one night he sought her in her own apartment,
after be 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 melan-
choly and pensive, when he came upon her ; but it
marked him at the door ; for, glancing at the mirror
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 re-
turned. " You mistake your position. I am used to
choose my own times ; not to have them chosen for me.
I think you scarcely understand vho and what I am,
Mrs. Dombey."
" I think," she answered, " that I understand you very
well."
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 pene-
trated through his utmost pride. But she had the power.
and he felt it keenly. He glanced round the room : saw
how the splendid means of personal adornment, and th
luxuries of dress, were scattered here and there, and dis-
regarded ; not in mere caprice and carelessness (or so he
thought), but in a steadfast, haughty, disregard of costly
hings : and felt it more and more. Chaplets of ftoivera,
190 DOMBEY AND SON.
plume i 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,
eeemed 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 color and voluptuous
glitter, strange and constrained towards its haughty mis-
tress, whose repellant beauty it repeated, and presented
all around him, as in so many fragments of a mirror,
he was conscious of embarrassment and awkwardness.
Nothing that ministered to her disdainful self-possession
could fail to gall him. Galled and irritated with him-
self, he sat down, and went on in no improved humor :
" Mrs. Dombey, itjs very necessary that there should
be some understanding 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 an hour, and
expressed less.
" I repeat, Mrs. Dombey, does not please me. I have
already taken occasion to request that it may be cor-
rected. I now insist upon it."
" You chose a fitting occasion for your first remon-
strance, sir, and you adopt a fitting manner, and a fitting
word for your second. You insist ! To me ! "
"Madam," said Mr. Dombey, with his most offensive
air of state, " I have made you my wife. You bear nv
name. You are associated with my position and it
reputation. I will not say that the world in general m*
be disposed to think you honored by that association ; t -'
DOMBEY AND SON. lt ,.
I will say that I am accustomed to ' insist,' to my con-
nection.- and dependents."
"Which may you be pleased to consider me?" she
asked.
" Possibly I may think that my wife should paitakc
or does partake, and cannot help herself of both chm
acter>, Mrs. Dombey."
She bent her eyes upon him steadily, and set Lei
trembling lips. He saw her bosom throb, and saw hex
face flush and turn white. All this he could know, and
did : but he could not know that one word was whisper-
ing in the deep recesses of her heart, to keep her quiet ;
and that the word was Florence.
Blind idiot, rushing to a precipice ! He thought she
stood in awe of him !
"You are too expensive, madam," said Mr. Dombey.
" You are extravagant. You waste a great deal of
money or what would be a great deal in the pockets
of most gentlemen in cultivating a kind of society that
is useless to me, and, indeed, that upon the whole is
disagreeable to me. I have to insist upon a total change
in all these respects. I know that in the novelty of
possessing a tithe of such means as fortune has placed
at your disposal, ladies are apt to run into a sudden
extreme. There has been more than enough of thai
extreme. I beg that Mrs. Granger's very different ex-
periences may now come to the instruction of Mrs. Don-
key."
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 hei
oi the beating of her heart.
His insolence of self-importance dilated as he saw this
192 DOMBEY AND SON.
alteration in her. Swollen no less by her past scorn of
him, and his so recent feeling of disadvantage, than by
her present submission (as he took it to be), it became
too mighty for his breast, and burst all bounds. Why,
who could long resist his lofty will and pleasure ! IJ
had resolved to conquer her, and look here !
" You will further please, madam," said Mr. Dombey
in a tone of sovereign command, u 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 un-
reasonable return for the worldly advancement that has
befallen you ; and I believe nobody will be surprised,
either at its being required from you, or at your making
it. To me to me ! " he added, with emphasis.
No word from her. No change in her. Her eyes
upon him.
" I have learnt from your mother, Mrs. Dombey," said
Mr. Dombey, with magisterial importance, " what nc
doubt you know, namely, that Brighton is recommended
for her health. Mr. Carker has been so good "
She changed suddenly. Her face and bosom glowed
as if the red light of an angry sunset had been Hung
upon them. Not unobservant of the change, and putting
(us own interpretation upon it, Mr. Dombey resumed :
u Mr. Carker has been so good as to go dow n and
secure a house there, for a time. On the return of the
establishment to London, I shall take such steps for ita
Detter management as I consider necessary. One of
these, will be the engagement at Brighton (if it is to be
3ffected), of a very respectable reduced person there, a
Mrs. Pipchin, formerly employed in a situation of trust
DOMBEY AND SON. 1 95
n my family, to act as house-keeper. An establishment
like this, presided over but nominally, Mrs. Dombey,
requires a competent head."
She had changed her attitude before he arrived at
these words, and now sat still looking at him fixedly
turning a bracelet round and round upon her arm ;
not winding it about with a light womanly touch, but
pressing and dragging it over the smooth skin, until the
white limb showed a bar of red.
"I observed," said Mr. Dombey "and this concludes
what I deem it necessary to say to you at present, Mrs.
Dombey I observed a moment ago, madam, that my
allusion to Mr. Carker was received in a peculiar man-
ner. 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 bet-
ter 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. Dom-
bey, who, after the emotion he had just seen, set great
store by this means of reducing his proud wife, and who
was perhaps sufficiently willing to exhibit his power to
that gentleman in a new and triumphant aspect, "Mr.
Carker being in my confidence, Mrs. Dombey, may very
well be in yours to such an extent. I hope, Mrs. Dom-
bey," he continued, after a few moments, during which,
in his increasing haughtiness, he had improved on his
idea, " I may not find it necessary ever to intrust Mr.
barker with any message of objection or remonstrance
to you ; but as it would be derogatory to my position and
reputation to be frequently holding trivial disputes with
VOL. in. 13
194 DOMBEY AND SON.
a lady upon whom I have conferred the highest distinc-
tion that it is in ray 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 mag-
nificence, and rising a stiffer and more impenetrable man
than ever, "she knows me and my resolution."
The hand that had so pressed the bracelet was laid
heavily upon her breast, but she looked at him still, with
an unaltered face, and said in a low voice :
" Wait ! For God's sake ! I must speak to you."
Why did she not, and what was the inward struggle
that rendered her incapable of diinj 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 band ? Did I evei
use any art to win you ? Was I ever more conciliating
to you when you pursued me, than I have been since our
marriage ? Was I ever other to you than I am ? "
" It is wholly unnecessary, madam," said Mr. Dombey,
" to enter upon such discussions."
" Did you think I loved you ? Did you know I did
not ? Did you ever care, man ! for my heart, or propose
to yourself to win the worthless thing ? Was there any
poor pretence of any in our bargain ? Upon your side,
or on mine ? "
"These questions," said Mr. Dombey, "are all wide
&f the purpose, madam."
She moved between him and the door to prevent hia
^oing away, and drawing her majestic figure to its height,
looked steadily upon him still.
u You answer each of them. You answer me before J
DOMBEY AND SON. 195
, I see. How can you help it ; you who know th
miserable truth as weH as I ? Now, tell me. If I loved
you to devotion, could I do more than render up my
whole will and being to you, as you have just demanded ?
If my heart were pure and all untried, and you its idol
could you ask more ; could you have more ? "
" Possibly not, madam," he returned coolly.
" You know how different I am. You see me looking
on you now, and you can read the warmth of passion for
you that is breathing in my face." Not a curl of the
proud lip, not a fla.sh of the dark eye, nothing but the
same intent and searching look, accompanied these words.
" You know my general history. You have spoken of
my mother. Do you think you can degrade, or bend, or
break me to submission and obedience ? "
Mr. Dombey smiled, as he might have smiled at an
inquiry whether he thought he could raise (en thousand
pounds.
" If there is anything unusual here," she said, with a
slight motion of her hand before her brow, which did not
for a moment flinch from its immovable and otherwise
expressionless gaze, "as I know there are unusual feel-
ings here/' raising the hand she pressed upon her bosom,
and heavily returning it, " consider that there is no com-
mon 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
bis chin that rustled and cracked his stiff cravat, sal
down on a sofa that was near him, to bear the appo;:!.
" If you can believe that I am of such a nature now,"
ne fancied he saw tears glistening in hei eyes, and he
thought, complacently, that he had forced them from her.
196 DOMBEY AND SOX.
though none fell on her cheek, and she regarded him as
eteadily as ever, "as would make what I now say
almost incredible to myself, said to any man who had be-
come 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 distin-
guished 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 em-
phatic confirmation of this " Never," in the very breath
she drew.
" I feel no tenderness towards you ; that you know.
You would care nothing for it, if I did or could. I know
as well that you feel none towards me. But we are
linked together ; and in the knot that ties us, as I have
said, others are bound up. We must both die; we. are
both connected with the dead already, each by a little*
child. Let us forbear/'
Mr Dombey took a long respiration, as if he would
have said, Oh ! was this all !
" There is no wealth," she went on, turning paler a?
DOMBEY AND SON. 197
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 aie 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 endeavor too ; and I
will look forward to a better and a happier use of age
than I have made of youth or prime."
Throughout she had spoken in a low plain voice, that
neither rose nor fell ; ceasing, she dropped the hand with
which she had enforced herself to be so passionless and
di.-tinct. but not the eyes with which slur-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 temporize or treat with you, Mrs. Dombey,
upon a subject as to which you are in possession of my
opinions and expectations. I have stated my ultimttlum,
madam, and have only to request your very serious at-
tention to it."
To see the face change to its old expression, deepened
in intensity ! To see the eyes droop as from some mean
and odious object! To see the lighting of the haughty
brow To se^ scorn, nnger, indignation, and abhorrent*
198 DOMBEY AND SON.
starting into sight, and the pale blank earnestness vanish
like a mist ! He could not choose but look, although he
looked to his dismay. "
" Go, sir ! " she said, pointing with an imperious hand
towards the door. "Our first and last confidence is at
an end. Nothing can make us stranger to each other
than we are henceforth."
"I shall take my rightful course, madam," said Mr.
Dombey, " undeterred, you may be sure, by any general
declatnalion."
She turned her back upon him, and, without reply, sat
down before her glass.
" I place my reliance on your improved sense of duty,
and more correct feeling, and better reflection, madam,"
said Mr. Dombey.
She answered not one word. He saw no more ex-
pression of any heed of him, in the mirror, than if he
had been an unseen spider on the wall, or beetle on tlie
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 glitter-
ing 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 him-
self 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 some-
times comes into a man's head) how they would all look
when he saw them next.
For the rest, Mr. Dombey was very taciturn, and very
DOMBEY AND SON. 199
dignified, and very confident of carrying out his pur-
pose ; and remained so.
He did not design accompanying the family to
Brighton ; but he graciously informed Cleopatra at
breakfast, on the morning of departure, which arrived
a day or two afterwards, that he might be expected
down, soon. There was no time to be lost in getting
Cleopatra to any place recommended as being salutary ;
for, indeed, she seemed upon the wane, and turning of
the earth, earthy.
Without having undergone any decided second attack
of her malady, the old woman seemed to have crawled
backward in her recovery from the first. She was more
lean and shrunken, more uncerlain in her imbecility,
and made stranger confusions in her mind and memory.
Among other symptoms of this last affliction, she fell
into the habit of confounding the names of her two sons-
in-law, the living and the deceased ; and in general called
Mr. Dombey, either " Grangeby," or " Domber," or in-
differently, 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
hiid 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 dur-
ing breakfast to perform that duty.
"Now my dearest Grangeby," said Mrs. Skewton,
you must posively prom," she cut some r.f her words
BOO DOMBEY AND SON.
short, and cut out others altogether, " come down very
soon."
" I said just now, madam," returned Mr. Dombey,
loudly, and laboriously, " that I am coming in a day
or two."
" Bless you, Domber ! "
Here the major, who was come to take leave of the
ladies, and who was staring through his apoplectic eyes
at Mrs. Skewton's face, with the disinterested composure
of an immortal being, said :
" Begad, ma'am, you don't ask old Joe to come ! "
" Sterious wretch, who's he ? " lisped Cleopatra. But
a tap on the bonnet from Flowers seeming to jog her
memory, she added, " Oh ! You mean yourself, you
naughty creature ! "
" Devilish queer, sir," whispered the major to Mr.
Dorabey. " 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 Bagsfock
Joseph Your slave Joe, ma'am? Here! Here's
the man ! Here are the Bagstock bellows, ma'am ! "
cried the major, striking himself a sounding blow on
the chest.
"My dearest Edith Grangeby it's most trordinry
thing," said Cleopatra, pettishly, " that Major "
" Bagstock ! J. B. ! " cried the major, seeing that she
faltered for his name.
"Well, it don't matter," said Cleopatra, "Edith, my
love, you know I never could remember names \\l\i\'.
was it? oh! most trordinry thing that so many people
want to com 3 down to see me. I'm not going for long
I'm coming back. Surely they can wait, till I come
buck ! "
DOMBEY AND SOX. 201
Cleopatra looked all round the table as tjhe said it, and
appeared very uneasy.
"I won't have visitors really don't want visitors,"
she said ; ' little repose and all that sort of thing 8
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 altera-
tions in her room, wliich must be all made before she
came back, and which must be set about immediately, as
there was no saying how soon she might come back ; for
she had a great many engagements, and all sorts of
people to call upon. Withers received these directions
with becoming deference, and gave his guaranty 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 he*
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 some-
limes stopped her when she was rambling, or brought
her thoughts back with a monosyllable, to the point from
vhich they had strayed. The mother, however unsteady
202 DOMBEY-AND SON.
in other things, was constant in this that she wa*
always observant of her. She would look at the beauti-
ful face, in its marble stillness and severity, now with a
kind of fearful admiration ; now iii 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,
ihat never fluctuated like her other ideas, but had con-
stant possession of her. From Edith she would some-
rimes 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 sup-
ported on the other side by Flowers the maid, and
propped up behind by Withers the page, was conducted
to the carriage, which was to take her, Florence, and
Edith to Brighton.
" And is Joseph absolutely banished ? " said the major,
thrusting in his purple face ovej the steps. " Damme,
ma'am, is Cleopatra so hard-hearted as to forbid her
faithful Antony Bagstock to approach the presence ? "
44 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 ; u or he'll die in despair."
Cleopatra shuddered and leaned back. " Edith, my
dear," she said. Tell him "
" What ? "
u Such dreadful words," said Cleopatra. " He aaca
ich dreadful words!"
DOMBEY AND SON. 203
Edith signed to him to retire, gave the word to go on,
and left the objectionable major to Mr. Dombey. To
whom he returned, whistling.
* O
" I'll tell you what, sir," said the major, with his hands
behind him, and his legs very wide asunder, " a fair
friend of ours has removed to Queer-street."
" What do you mean, major ? " inquired Mr. Dombej.
u I mean to say, Dombey," returned the major, " that
you'll soon be an orphan-in-law."
Mr. Dombey appeared to relish this waggish descrip-
tion of himself so very little that the major wound up
with the horse's cough, as an expression of gravity.
" Damme, sir," said the major, " there is no use in dis-
guising 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 Mr. Dombey, with much philos-
ophy. " that Mrs. Skewton is shaken."
" Shaken, Dombey ! " said the major. u Smashed ! "
" Change, however," pursued Mr. Dombey, u and at-
tention may do much yet."
" Don't believe it, sir," returned the major. " Damme,
sir, she never wrapped up enough. If a man don't
wrap up," said the major, taking in another button of his
buff waistcoat, " he has nothing to fall back upon. But
some people will die. They will do it. Damme, they
will. They're obstinate. I tell you what, Dombey, it
may not be ornamental ; it may not be refined ; it may
be rough and tough ; but a little of the genuine old Eng-
lish Bagstock stamina, sir, would do all the good in the
to the human breed."
204 DOMBEY AND SON.
After imparting this precious piece of information, the
major, who was certainly true-blue, whatever other en-
dowments 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-compla-
cent, 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-colored curtains, which were carried down to
shed their bloom upon her.
It was settled in high council of medical authority
that she should take a carriage airing every day, and
that it was important she should get out every day and
walk if she could. Edith was ready to attend her al-
ways ready to attend her, with the same mechanical at-
tention and immovable beauty and they drove out
alone ; for Edith had an uneasiness in the presence of
Florence, now that her mother was worse, and told
Florence, with a kiss, that she would rather they two
went alone.
Mrs. Skewton, on one particular day, was in the ir-
resolute, exacting, jealous temper that had developed
itself on her recovery from her first attack. After sit-
ting 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 be-
gan to whimper and moan, and say what a mother she
DOMBEY AND SON. 205
had been, and how she was forgotten ! This she con-
tinued to do at capricious intervals, even when they had
alighted; when she herself was halting along with' the
joint support of Withers and a stick, and Edith was
walking by her side, and the carriage slowly following at
a little distance.
It was a bleak, lowering, windy day, and they were
out upon the Downs with nothing but a bare sweep of
land between them and the sky. The mother, with a
querulous satisfaction in the monotony of her complaint,
was still repeating it in a low voice from time to time,
and the proud form of her daughter moved beside her
slowly, when there came advancing over a dark ridge
before them, two other figures, which in the distance,
were so like an exaggerated imitation of their own, that
Kdith stopped.
Almost us she stopped, the two figures stop/ped ; 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 rec-
ognized enough -that was like herself to strike her with
an unusual feeling, not quite free from fear, came on
and then they came on together.
The greater part of this observation she made while
walking towards them, for her stoppage had been mo-
mentary. 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
lignity, in beauty, Edith could not but compare the
1206 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 pre-
senting something of her own. air and stature, ami ap-
pearing to reciprocate her own thoughts, she felt a chill
creep over her, as if the day were darkening, and the
wind were colder.
They had now come up. The old woman holding out
her hand importunately, stopped to beg of Mrs. Skew-
ton. 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 hei
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 unduti-
ful 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 nether with her
looks."
As Mrs. Skewton drew her purse out with a trembling
hand, and eagerly fumbled for some money, which the
other old woman greedily watched for their heads all
but touching in their hurry and decrepitude Edith in-
terposed :
" I have seen you," addressing the old woman, " be-
fore."
" Yes, my lady," with a courtesy. " Down in "War-
wickshire. The morning among the trees. When you
DOMBEY AND SON. 207
wouldn't yive me nothing. But the gentleman he give
rue something! 0, bless him, bless him ! " mumbled the
old woman, holding up her skinny hand, and grinning
frightfully at her daughter.
"It's of no use attempting to stay me, Edith! "said
Mrs. Skewton, angrily anticipating an objection from
her. " You know nothing about it. I won't be dis-
suaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and u
good mother."
' Yes, my lady, yes," chattered the old woman, hold-
ing out her avaricious hand. " Thankee, my lady.
Lord bless you, my lady. Sixpence more, my pretty
lady, as a good mother yourself."
" And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old
creature, sometimes, I assure you," said Mrs. Skewton,
whimpering. " There ! Shake hands with me. You're
a very good old creature full of what's-his-name^
and all that. You're all affection and et cetera, a'n't
you ? "
" Oh yes, my lady ! "
" Yes, I'm sure you are ; and so 's that gentlemanly
creature Grangeby. I must really shake hands with
you again. And now you can go, you know ; and I
hope," addressing the daughter, " that you'll show more
gratitude, and natural what's-its-name, and all the rest
of it but I never did remember names for there
never was a better mother than the good old creature's
b en to you. Come, Edith ! "
As the ruin of Cleopatra tottered off whimpering,
and wiping its eyes with a gingerly remembrance of
rouge in their neighborhood, the old woman hobbled
another way, mumbling and counting her money. Not
we word more, nor one other gesture, had been ex-
208 DOMBEY AND SON.
changed between Edith and the younger woman, but
neither had removed her eyes from the other for a mo-
ment. 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. Aid
you're a proud woman ; but pride won't save us. We
iftd need to know each other when we meet again ! *
DOMBEY AND SON 209
CHAPTER XLI.
NEW VOICES m THE WAVES.
ALL is going on as it was wont. The waves are
hoarse with repetition of their mystery : the dust lies
piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar and hover; the
winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight ; the
white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible
country far away.
With a tender melancholy pleasure, Florence finds
herself again on the old ground so sadly trodden, yet so
happily, and thinks of him in the quiet place, where lie
and she have many and many a time conversed together,
with the water welling up about his couch. And now,
as she sits pensive there, she hears in the wild low mur-
Diur of the sea, his little story told again, his very words
repeated ; and finds that all her life and hopes, and
griefs, since in the solitary house, and in the pageant
it has changed to have a portion in the burden of the
marvellous song.
And gentle Mr. Toots, who wanders at a distance,
looking -wistfully towards the figure that he dotes upon,
und has followed there, but cannot in his delicacy disturb
at such a time, likewise hears the requiem of little Dom-
Oey on the waters, rising and falling in the lulls of their
eternal madrigal in praise of Florence. Yes ! and he
fointly understands, poor Mr. Toots, that they are saying
VOl, Ill 14
210 DOMBEY AND SON.
Eomething 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
gatisfaction in their soothing reminder that he is re-
lieved from present responsibility to the Chicken, by the
absence of that game head of poultry in the country
training (at Toots's cost) for his great mill with the
Larkey Boy.
But Mr. Toots takes courage, when they whisper a
kind thought to him; and by slow degrees and with many
indecisive stoppages on the way, approaches Florence.
Stammering and blushing, Mr. Toots affects amazement
when he comes near her, and says (having followed closo
on the carriage in which she travelled, every inch of the
way from London, loving even to be choked by the dust
of its wheels) that he never was so surprised in all his
life.
" And you've brought Diogenes, too, Miss Dombey ! "
eays 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. Toota
has reason to observe him, for he comes straightway at
Mr. Toots's legs, and tumbles over himself in the des-
peration 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 shaine ! "
Oh ! Well may Di lay his loving cheek against her
hand, and run off, and run back, and rm round her,
barking, and run headlong at anybody coming by, to
*bow hi* devotion. Mr. Toots would run headlong at
DOMBEY AND SON 211
anybody, too. A. military gentleman goes past, and Mr
Toots would like nothing better than to run at him, full
tilt.
" Diogenes is quite in his native air, isn't be, Miss
Dombey ? " says Mr. Toots.
Florence assents, with a grateful smile.
" Miss Dombey," says Mr. Toots, " beg your pardon,
but if you would like to walk to Blimber's, I I'm going
there."
Florence puts her arm in that of Mr. Toots without
a word, and they walk away together, with Diogenes go-
ing on before. Mr. Toots's legs shake under him ; and
though he is splendidly dressed, he feels misflts, and sees
wrinkles, in the masterpieces of Burgess and Co., and
% wishes he had put on that brightest pair of boots.
Doctor Blimber's house, outside, has as scholastic and
studious an air as ever ; and up there is the window
where she used to look for the pale face, and where the
pale face brightened when it saw her, and the wasted
little hand waved kisses as she passed. The door is
opened by the same weak-eyed young man, whose im-
becility 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 au-
dience as of yore, to the sober ticking of the great clock
in the hall ; and where the globes stand still in their
accustomed places, as if the world were stationary too,
and nothing in it ever perished in obedience to the uni-
versal law, that, while it keeps it on the roll, calls every,
thing to earth.
And here is Doctor Blimber, with his learned legs ;
*nd here is Mrs. Biimber, with her sky-blue cap ; and
here is Cornelia, with her sandy little row of curls, and
212 DOMBEY AND SOX.
her bright spectacles, still working like a sexton in the
graves of languages. Here is the table upon which he
eat forlorn and strange, the " new boy " of the school
and hither comes the distant cooing of the old boys, at
their old lives in the old room on the old principle !
** Toots ! " says Doctor Blimber, " I am very glad to
sue you. Toots."
Mr. Toots chuckles in reply.
u Also to see you, Toots, in such good company," says
Doctor Blimber.
Mr. Toots, with a scarlet visage, explains that he haa
met Miss Dombey by accident, and that Miss Dombey
wishing, like himself, to see the old place, they have
come together.
"You will like," says Doctor Blimber, "to step among*
our young friends, Miss Dombey, no doubt. All fellow-
students of yours, Toots, once. I think we have no new
disciples in our little portico, my dear," says Doctor
Blimber to Cornelia, " since Mr. Toots left us."
" Except Bitherstone," returns Cornelia.
" Ay, truly," says the doctor. " Bitherstone is new to
Mr. Toots."
New to Florence, too, almost ; for, in the school-room,
Bitherstone no longer Master Bitherstone of Mrs.
Pipchin's shows in collars and a neckcloth, and wears
a watch. But Bitherstone, born beneath some Bengal
Btar of ill-omen, is extremely inky ; and his lexicon has
got so dropsical from constant reference, that it won't
hut, 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'
DOMBEY AND SON. 213
in India. He'd precious soon find himself carried jp 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
Toser, too ; and Johnson, too ; and all the rdlt the
older pupils being principally engaged in forgetting, with
prodigious labor, 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 gentlemen, by a visit from the emancipated Toots ,
who is regarded with a kind of awe, as one who has
passed the Rubicon, and is pledged never to come back,
and concerning the cut of whose clothes, and fashion of
whose jewelry, whispers go about, behind hands ; the
bilious Bitherstone, who is not of Mr. Toots's time, af-
fecting to despise the latter to the smaller boys, and
saying he knows better, and that he should like to see
him coining that sort of thing in Bengal, where hia
mother has got an emerald belonging to him, that was
taken out of the footstool of a rajah. Come now !
Bewildering emotions are awakened also by the sighv
of Florence, with whom every young gentleman imme-
diately falls in love, again; except, as aforesaid, the
bilious Bitherstone, who declines to do so, out of contra-
diction. Black jealousies of Mr. Toots arise, and Briggs
is of opinion that he a'n't so very old after all. But this
disparaging insinuation is speedily made nought by Mr.
Toots saying aloud to Mr. Feeder, B. A., " How are you,
Feeder ? " and asking him to come and dine with him
ZH DOMBEY AND SON.
today at the Bedford ; in right of which feats he mighl
Bet up as Old Parr, if he chose, unquestioned.
There is much shaking of hands, and much bowing,
and a great desire on the part of each young gentleman
to take*Toots down in Miss Dombey's good graces ; and
then, Mr. Toots having bestowed a chuckle on his old
desk, Florence and he withdraw with Mrs. Blimber and
Cornelia ; and Doctor Blimber is heard to observe be-
hind them as he comes out last, and shuts the door,
M 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 bedroom with Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia ; Mr.
Toots, who feels that neither he nor anybody else is
wanted there, stands talking to the doctor at the study-
door, or rather hearing the doctor talk to him, and won-
dering 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 piti-
lessly 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 a'n't she like
her brother, only prettier ? "
Mr. Toots, who saw when Florence came down that
there were tears upon her face, is desperately anxious
and uneasy, and at first fears that he did wrong in
proposing the visit. But he is soon relieved by her
faying she is very glad to have been there again, and
DOMBEY 'AND SON. 215
by her talking quite cheerfully about it all, as they
walked on by the sea. What with the voices there
fcnd her sweet voice, when they come near Mr. Dom-
bey'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 con-
sider 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 whaf 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 favor to me, don't."
Mr. Toots is dreadfully abashed, and his mouth opens.
" You have been so good to me," says Florence, " I
Bra so grateful to you, I have such reason to like you
tor being a kind friend to me, and I do like you sa
iuch;" and hero the ingenuous face smiles upon him
216 DOMBEY AND SON.
with tin; pleasantest look of honesty in the world ; " thai
I am sure you are only going to say good-by ! "
" Certainly, Miss Dombey," says Mr. Toots, "I I
that's exactly what I mean. It's of no consequence."
" Good-by ! " cries Florence.
" Good-by, Miss Dombey ! " stammers Mr. Toots. " 1
hope you won't think anything about it. It's it's of
no consequence, thank you. It's not of the least conse-
quence in the world."
Poor Mr. Toots goes home to his hotel in a state of
desperation, locks himself into his bedroom, flings him-
self 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 entertain-
ment.
And the generous influence of that social virtue, hos-
pitality (to make no mention of wine and good cheer),
opens Mr. Toots's heart, and warms him to conversa-
tion. He does not tell Mr. Feeder, B. A., what passed
at the corner of the square ; but when Mr. Feeder asks
him " When it is to come off? " Mr. Toots replies, " that
there are certain subjects " which brings Mr. Feeder
down a peg or two immediately. Mr. Toots adds, that
he don't know what right Blimber had to notice hia
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 require.*
DOMBEY AND ^ON. 217
that it should be mentioned mysteriously, and with feel-
ing. After a few glasses of wine, he gives Miss Dom-
bey's health, observing, " Feeder, you have no idea of
the sentiments with which I propose that toast." Mr.
Feeder replies, " Oh yes I have, my dear Toots ; and
greatly they redound to your honor, old boy." Mi.
Feeder is then agitated by friendship, and shakes hands
and says, if ever Toots wants a brother, he knows where
to find him, either by post or parcel. Mr. Feeder like-
wise says, that if he may advise, he would recommend
Mr. Toots to learn the guitar, or, at least, the flute; for
women like music when you are paying your addresses
to 'em, and he has found the advantage of it himself.
This brings Mr. Feeder, B. A., to the confession that
he has his eye upon Cornelia Blimber. He informs Mr.
Toots that he don't object to spectacles, and that if the
doctor were to do the handsome thing and give up the
business, why, there they are provided for. He says
it's his opinion that when a man has made a handsome
sum by his business, he is bound to give it up ; and that
Cornelia would be an assistance in it which any man
might be proud of. Mr. Toots replies by launching
wildly out into Miss Dombey's praises, and by insinua-
tions that sometimes he thinks he should like to blow
his brains out. Mr. Feeder strongly urges that it would
be a rash attempt, and shows him, as a reconcilement to
existence, Cornelia's portrait, spectacles and all.
Thus these quiet spirits pass the evening; and when
it has yielded place to night, Mr. Toots walks home
with Mr. Feeder, and parts with him at Doctor Klira-
ber's door. But Mr. Feeder only goes up the steps, and
when Mr. Toots is gone, comes down again, to stroll
upon the beach alone, and think about his prospects,
218 DOMBEY AND SOW.
Mr. Feeder plainly hears the waves informing him, u
he loiters along, that Doctor Blimber will give up the
business ; and he feels a soft romantic pleasure in look-
ing at the outside of the house, and thinking that the
doctor will first paint it, and put it into thorough re-
pair.
Mr. Toots is likewise roaming up and down, outside
the casket that contains his jewel ; and in a deplorable
condition of mind, and not unsuspected by the police,
gazes at a window where he sees a light, and which he
has no doubt is Florence's. But it is not, for that is
Mrs. Skewton's room ; and while Florence, sleeping in
another chamber, dreams lovingly, in the midst of the
old scenes, and their old associations live again, the figure
which in grim reality is substituted for the patient boy's
on the same theatre, once more to connect it but how
differently ! with decay and death, is stretched there,
wakeful and complaining. Ugly and haggard it lies upon
its bed of unrest ; and by it, in the terror of her unim-
passioned 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 !
u Edith, what is that stone arm raised to strike me..
Don't you see it?"
" There is nothing, mother, but your fancy."
u But my fancy ! Everything is my fancy. Look 1
la it possible that you don't see it ! "
" Indeed, mother, there is nothing. Should I sit un-
moved, if there were any such thing there ?"
" Unmoved ? " looking wildly at her " it's gone no*
and why are you so unmoved ? That is not my
fancy, Edith. It turns me cold to see you sitting at mj
side."
DOMBEY AND SON. 219
" I am sorry mother."
" Sorry ! You seem always sorry. But it is not for
me ! "
With that, she cries ; and tossing her restless head
from side to side upon her pillow, runs on about neglect,
and the mother she has been, and the mother the good
old creature was, whom they met, and the cold return
the daughters of such mothers make. In the midst of
her incoherence, she stops, looks at her daughter, cries
out that her wits are going, and hides her face upon
the bed.
Edith, in compassion, bends over her and speaks to
her. The sick old woman clutches her round the neck,
and says, with a look of horror,
" Edith ! we are going home soon ; going back. You
mean that I shall go home again ? "
" Yes mother, yes."
" And what he said what's his name, I never could
remember names major that dreadful word, when
we came away it's not true? Edith!" with a shriek
and a stare, " it's not that that is the matter with me."
Night after night, the light burns in the window, and
the figure lies upon the bed, and Edith sits beside it,
and the restless waves are calling to them both the whole
night long. Night after night, the waves are hoarse
with repetition of their mystery ; the dust lies piled
upon the shore ; tli sea-birds soar and hover ; the winds
and clouds are on their trackless flight ; the white arras
beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far
away.
And still the sick old woman looks into the corner,
ivhere the stone arm part of a figuie of some tomb,
ghe cays is raised to strike her. At last it falls ; and
220 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 the good old creature who
was such a mother, and making mouths as it peers
among the crowd ia vain. Such is the figure that i?
often wheeled down to the margin of the sea, and sta
tioned there ; but on which no wind can blow freshness,
and for which the murmur of the ocean has no soothing
word. She lies and listens to it by the hour ; but its
speech is dark and gloomy to her, and a dread is on
her face, and when her eyes wander over the expanse,
they see but a broad stretch of desolation between earth
and heaven.
Florence she seldom sees, and when she does, is angry
with and mows at. Edith is beside her always, and
keeps Florence away; and Florence, in her bed at night,
trembles at the thought of death in such a shape, and
often wakes and listens, thinking it has come. No one
attends on her but Edith. It is better that few eyes
should see her ; and her daughter watches alone by the
bedside.
A shadow even on that shadowed face, a sharpening
even of the sharpened features, and a thickening of the
veil before the eyes into a pall that shuts out the dim
world, is come. Her wandering hands upon the cov-
erlet join feebly palm to palm, and move towards her
daughter; and a voice not like hers, not like any voice
that speaks our mortal language says " For I nursed
you
Edith, without a tear, kneels down to bring her voice
loser to the. sinking head, and answers :
DOMBEY AND SON. 221
" 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 an end between us. I say so now, again.
Kiss me, mother."
Edith touches the white lips, and for a moment all ia
Btill. A moment afterwards, her mother, with her girl-
ish laugh, and the skeleton of the Cleopatra manner,
rises in her bed.
Draw the rose-colored curtains. There is something
else upon its flight besides the wind and clouds. Draw
the rose-colored 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 re-
ceived it too. A good-natured creature like Cousin Fee-
nix 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 &oul, I am
very much shocked to see you on such a melancholy occa-
sion. My poor aunt ! She was a devilish lively woman."
Mr. Dombey replies, " Very much so."
" And made up," says Cousin Feenix, " really young,
you know, considering. I am sure, on the day of your
marriage, I thought she was good for another twenty
years. In point of fact, I said so to a man at Brooks's
little Billy Joper you know him, no doubt man
with a glass in his eye ? "
222 DOMBEY AND SOW.
Mr. Dombey bows a negative. " ID reference to the
obsequies," he hints, " whether there is any sugges-
tion "
" Well, upon my life," says Cousin Feenix, stroking
his chin, which he has just enough of hand below his
wristbands to do ; "I really don't know. There's a
Mausoleum down at my place, in the park, but I'm
afraid it's in bad repair, and, in point of fact, in a devil
of a state. But for being a little out at elbows, T
should have had it put to rights ; but I believe the peo-
ple 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 ohurch in the village,"
says Cousin Feenix, thoughtfully ; " pure specimen of
the Anglo-Norman style, and admirably well sketched
too by tady Jane Finchbury woman with tight stays
but they've spoilt it with whitewash, I understand, and
it's a long journeyt"
" Perhaps Brighton itself," Mr. Dombey suggests.
" Upon my honor, Dombey, I don't think we could do
better," says Cousin Feenix. " It's on the spot, you see,
and a very cheerful place."
" And when," hints Mr. Dombey, " would it be con-
venieqt ? "
u I shall make a point," says Cousin Feenix, " of
pledging myself for ^>ny day you think best. I shall
have great pleasure (melancholy pleasure, of course) in
following my poor aunt to the confines of the in
point of fact, to the grave," says Cousin Feenix. failm?
m the other turn of speech
'* Would Monday do for leaving town ? " says $1
Dorabey.
DOMBEY AND SON. 229
" Monday would suit me to perfection," replies Cousin
Feenix. Therefore Mr. Dombey arranges to take Cousin
Feenix down on that day, and presently takes his leave,
attended to the stairs by Cousin Feenix, who says, at
parting, " I'm really excessivelysorry, Dombey, that you
should have so much trouble about it ; " to which Mr
I torn bey answers, " Not at all."
At the appointed time, Cousin Feenix and Mr. Dom-
bey meet, and go down to Brighton, and representing, in
tliL-ir 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, recognizes
innumerable acquaintances on the road, but takes no
other notice of them, in decorum, than checking them
off aloud, as they go by, for Mr. Dombey's information,
as " Tom Johnson. Man with cork leg, from White's.
What are you here, Tommy ? Foley on a blood mare.
The Smalder girls " and so forth. At the ceremony
Cousin Feenix is depressed, observing, that these are
the occasions to make a man think, in point of fact, that
he is getting shaky ; and his eyes are really moistened,
when it is over. But he soon recovers ; and so do the
rest of Mrs. Skewton's relatives and friends, of whom
the major continually tells the club that she never did
wrap up enough ; while the young lady with the back,
who has so much trouble with her eyelids, says, with a
little scream, that she must have been enormously old,
und 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
Lhe shore, and to the white arms that are beckoning, in
224 DOMBEY AND SON.
the moonlight, to the invisible country far away. But
all goes on, as it was wont, upon the margin of the un
known sea ; and Edith standing there alone, and listou-
iiig to its waves, has dank weed cast up at her feet, to
her path in life withal.
DOMBEY AND SON. 225
CHAPTER XLII.
CONFIDENTIAL AND ACCIDENTAL.
AITIRED no more in Captain Cuttle's sable slops and
Bou'-wester hat, but dressed in a substantial suit of brown
livery, which, while it affected to be a very sober and
demure livery indeed, was really as self-satisfied and con-
fident a one as tailor need desire to make, Rob the
Grinder, thus transformed as to his outer man, and all
regardless within of the captain and the Midshipman,
except wnen he devoted a few minutes of his leisure
time to crowing over those inseparable worthies, and re-
calling, with much applauding music from that brazen in-
strument, his conscience, the triumphant manner in which
he had disembarrassed himself of their company, now
served his patron, Mr. Carker. Inmate of Mr. Carker's
house, and serving about his person, Rob kept his round
eyes on the white teeth with fear and trembling, and felt
that he had need to open them wider than ever.
He could not have quaked more, through his whole
being, before the teeth, though he had come into the ser-
vice of some powerful enchanter, and they had been his
strongest spells. The boy had a sense of power and
authority in this patron of his that engrossed his whole
Attention and exacted his most implicit submission and
obedience. He hardly considered himself safe in think-
ttig about him when he was absent, lest he should f*jJ
VOL. Ill 15
226 DOMBET AND SON.
himself immediately taken by the throat again, as on the
morning when he first became bound to him, and should
see every one of the teeth finding him out, and taxing
him with every fancy of his mind. Face to face with
him, Rob had no more doubt that Mr. Carker read his
secret thoughts, or that he could read them by the least
exertion of his will if be 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 en-
thralment, that, hardly daring to think at all, but with
his mind filled with a constantly dilating impression of
his patron's irresistible command over him, and power
of doing anything with him, he would stand watching
his pleasure, and trying to anticipate his orders, in a
state of mental suspension, as to all other things.
Rob had not informed himself perhaps in his then
state of mind it would have been an act of no common
temerity to inquire whether he yielded so completely
to this influence in any part, because he had floating
suspicions of his patron's being a master of certain
treacherous arts in which he had himself been a poor
scholar at the Grinders' School. But certainly Rob
admired him, as well as feared him. Mr. Carker, per-
haps, was better acquainted with the sources of his
power, which lost nothing by his management of it.
On the very night when he left the captain's service,
Rob, after disposing of his pigeons, and even making a
bad bargain in his hurry, had gone straight down to Mr.
Carker's house, and hotly presented himself before hia
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 *o
Die ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. 227
" Oh if you please, sir," faltered Rob, " you said, you
know, when I come here last "
" /said." returned Mr. Carker, " what did I say ?"
" If you please, sir, you didn't say nothing at all, sir,"
returned Rob, warned by the manner of this inquiry
and very much disconcerted.
His patron looked at him with a wide display of gums,
and shaking his forefinger, observed :
" You'll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, I
foresee. There's ruin in store for you."
" Oh if you please, don't, sir ! " cried Rob, with his
logs trembling under him. " I'm sure, sir, I only want
to work for you, sir, and to wait upon you, sir, and to do
faithful whatever I'm bid, sir."
" You had better do faithfully whatever you are bid,**
returned his patron, " if you have anything to do with
me."
" Yes, I know that, sir," pleaded the submissive Rob ;
" I'm sure of that, sir. If you'll only be so good as try
me, sir ! And if ever you find me out, sir, doing any-
thing against your wishes, I give you leave to kill me."
" You dog ! " said Mr. Carker, leaning back in his
chair, and smiling at him serenely. " That's nothing to
what I'd do to you, if you tried to deceive me."
" Yes, sir," replied the abject Grinder, " I'm sure
you would be down upon me dreadful, sir. I wouldn't
attempt for to go and do it, sir, not if I was bribed with
golden guineas."
Thoroughly checked in his expectation of commenda-
tion, the crest-fallen Grinder stood looking at his patror,
and vainly endeavoring not to look at him, with the un-
easiness which a cur will often manifest ir A sirailni
situation.
228 DOMBEY AND SON.
" So you have left your old service, and come here to
ask me to take you into mine, eh ? " said Mr. Carker.
" Yes, if you please, sir," returned Rob, who, in doing
BO, had acted on his patron's own instructions, but dared
riot justify himself by the least insinuation to that ef-
fect.
; ' Well ! " said Mr. Carker. " You know me, boy ? "
" Please, sir, yes, sir," returned Rob, fumbling with hia
hat, and still fixed by Mr. Carker's eye, and fruitlessly
endeavoring to unfix himself.
Mr. Carker nodded. " Take care then ! "
Rob expressed in a number of short bows his lively
understanding of this caution, and was bowing himself
back to the door, greatly relieved by the prospect of
getting on the outside of it, when his patron stopped
him.
" Halloa ! " he cried, calling him roughly back. " You
have been shut that door."
Rob obeyed as if-his life had depended on his alacrity.
" You have been used to eavesdropping. Do you
know what that means ? "
" Listening, sir ? " Rob hazarded, after some embays
rassed reflection.
His patron nodded. " And watching, and so forth."
" I wouldn't do such a thing here, sir," answered Rob ;
" upon my word and honor, 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," aaid his patron with perfect cool
aess. " Beware of that here, or you're a lost rascal-'
DOMBEY AND SON. 229
and he smiled again, and again cautioned him with his
forefinger.
The Grinder's breath came short and thick with con-
sternation. He tried to protest the purity of his inten-
tions, 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 understand that he was retained in his
employment.
This was the manner of Rob the Grinder's engage-
ment by Mr. Carker, and his awe-stricken devotion to
that gentleman had strengthened and increased, if possi-
ble, with every minute of his service.
It was a service of some months' duration, when early
one morning, Rob opened the garden-gate to Mr. Dom-
bey, 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 occa-
sion is very special to a man like you, who may do any-
thing'; but to a man like me, the case is widely different."
"You have a tasteful place here, Carker," said Mr
Dombey, condescending to stop upon the lawn, to look
about him.
" You can afford to say so," returned Carker. " Thank
you."
" Indeed," said Mr. Dombey, in his lofty patronage,
'' any one might say so. As far as it goes, it is a very
commodious and well-arranged place quite elegant."
230 DOMBEY AND SON.
u As far as it goes, truly," returned Carker, with an
air of disparagement. " It wants that qualification.
Well ! we have said enough about it ; and though you
Kin afford 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
humility, received this notice with a deferential smile,
and said he understood its delicate meaning, and appreci-
ated it, but in truth the cottage was good enough for one
in his position better, perhaps, than such a man should
occupy, poor as it was.
" But perhaps to you, who are so far removed, it really
does look better than it is," he said, with his false mouth
distended to its fullest stretch. " Just as raonarchs im-
agine attractions in the lives of beggars."
He directed a sharp glance and a sharp smile at Mr.
Dombey as he spoke, and a sharper glance, and a sharper
smile yet, when Mr. Dombey, drawing himself up before
the fire, in the attitude so often copied by his second in
command, looked round at the pictures on the walls.
Cursorily as his cold eye wandered over them, Carter's
keen glance accompanied his, and kept pace witn his,
marking exactly where it went, and what it saw. As it
rested on one picture in particular, Carker hardly seemed
*o breathe, his sidelong scrutiny was so catlike and vigi-
lant, but the eye of his great chief passed from that, aa
from the others, and appeared no more impressed by it
than by the rest
Carker looked at it it was tho picture that re-
iembled Edith as if it were a living thing; and with
DOMBEY AND SON. 231
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 hia
own seat opposite to it as usual.
Mr. Uombey was even graver than it was his custom
to be, and quite silent. The parrot, swinging in the
gilded hoop within her gaudy cage, attempted in vain to
attract notice, for Carker was too observant of his visitor
to heed her ; and the visitor, abstracted in meditation,
looked fixedly, not to say sullenly, over his stiff neck-
cloth, without raising his eyes from the table-cloth. As
to Rob, who was in attendance, all his faculties and
energies were so locked up in observation of his master,
that he scarcely ventured to give shelter to the thought
that the visitor was the great gentleman before whom he
had been carried as a certificate of the family health, in
his childhood, and to whom he had been indebted for hia
leather smalls. ,
" Allow me," said Carker, suddenly, ; ' to ask how Mrs,
Dombey is ? "
He leaned forward obsequiously, as he made the in-
quiry, with his chin resting on his hand ; and at the
same time his eyes went up to the picture, as if be
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,
oi some conversation that I wish to have with you."
" Robin, you can leave us," said his master, at wborfo
mild tones Robin stalled and disappeared, with his eyes
fixed on his patron to the last. " You don't remember
that boy, of course ? " ha added, when the immeshed
^rindcr was gone.
232 DOMBEY AND SON.
" No," said Mr. Dombey. with magnificent indifFer-
ence.
" Not likely that a man like you would. Hardly pos-
sible," murmured Carker. " But he is one of that fam-
ily 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 Car-
ker, 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
recognized connection with your affairs is merely of a
business character, still I have that spontaneous interest
in everything belonging to you, that "
He stopped again, as if to discover whether he had
led Mr. Dombey far enough yet And again, with his
chin resting on his hand, he leered at the picture.
" Carker," said Mr. Dombey, " I am sensible that you
do not limit your "
" Service," suggested his smiling entertainer.
"No; I prefer to say your regard," observed Mr
Dombey ; very sensible, as he said so, thai he was pay-
ing him a handsome and flattering compliment, "to oui
mere business relations. Your consideration for my
feelings, hopes, and disappointments, in the little in-
stance you have just now mentioned, is an example in
ooint. I am obliged to you, Carker."
Mr. Carker bent his head slowly, and very softly
DOMBEY AND SON. 233
rubbed hiu hands, as if he were afraid Ly any action to
disturb the current of Mr. Dombey's confidence.
"Your allusion to it is opportune," said Mr. Dombey
after a little hesitation, " for it prepares the way to whal
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 honored I
am ; for a man like you well knows how much honor he
has in his power to bestow at pleasure."
u Mrs. Dombey and myself," said Mr. Dombey, pass-
ing this compliment with august self-denial, "are not
quite agreed upon some points. We do not appear to
understand each other yet. Mrs. Dombey has some-
thing to learn."
" Mrs. Dombey is distinguished by many rare attrac-
tions ; and has been accustomed, no doubt, to receive
much adulation," said the smooth, sleek watcher of hi?
slightest look and tone. " But where there is affection
duty, and respect, any little mistakes engendered by
such causes are soon set right."
Mr. Dombey's thoughts instinctively flew back to the
face that had looked at him in his wife's dressing-room,
when an imperious hand was stretched towards the door;
and remembering the affection, duty, and respect, ex-
pressed in it, he felt the blood rush to his own face
quite as plainly as the watchful eyes upon him saw it
'.here.
" 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
234 DOMBEY AND SON.
formed a general understanding from having been a
witness of what passed between Mrs. Dombey and my-
self 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 ne-
cessarily must be of your familiar notice though I give
you no credit for it ; you may do anything you please
without losing caste and honored as I was by an early
presentation to Mrs. Dombey, before she was made em-
inent by bearing your name, I almost regretted that
night, I assure you, that I had been the object of such
especial good fortune."
That any man could, under any possible circumstances,
regret the being distinguished by his condescension and
patronage, was a moral phenomenon which Mr. Dombey
could not comprehend. He therefore responded, with a
considerable accession of dignity. " Indeed ! And
why, Carker ? "
" I fear," returned the confidential agent, " that Mrs.
Dombey, never very much disposed to regard me with
favorable interest one in my position could not expect
that, from a lady naturally proud, and whose pride be-
comes 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 /am the first consideration ?"
' Oh ! Can there be a doubt about it ? " replied the
jther, with the impatience of a man admitting a noto-
p'ous and incontrovertible fact.
"Mrs. Dombey becomes a secondary consideration
DOMBEY AND SON. 235
when we are both in question, I imagine," said Mr. Dora
bey. "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 Mrs. Dombey's displeasure,
may be almost counterbalanced by your satisfaction in
retaining my confidence and good opinion."
" I have the misfortune, I find," returned Carker, " to
have incurred that displeasure. Mrs. Dombey has ex-
pressed 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 in-
clined to discuss, or to recall. I made Mrs. Dombey ac-
quainted, 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. 1 failed to con-
vince Mrs. Dombey of the expediency of her immedi-
ately altering her conduct in those respects, with a view
to her own peace and welfare, and my dignity ; and I
informed Mrs. Dombey that if I should find it necessary
to object or remonstrate again, I should express my
opinion to her through yourself, my confidential agent."
Blended with the look that Carker bent upon him, was
a devilish look at the picture over his head, that struck
upon it like a flash of lightning.
" Now, Carker," said Mr. Dombey, " I do not hesitate
to say to you that I will carry my point. I am not to
be trifled with. Mrs. Dombey must understand that my
will is law, and (hat 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
236 DOMBEY AND SON.
unacceptable to you, I hope, whatever regret you may
politely profess for which I am obliged to you on be-
half of Mrs. Dombey ; and you will have the goodness,
I am persuaded, to discharge it as exactly as any othe
commission."
" You know," said Mr. Carker, " that you have only to
command me."
" I know," said Mr. Dombey, with a majestic indi-
cation of assent, " that I have only to command you. It
is necessary that I should proceed in this. Mrs. Dom-
bey is a lady undoubtedly highly qualified, in many re-
spects, to "
" To do credit even to your choice," suggested Carker,
with a fawning show of teeth.
" Yes ; if you please to adopt that form of words,"
said Mr. Dombey, in his tone of state ; " and at present
I do not conceive that Mrs. Dombey does that credit to
it, to which it is entitled. There is a principle of oppo-
sition 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
BO. 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 c-n my expressing my disapprobation and determi-
nation to her, with some severity, on the occasion to
which I have referred, my admonition appeared to pro-
duce a very powerful effect." Mr. Dombey delivered
himself of tlwse words with most portentous stateliness.
DOMBEY AND SON. 237
" I wish you to have the goodness, then, to inform Mrs.
Dombey, Carker, from me, that I must recall our former
conversation to her remembrance, in some surprise that
it has not yet had its effect. That I must insist upon
her regulating her conduct by the injunctions laid upon
her in that conversation. That I am not satisfied with
her conduct. That I am greatly dissatisfied with it. And
(hat I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity of
making you the bearer of yet more unwelcome and ex-
plicit 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 fir^t Mrs. Dombey lived very happily," said
Carker.
" The first Mrs. Dombey had great good sense," said
Mi-. Dombey, in a gentlemanly toleration of the dead,
' and very correct feeling."
" Is Miss Dombey like her .mother, do you think ? "
said Carker.
Suiftly and darkly, Mr. Dombey's face changed. His
confidential agent eyed it keenly.
" I have approached a painful subject," he said, in a
soft regretful tone of voice, irreconcilable with his eager
eye. " Pray forgive me. I forget these chains of asso-
ciation in the interest I have. Pray forgive me. '
But for all he said, his eager eye scanned Mr. Dom-
bey's downcast face none the less closely ; and then it
shot a strange triumphant look at the picture, as appeal-
ing to it to bear witness how he led him on again, and
what was coining.
" Carker." said Mr. Dombey, looking here and there
upon the table, and speaking in a somewhat altered and
ISS DOMBET AND SON.
Tnore hurried voice, and with a paler lip, " there is no
occasion for apology. You mistake. The association is
with the matter in hand, and not with any recollection,
as you suppose. I do not approve of Mrs. Dombey's
behavior towards my daughter."
" Pardon me," said Mr. Carker, " I don't quite undei-
stand."
" Understand then," returned Mr. Dombey, " that yon
may make that that you will make that, if you please
matter of direct objection from me to Mrs. Dombey.
You will please to tell her that her show of devotion for
my daughter is disagreeable to me. It is likely to be
noticed. It is likely to induce people to contrast Mrs.
Dombey in her relation towards my daughter, with Mrs.
Dombey in her relation towards myself. You will have
the goodness to let Mrs. Dombey know, plainly, that I
object to it ; and that I expect her to defer, immediately,
to my objection. Mrs. Dombey may be in earnest, or
she may be pursuing a whim, or she may be opposing
me ; but I object to it in any case, and in every case.
If Mrs. Dombey is in earnest, so much the less reluctant
should she be to desist ; for she will not serve my
daughter by any such display. If my wife has any
superfluous gentleness, and duty over and above her
proper submission to me, she may bestow them where
she pleases, perhaps ; but I will have submission first!
Carker," said Mr. Dombey, checking the unusual emo-
tion with which he had spoken, and falling into a tone
more like that in which he was accustomed to assert hia
greatness, " you will have the goodness not to omit ot
*lur this point, but to consider it a very important part
if your instructions."
Mr. Carker bowed his head, and rising from the table.
DOMBEY AND SON. 239
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 l v y de-
grees, or cooling his emotion in his sense of having aken
a high position, sat gradually stiffening again, and look-
ing at the parrot as she swung to and fro, in her i;reat
wedding-ring.
" I beg your pardon," said Carter, after a silence, sud-
denly resuming his chair, and drawing it opposite to Mr.
Dombey's, " but let me understand. Mrs. Dombey is
aware of the probability of your making me the organ
of your displeasure ? "
" Yes," replied Mr. Dombey. " I have said so."
"Yes," rejoined Carker, quickly; "but why?"
' Why ! " Mr. Dombey repeated, not without hesita-
tion. " Because I told her."
. " Ay," replied Carker. " But why did you tell her ?
You see," he continued with a smile, and softly laying
his velvet hand, as a cat might have laid its sheathed
claws, on Mr. Dombey's arm ; "if I perfectly understand
what is in your mind, I am so much more likely to be
useful, and to have the happiness of being effectually
employed. I think I do understand. I have not the
honor of Mrs. Dombey's good opinion. In my position,
I have no reason to expect it ; but I take the fact to be,
t iat I have not got it ? "
" Possibly not," said Mr. Dombey.
" Consequently," pursued Carker, " your making ihese
V>mmunications to Mrs. Dombey through me, is sure to
be particularly unpalatable to that lady ? "
"It appears to me," said Mr. Dombey, with haughty
HO DOMBEY AND SON.
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
Corker, "when I think you descry in this, a like?y means
of humbling Mrs. Dombey's pride I use the word as
expressive of a quality which, kept within due bounds,
adorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her beauty
and accomplishments and, not to say of punishing her,
but of reducing her to the submission you so naturally
and justly require?"
" I am not accustomed, Carker, as you know," said
Mr. Dombey, " to give such close reasons for any course
of conduct I think proper to adopt, but I will gainsay
nothing of this. If you have any objection to found upon
it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere statement
that you have one will be sufficient. But I have not
supposed, I confess, that any confidence I could intrust
to you, would be likely to degrade you "
" Oh ! 1 degraded ! " exclaimed Carker. " In your
service ! "
'* or to place you," pursued Mr. Dombey, " in a
false position."
" / in a false position ! " exclaimed Carker. " I shall
be proud delighted to execute your trust. 1 could
have wished, I own, to have given the lady at whose feet
I would lay my humble duty and devotion for is slit:
not your wife! no new cause of dislike; but a wish
from you is, of course, paramount to every other con-
sideration 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.
DOMBEY AND SON. 241
I shall hope that she will perceive in the slight part 1
take, only a grain my removed and different sphere
gives room for little more of the respect for you, and
sacrifice of all considerations to you, of which it will be
her pleasure and privilege to garner up a great store
every day."
Mr. Dombey seemed, at the moment, again to see her
with her hand stretched out towards the door, and again
to hear through the mild speech of his confidential agenl
an echo of the words, " Nothing can make us stranger to
each other than we are henceforth ! " But he shook off
the fancy, and did not shake in his resolution, and said,
" Certainly, no doubt."
"There is nothing more," quoth Carker, drawing his
chair back to its old place for they had taken little
breakfast as yet and pausing for an answer before
he sat down.
" Nothing," said Mr. Domboy, " 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 be-
come me to temporize 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 cre-
dentials, and they fell to breakfast with what appetite
they might. The Grinder also, in due time, reappeared,
keeping his eyes upon his master without a moment's
respite, and passing the time in a revery of worshipful
terror. Breakfast concluded, Mr. Dombey's horse was
ordered out again, and Mr. Carker mounting his own,
\hey rode off for the City together.
Mr. Carker was in capital spirits, and talked much,
VOL. III. 16
i42 DOMBEY AND SON.
Mr. Dombey received his conversation with the sever
eign 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 character-
istically enough. But Mr. Dombey, in his dignity, rodo
with very long stirrups, and a very loose rein, and very
rarely deigned to look down to see where his horse went.
In consequence of which it happened that Mr. Dombey's
horse, while going at a round trot stumbled on some loose
stones, threw him, rolled over him, and lashing out with
his iron-shod feet, in his struggles to get up, kicked him.
Mr. Carker, quick of eye, steady of hand, and a good
horseman, was afoot, and had the struggling animal upon
his legs and by the bridle, in a moment. Otherwise that
morning's confidence would have been Mr. Dombey's
last. Yet even with the flush and "hurry of this action
red upon him, he bent over his prostrate chief with
every tooth disclosed, and muttered as he stooped down,
"I have given goed cause of offence to Mrs. Dombey
now, if she knew it ! "
Mr. Dombey being insensible, and bleeding from the
head and face, was carried by certain menders of the
road, under Carker's direction, to the nearest public-
house, which was not far off, and where he was soon at-
tended by divers surgeons, who arrived in quick succes-
sion from all parts, and who seemed to come by some
mysterious instinct, as vultures are said to gather about
a camel who dies in the desert. After being at some
pains to restore him to consciousness, thes*> gentlemen
examined into the nature of his injuries. One surgeon
who lived hard by was strong for a compound fracture
f the leg, which was the landlord's opinion abo; but
two surgeons who lived at a distance, and were only in
DOMBEY AND SON. 243
that neighborhood by accident, combated this opinion so
disinterestedly, that it was decided at last thnt the pa
tient, 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, lie checked his white-legged horse into pick-
ing 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 affair of
importance. The servant who showed him to Mr. Dom-
bey'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 recep-
tion, wrote upon a card that he must take the liberty of
pressing for an interview, and that he would not be so
bold as to do so, for the second time (this he underlined),
f he were not equally sure of the occasion being suf-
ficient for his justification. After a trifling delay, Mrs,
Dombey's maid appeared, and conducted him to a mri>
244 DOMBEI A-ND SON.
ing room up-stairs, where Edith and Florence were to
gether.
He had never thought Edith half so beautiful be-
fore. 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 beau-
tiful.
Her glance fell haughtily upon him in the door-way ;
but he looked at Florence though only in the act of
bending his head, as he came in with some irrepres-
sible expression of the new power he held ; and it was
his triumph to see the glance droop and falter, and to
see that Edith half rose up to receive him.
He was very sorry, he was deeply grieved ; he couldn't
say with what unwillingness he came to prepare her for
the intelligence of a very slight accident. He entreated
Mrs. Dombey to compose herself. Upon his sacred
word of honor, there was no cause of alarm. But Mr.
Dombey
Florence uttered a sudden cry. He did not look at
her, but at Edith. Edith composed and reassured hei.
She uttered no cry of distress. No, no.
Mr. Dombey had met with an accident in riding. Hia
horse had slipped, and he had been thrown.
Florence wildly exclaimed that he was badly hurt ;
that he was killed !
No. Upon his honor, 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,
be, the distressed intruder, never could have had the
courage to present himself before Mrs. Dombey. It was
the truth indeed, he solemnly assured her.
All this he said as if he were answering Edith, and
UOMBEY AND SON. 245
not Florence, and with his eyes and his smile fastened
on Edith.
He then went on to tell her where Mr. Dornbey was
lying, and to request that a carriage might be placed at
his disposal to bring him home.
4i Mama." faltered Florence in tears, " If I might ven
hire to go ! "
Mr. Carker, having his eyes on Edith when he heard
these words, gave her a secret look and slightly shook hia
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 after-
wards, when she turned her eyes away.
"lam directed to request," he said, "that the new
house-keeper 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 ia
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, be-
rieve me."
He bowed himself out, with his extremest show of
Reference and conciliation ; and having returned to Mr.
Oombey's room, arid there arranged for a carriage being
ent after him to the City, mounted his hor^e again, and
246 DOMBEY AND
rode slowly thither. He was very -thoughtful as he went
along, and very thoughtful there, and very thoughtful in
the carriage oa his way back to the place where Mr.
Dorabey had been left. It was only when sitting by that
gentleman's couch that he was quite himself again, and
conscious of his teeth.
About the time of twilight, Mr. Dombey, grievously
afflicted with aches and pains, was helped into his car-
riage, and propped with cloaks and pillows on one side
of it, while his confidential agent bore him company
upon the other. As he was not to be shaken, they moved
at little more than a foot pace ; and hence it was quite
dark when he was brought home. Mrs. Pipchin, bitter
and grim, and not oblivious of the Peruvian mines, as
the establishment in general had good reason to know,
received him at the door, and freshened the domestics
with several little sprinklings of wordy vinegar, while
they assisted in conveying him to his room. Mr. Carker
remained in attendance until he was safe in bed, and
then, as he declined to receive any female visitor, but the
excellent Ogress who presided over his household, waited
on Mrs. Dombey once more, with his report on her lord's
condition.
He again found Edith alone with Florence, and he
again addressed the whole of his soothing speech to
Edith, as if she were a prey to the liveliest and most
affectionate anxieties. So earnest he was in his respect-
ful 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 hia
lips.
Edith did not withdraw the hand, nor did she strike
*iis fair face with it, despite the flush upon her *.heek.
DOMBEY AND SON. 247
the bright light in her eyes, and the dilation of her
whole form. But when she was alone in her own room,
she struck it on the marble chimney-shelf, so that, at one
blow, it was bruised, and bled ; and held it from her,
near the shining fire, as if she could have thrust it in
and burned it.
Far into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze,
in dark and threatening beauty, watching the murky
shadows looming on the wall, as if her thoughts were
tangible, and cast them there. Whatever shapes of out-
rage and affront, and black foreshadowings of things
that might happen, flickered, indistinct and giant-like,
before her, one resented figure marshalled them against
bar. And that figure was her husband.
248 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT.
FLORENCE, long since awakened from her dream,
mournfully observed the estrangement between her fathei
and Edith, and saw it widen more and more, and knew
that there was greater bitterness between them every
day. Each day's added knowledge deepened the shade
upon her love and hope, roused up the old sorrow that
had slumbered for a little time, and made it even heavier
to bear than it had been before.
It had been hard how hard may none but Florence
ever know ! to have the natural affection of a true and
earnest nature turned to agony ; and slight, or stern re-
pulse, substituted for the tenderest protection and the
dearest care. It had been hard to feel in her deep
heart what she had felt, and never know the happiness
of one touch of response. But it was much more hard
to be compelled to doubt either her father or Edith, so
affectionate and dear to her, and to think of her Jove
tor each -^of them, by turns, with fear, distrust, and
wonder.
Yet Florence now began to do so ; and the doing of
it was a task imposed upon her by the very purity of
her soul, as one she could not fly from. She saw her
father cold and obdurate to Edith, as to her ; hard, in-
dexible, unyielding. Could it be, she asked herself witb
DOMBEY AND SOX. 249
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 unnatural child who
added this wrong to the old fault, so much wept for, of
never having won his fatherly affection from her birth.
The- next kind word from Edith, the next kind glance,
would shake these thoughts again, and make them seem
like black ingratitude ; for who but she had cheered the
drooping heart of Florence, so lonely and so hurt, and
been its best of comforters ! Thus, with her gentle na-
ture yearning to them both, feeling the misery of both,
and whispering doubts of her own duty to both, Flor-
ence in her wider and expanded love, and by the side
of Edith, endured more, than when she had hoarded up
her undivided secret in the mournful house, and her
beautiful mama had never dawned upon it.
One exquisite unhappiness that would have far out-
weighed 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 tho
possibility of such an effect being wrought by such a
cause, what grief she would have felt, what sacrifice
she would have tried to make, poor loving girl, how fast
and sure her quiet passage might have beer beneath it
o the presence of that higher Father who does not re-
250 DOMBEY AND SON.
ject bis 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 affairs her father was brought home
suffering and disabled : and gloomily retired to his own
rooms, where he was tended by servants, not approached
by Edith, and had no friend or companion but Mr. Carker,
who withdrew near midnight.
" And nice company he is, Miss Floy," said Susan
Nipper. " Oh, he's a precious piece of goods ! If ever
he wants a character don't let him come to me whatever
he does, that's all I tell him."
" Dear Susan," urged Florence, " don't ! "
" Oh it's very well to say ' don't' Miss Floy," returned
the Nipper, much exasperated ; " but raly begging your
pardon we're coming to such passes that it turns all the
blood in a person's body into pins and needles, with their
pints all ways. Don't mistake me, Miss Floy, I don't
mean nothing again your ma-in-law who has always
treated me as a lady should though she is rather high 1
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 growing too outrageous ! "
" Papa thinks well of Mrs. Pipchin, Susan," returned
Florence, " and has a right to choose his house-keeper
fou know. Pray don't ! "
DOMBU AND SON. 251
" Well, Miss Floy," returned the Nipper, " uhen you
say don't, I never do I hope, but Mrs. Pipchin actg
like early gooseberries upon me miss, and nothing
less."
Susan was unusually emphatic and destitute of punc-
tuation in her discourse on this night, which was tho
night of Mr. Dombey's being brought home, because,
having been sent down-stairs by Florence to inquire
after him, she had been obliged to deliver her message
to her mortal enemy Mrs. Pipchin ; who, without carry-
ing it in to Mr. Dombey had taken upon herself to re-
turn 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, like 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 at-
tached 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
% art of her own dominion to the handsome wife, without
grudge and a vague feeling 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
252 DOMBEY AND SON.
necessarily retired somewhat, since the marriage, Miss
Nipper looked on, therefore, at domestic affairs in gen-
eral, with a resolute conviction that no good would come
of Mrs. Doiubey ; always being very careful to publish
on all 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."
u 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, Misa
Floy and I'm thankful for it I'm sure. I've not a word
to say against 'em."
u 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 Nip-
per, that she fell a-sobbing.
" Now my dear Miss Floy," said Susan, '' let me go
down-stairs again and see how your pa is, I know you're
wretched about him, do let me go down-stairs again and
knock at his door my own self."
" No," said Florence, " go to bed. We shall hear
more in the morning. I will inquire myself in the
morning. Mama has been down, I dare say ; " Flor-
ence 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
DOMBEY AND S0\. 25 S
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 ; all crowded on her mind and
mada her tears flow fast. Her mother and her brother
dead, her father unmoved 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 all 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 hia
door.
She listened at her own. . The house was quiet, and
all the lights were out. It was a long, long time", she
chought, since she used to make her nightly pilgrimage*
254 DOMBEY AND SOS.
to his door ! It was a long, long time, she tried to think,
since she hud entered his room at midnight, and he had
led her back to the stair-foot !
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 hia
room. No one was stirring in the house. The door waa
partly open to admit air ; and all was so still within, that
she could hear the burning of the fire, and count the tick-
ing of the clock that stood upon the chimney-piece. ,
She looked in. In that room, the house-keeper wrapped
in a blanket was fast asleep in an easy-chair before the
6re. 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 hia
bed. All was so very still that she could hear from hia
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 expected to see it. Florence stood ar-
rested on the spot, and if he had awakened then, must
have remained there.
There was a cut upon his forehead, and they had been
wetting 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 waa
not this, that after the first quick glance, and first assur-
ance of hii> 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 he;
tyes.
DOMBEf AND SON. 255
She had never seen his face in all her life, but there
had been upon it or she fancied so some disturbing
ronfteiousness ef he:. She had never seen his face in all
her life, but hope had su,,k within her, and her tiniiil
glance had drooped before its stern, unloving, and repel-
ling harshness. As she looked upon it now, she saw il,
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 an-
gry 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
Uie pillow.
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
Dot, to forgive him if he was wrong, and pardon her th
orayer. which almost seemed impiety. And doing so,
256 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 dis-
mal since she came down. The sleep she had been look-
ing on, in the dead of night, had the solemnity to her of
death and life in one. The secrecy and silence of her
own proceeding made the night secret, silent, and oppres-
sive. 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 if they were cold. There was a dis-
tant 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 mama 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 long-
vng to have somebody to speak to, and to break this spell
at' gloom and silence, Florence directed her steps towards
ihe chamber where she slept.
The door was not fastened within, and yielded smoothly
.o her hesitating hand. She was surprised to find a
DOMBEY AND SON. 257
bright light burning; still more surprised, on looking in,
to see that her mama, but partially undressed, was sit-
ting 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.
u Mama ! " 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.
" Mama ! " said Florence, hurriedly advancing. " Dear
mama ! 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, mama ? "
" No," she returned. " Half-waking dreams."
Her features gradually softened ; and suffering Flor-
ence to come close to her, within her embrace, she said
in a tender manner, " But what does my bird do here 1
What does my bird do here ! "
" I have been uneasy, mama, 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 mama, what have you done to your hand ? *
aid Florence.
vou in. 17
258 DOMBEY AND SON.
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, <fc Nothing, nothing. A blow." And then she said,
" My Florence ! " And then her bosom heaved, and she
wa.s weeping passionately.
" Mama ! " said Florence. " Oh mama, what can I do,
what should I do, to make us happier? Is there any-
thing ? "
" Nothing," she replied.
" Are you sure of that ? Can it never be ? If I speak
now of what is in my thoughts, in spite of what we have
agreed," said Florence, "you will not blame me, will
you ? "
" It is useless," she replied, " useless. I have told you,
dear, that I have had bad dreams. Nothing can change
them, or prevent their comiqg back."
" I do not understand," said Florence, gazing on hei
agitated face, which seemed to darken as she looked.
" I have dreamed," said Edith in a low voice, " of f
pride 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 humiliation, 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
Jed perhaps to better things, but which, misdirected and
perverted, like all else belonging to the same possessor,
has been self-contempt, mere hardihood and ruin."
She neither looked nor spoke to Florence now, bul
went on as if she were alone.
tt I have dreamed ' she said, " of such indifference and
DOMBEY AND SON. 259
callousness, arising from thi? self-con tempt ; tins wretch-
ed, inefficient, miserable pride ; that it has gone on with
listless steps even to the altar, yielding to the old, fa-
miliar, beckoning finger, oh mother, oh mother!
while 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
effort 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 urged
on to hate him, rise against him, and defy him ! "
Her clinched 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 mama, to-night,*' said
Florence. " But you are weary and unhappy, too."
260 DOMBET AND SON.
" 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 think upon
the face down-stairs, that her hand drew closer to Edith
for some comfort ; yet, even in the act, it faltered, lest it
should 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.
Edith, sitting by, looked down at the dark eyelashes
lying wet on the flushed cheeks, and looked with gentle-
ness 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, wkh the placid hand in hers,
and sometimes whispered, as she looked at the hushed
face, "Be near me, Florence, I have no hope bat in
you!"
DOMBEY AND SON. 261
CHAPTER XLIV.
A SEPARATION
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
sometimes shut. There was likewise a swollen look
about them, as if they had been crying overnight. But
the Nipper, so far from being cast down, was singularly
bri.sk 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 mightily expressive of
determination.
In a word, she had formed a determination, and an
aspiring one : it being nothing less than this to pene-
trate to Mr. Dombey's presence, and have speech of that
gentleman alone. " I have often said I would," she re-
marked, in a threatening manner, to herself, that morn-
ing, 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
4uring the whole forenoon, without finding a favorable
2G2 DOMBEY AND SON.
opportunity for the assault. Not at all baffled by this
di.-comfiture, which indeed had a stimulating effect, and
put her on her mettle, she diminished nothing of her
vigilance ; and at last discovered, towards evening, that
her s\vorn foe Mrs. Pipchin, under pretence of having
sat up all night, was dozing in her own room, and lhat
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 eying the fire, gave an amazed
look at his visitor, and raised himself a little on his arm.
The Nipper dropped a courtesy.
" What do you want ? " said Mr. 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.
" I have been in your service, sir," said Susan Nipper,
with her usual rapidity, " now twelve year a-waiting on
Miss Floy my own young lady who couldn't speak plain
when I first come here and I was old in this house when
Mrs. Richards was new, I may not be Moethosalem, but
1 am not a child in arms."
Mr. Dorabey, raised upon his arm, and looking at her
offered no comment on this preparatory statement of
facts.
" There never was a dearer or a blesscder young lady
than is my young lady, sir," said Susan, " and I ought
DOMBEY AND SON. 263
to know a great deal better than some for I have seen
her in her grief and I have seen her in her joy (there's
not been much of it) and I have seen her with her brother
and I have seen her in her loneliness and some have
never seen her, and I say to some and all I do ! " and
here the black-eyed shook her head, and slightly stamped
her foot ; " that she's the blessedest and dearest angel is
Miss Floy that ever drew the breath of life, the mere
that I was torn to pieces sir the more I'd say it though I
may not be a Fox's Martyr."
Mr. Dombey turned yet paler than his fall had made
him, with indignation 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 Floy, sir," pursued Susan, " and I take no merit
for my service of twelve year, for I love her >- yes, 1
say to some and all I 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 Mr. 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 ! *
Baid Susan. " Oh ! jou 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 could not rise and <*.ross to the other without
assistance. The quick eye of the Nipper detected his
Z64 DOMBEY AND SON.
helplessness immediately, and now, as she afterwards
observed, she felt she had got him.
" Miss Floy," said Susan Nipper, " is the must de-
voted and most patient and most dutiful and beautiful of
daughters, there a'n'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 steadfast Nipper, " in which I
have been so many years and seen so much although
I hope you'd never have the heart to send me from Miss
Floy for such a cause will I go now till I have said
the rest, 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."
Which was rendered no less clear by the expression
of Susan Nipper's countenance, than by her words.
" There a'n'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
df times thought of speaking to you and never been able
to make my mind up to it till last night, but last night
iecided of me."
Mr. Dombey, in a paroxysm of rage, made anothei
DOMBEY AND SOW. 265
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 patiem
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
helping 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 feel-
ing of it I say to some and all, I have ! and never
said one word, but ordering one's self lowly and rever-
ently 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, call-
ing 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 arid 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
(>far to hear it. I cannot bear to bear it," sj.id Susan
Nipper, wiping her black eyes, and fixing them un-
dauntedly on Mr. Dombey 's infuriated face. "It's not
the first time I have heard it, not by many and manj
266 DOMBEY AND SON.
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. Pip-
chin, as the black bombazine garments of that fair
Peruvian Miner swept into the room. " What's this,
indeed ! "
Susan favored 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 foam-
ing. " What's this, madam ? You who are at the
head of this household, and txmnd to keep it in or-
der, 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 ! "
But the inflexible Nipper, merely honoring Mrs. Pip-
chin with another look, remained.
" Do you call it managing this establishment, madam,"
said Mr. Dombey, " to leave a person like this at lib-
erty to come and talk to me ! A gentleman in hi?
own house in his own room assailed with the im-
pertinences of women servants ! "
" Well sir," returned Mrs. Pipchin, with vengeance in
her hard gray 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 267
shaking her head at Susan Nipper. " For shame, you
hussy ! Go along with you ! "
" If you find people in my service who are not to be
controlled, Mrs. Pipchin," said Mr. Dorabey, 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,
u 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," returned Mrs. Pipchin, " and don't smile at
me, you minx, or I'll 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 wrath-
ful old lady. " Get along with you, or I'll have you car-
ried 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 Mrs. 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
268 DOMBEY AND SON.
and died of the exhaustion which would be a Jubi-
lee!"
With these words, Miss Nipper preceded her foe out
of the room ; and walking up-stairs to her own apart-
ment in great state, to the choking exasperation of the
ireful Pipchin, sat down among her boxes and began
to cry. .
From this soft mood she was soon aroused, with a
very wholesome and refreshing effect, 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 inhabit that part of the house, but that
her name was Pipchin, and she was to be found in the
house-keeper's room.
" You saucy baggage ! " retorted Mrs. Pipchin, rat-
tling at the handle of the door. " Go along with you
this minute. Pack up your things directly ! How dare
you talk in this way to a gentlewoman who has seen bet-
ter days ? "
To which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castle, that
Bhe 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.
a 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 packing up and going
you ntay take your affidavit."
The Dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at thia
intelligence, and with some general opinions upon young
hussies as a race, and especially upon their demerits aftei
DOMBEY AND SON. 269
being spoiled by Miss Dombey, withdrew to prepare the
Nipper's wages. Susan then bestirred herself to get
her trunks iii order, that she might take an immediate
and dignified departure ; sobbing heartily all the time,
08 she thought of Florence.
The object of her regret was not long in coining 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 rumor, Florence found to be so
correct, that Susan had locked the last trunk and was
Billing 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-pchinses, 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,"
gobbed Susan. " But it can't be helped, I've done my
duty, mi>s, I have indeed. It's no fault of mine. I am
quite resi-ign?d. I couldn't stay my month or I could
never leave you then my darling and I must at la>t as
well as at first, don't speak to me Miss Floy, for though
I'm pretty firm I'm not a marble door-post, my own dear.'
"What is it! Why is it ?" said Florence. "Won't
fou tell me ? " For Susan was shaking her head.
270 DOMBEY AND SON.
" 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 as God bless you my own pre-
cious 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'll serve you
well and true," said Susan, " but there can't be one
who'll serve you so affectionate as me or love you half
as dearly, that's my comfort. Go-ood-by, 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," said the heart-broken Nipper, " that
keeps ever so many co-o-ows and pigs and I shall go
down there by the coach and sto-op with 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 mis-
tress ! " 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
ted 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 with-
held from useless interference even here, by her dread
of causing any new division between her father and hij
wife (whose stern, indignant face had been a warning
DOMBEi" AND SJN. 271
.o 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, fol-
lowed, weeping, down-stairs to Edith's dressing-room,
whither Susan betook herself to make her parting cour-
fc*y.
" Now, here's the cab, and here's the boxes, ge t along
Vnth 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 dropped her courtesy
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. Pool
Susan's face at this crisis, in the intensity of her feel-
ings and the determined suffocation of her sobs, lest one
r hould become audible and be a triumph to Mrs. Pipchin,
presented a series of the most extraordinary physiog-
nomical phenomena ever witnessed.
" I beg your pardon, miss, I'm sure," said Towlinson,
Wtside the door with the boxes, addressing Florence,
*but Mr. Toots is in the dining-room, and send? hi*
272 DOAIBEY AND SON.
compliments, and begs to know how Diogenes and mas-
ter is."
Quick as thought, Florence glided out and hastened
down-stairs, where Mr. Toots, in the most splendid vest-
ments, was breathing very hard with doubt and agitatiou
nn the subject of her coming.
"Oh, howde do, Miss Donibey," said Mr. Toots, "God
bless my soul ! "
This last ejaculation was occasioned by Mr. Toots'a
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 favor
of you."
" Miss Dombey," returned Mr. Toots, " if you'll only
name one, you'll you'll give me an appetite. To
which," said Mr. Toots, with some sentiment, " I have
long been a stranger."
" Susan, who is an old friend of mine, the oldest friend
I have," said Florence, " is about to leave here suddenly,
and quite alone, poor girl, She is going home, a liitle
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 honor and a kindness. This proof of your confi-
dence, 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 ?
Tliank you a thousand times ! You ease my mind so
Kiudu She doesn't seem so desolate. You cannot think
DOME I Y AND SON. 273
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 hei
forth, and Diogenes jumping about her, and terrifying
Mrs. Pipchin to the last degree by making snaps at her
bombazine skirts, and howling with anguish at the sound
of her voice for the good duenna was the deorest 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 tes-
tify 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 honor I think you can hardly know your own feel-
ings better than I imagine them. 1 can conceive nothing
more dreadful than to have to leave Miss Dombey."
Susan abandoned herself to her grief now, and it really
rcus touching to see her.
" I say," said Mr. Toots, " now, don't ! at least I mean
uow do, you know ! "
" Do what, Mr. Toots ? " cried Susan.
VOL. in. 18
274 DOMBEY ANI- SOU.
" Why, come home to my place, and have ^ome 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 comfort-
able. Her son," said Mr. Toots, as an additional rec-
ommendation, " 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 dwelling, where they were received by the
matron in question who fully justified his character of
her, and by the Chicken who at first supposed, on see-
ing 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, hav-
ing been defeated by the Larkey boy, his visage was ia
a state of such great dilapidation, as to be hardly pr<<-
sentable in society with comfort to the beholders. The
Chicken himself attributed this punishment to his hav-
ing 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 3im
ilar strange inconveniences, until he had been gono into
and finished.
After a good repast, and much hospitality, Susan set
oat 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 275
by the moral weight and heroism of hi? 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 riil of
him), for any less consideration than the good-will and
fixtures of a public-house ; and being ambitious to go
into that line and drink himself to death as soon as
possible, he felt it his cue to make his company un-
acceptable.
The night-coach by which Susan was to go, was on
the point of departure. Mr. Toots having put her in-
side, lingered by the window, irresolutely, until the
driver was about to mount ; when, standing on the step,
and putting 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 think 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.
u I should say never. Ne ver 1 "
w Thank'ee ! " said Mr. Toots. " It's of no conse-
quence. Good-night. It's of no consequence, thank'ee ! ''
276 DOMBEY AND SOU.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE TRUSTY AGENT.
EDITH went out alone that day, and returned home
early. It was but a few minutes after ten o'clock,
when her carriage rolled 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 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 obdu-
rate, 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
borne one .xmnng quietly from the hall, and standing
bareheaded, offered her his arm. The servant being
thrust aside, she had no choice but to touch it ; and she
then knew whose arm it was.
u How is your patient, sir ? " she said, with a curled
Up.
" He is better," returned Carker. " He is doing very
well. I have left him for the night."
DOMBEY AND SON. 277
She bent her head, and was passing up the staircase,
when he followed and said, speaking at the bottom :
"Madam! May I beg the favor of a minute's au-
dience ? "
She stopped and turned her eyes back. " It is an un-
seasonable time, sir, and I am fatigued. Is ycur busi-
r.ess 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 beautiful
she was.
" Where is Miss Dombey ? " she asked the servant,
aloud.
" In the morning room, ma'am."
" Show the way there ! " Turning her eyes again on
the attentive gentleman at the bottom of the stairs, and
informing him with a slight 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.
u May I be permitted to entreat that Miss Dombey IH
not present ? "
She confronted him, with a quick look, but with the
lame 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,
\nadam, I would leave it to you to decide whether she
shall know of it or not. I owe that to you. It is my
Dounden duty to you. After bur former interview, it
vould be monstrous in me if I did otherwise."
She slowly withdrew her eyes from his face, and turn
278 DOMBEY AND SON.
ing 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 his hat in his hand and
liis eyes bent upon the carpet, stood before her, at soina
little distance.
" Before I hear you, sir," said Edith, when the door
was closed, " I wish you to hear me."
"To be addressed by Mrs. Dombey," he returned,
u even in accents of unmerited reproach, is an honor I
so greatly esteem, that although I 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 will, for such a purpose. Allow 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 would return to it in the face of her pro-
hibition ? Is it possible that Mrs. Dombey, having no
*egard to my unfortunate position, is so determined to
wnsider me inseparable from my instructor as to do me
great and wilful injustice ? "
" Sir," returned Edith, bending her dark gaze full
DOMBEY AND SON. 279
upon him, and speaking with a rising pasjion that in-
flated her proud nostril and her swelling neck, and
Ptirred the delicate white down upon a rohe she wore,
thrown loosely over shoulders that could bear its snowy
neighborhood. " Why do you present yourself to me,
RS 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 honor him ? How dare you venture
so to affront me, when you know 1 do not know bet-
ter, sir : I have seen it in your every glance, and heard
it in your every word that in place of affection be-
tween 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-humiliar
tion, 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 con-
rol subsided, with the air of a man who had his suf-
ficient reply in reserve and would presently deliver it
280 DOMBET AND SOX.
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 favor with you ; and I knew why,
Yes. I knew why. You have spoken so openly to me;
I am so relieved by the possession of your confidence"
" Confidence ! " she repeated, with disdain.
He passed it over.
" that 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 have seen, since,
that stronger feelings than indifference have been en-
gendered in your breast how could that possibly be
otherwise, either, circumstanced 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
Ins first submissive lady, which I did not believe "
A haughty smile gave him reason to observe that ha
might repeat this.
" I say, which I did not believe, the time was likely
to come, when such an understanding as we have nonv
M rived at, would be serviceable."
" Serviceable to whom, sir ? " she demanded scorn
fully.
!>OMBEY AND SON. 281
" To you. 1 will not add to myself, as warning me
to refrain even from that limited commendation of Mr.
Dombey, in which I can honestly indulge, in order that
I may not have the misfortune of saying anything dis-
tasteful to one whose aversion and contempt," with great
expression, " are so keen."
" It is honest in you, sir," said Edith, " to confess t
your ' limited commendation,' and to speak in that tone
of disparagement, even of him : being his chief counsel-
lor 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 part-
nerships of interest and convenience, friendships of inter-
est and convenience, dealings 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
Ihink it feasible to change her husband's character in
ome respects, and mould him to a better form."
" It was not natural to me, sir," she rejoined. " I had
aever any expectation 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 il
<night present itself to such as he.
" At least it was natural," he resumed, " that you
282 DOMBEY AND SOW.
should deem it quite possible to live with Mr. Dombey
as his wife, at once without submitting to him, and with-
out 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 goea
yoked to his own triumphal car like a beast of burden,
with no idea on earth but that it is behind him 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 con-
sideration for you, madam, than for me. The comparison
is an extreme one ; I intend it to be so ; but quite just
Mr. 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 agree-
able to you, and because he intends that I shall be a
punishment for your contumacy ; and besides that, be-
cause 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 himself, to receive. You may imagine
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
Bourse, 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 283
on his part, of something that had passed between her
self and her husband, rankled and smarted in her haugh-
ty breast, like a poisoned arrow.
" I do not recall 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 resent-
ment 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 bird 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 honorable 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
folly of what I am about to say; it not being mine)
that his severe expression of opinion to his present wife,
on a certain .special occasion she may remember, before
the lamented death of Mrs. Skewton, produced a wither
Vig effect, and for the momem quite subdued her ! "
284 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 un-
alterable," he repeated those words slowly and with great
emphasis, " that I am almost afraid to incur your dis-
pleasure anew, when I say that in spite of these defects
and my full knowledge of them, I have become habit-
uated to Mr. Dombey, and esteem him. But, when I
say so, it is not, believe me, for the mere sake of vaunt-
ing 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 this 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 coil !
" 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, foi
sufficient reasons that I have, to be cautious in your
demonstrations of regard for Miss Doinbey ! "
" 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. " Who judges my affection, 01
measures it out. You ? "
v It is not I who do so." He was, or feigned to be,
perplexed.
DOMBEY AND SON. 285
" Who then ? "
" Can you not guess who then ? "
" I do not choose to guess," she answered.
" Madam," he said, after a little hesitation ; meantime
they had been, and still were, regarding each other us
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 honor 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 your demeanor towards Miss
Dornbey is not agreeable to him. That it suggests com-
parisons to him which are not favorable 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.
" That is a threat," he answered in his voiceless
manner of assent : adding aloud, " but not directed
,12-ainst you"
Proud, erent, 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
:eneath her, and in an instant would have fallen on the
286 DOMBEY AND SON.
floor, but that he caught her in his arms. As instantane
ou<ly she threw him off', the moment that he touched
her, and, drawing back, confronted him again, immov-
able, with her hand stretched out.
" Please to leave me. Say no more to-night."
" I feel the urgency of this," said Mr. Carker, " be-
cause it is impossible to say what unforeseen conse-
quences might arise, or how soon, from your being
unacquainted with his state of mind. I understand
Miss 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 request-
ing that Miss Dombey might not be present. May I
hope so?"
"I do not. Please to leave rne, sir."
" I knew that your regard for the young lady, which
is very sincere and strong, I am well persuaded, would
render it a great unhappiness to you, ever to be a prey
to the reflection that you had injured her position and
mined her future 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 transaction of business matters. You
will allow me to see you again, and to consult what
ehould 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
\iave deferred doing so, for want of opportunity, or t(,r
iny other reason. It will be necessary that you shoulij
tnable me to consult with you very soon."
" At any time but now," she answered.
DOMREY AND SOX. 287
rt You will understand, when I wish (o see you, that
Miss Dombey is not to be present; and that I seek an
interview as one who lias the happiness to possess your
confidence, and who comes to render you every assist*
ance in his power, and, perhaps, on many occasions, tc
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 Miss Dombey'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 with-
drew. And when he had closed the door, he waved the
hand with which he had taken hers, and thrust it in his
breast.
288 DOMBEY AND SON
CHAPTER XLVL
EKCOGNIZANT AND REFLECTIVE.
AMONG sundry minor alterations in Mr. Carker's life
arid habits that began to take place at this time, none
was more remarkable than the extraordinary 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 weary
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 all similar places of business shut
up, Mr. Carker, with the whole anatomy of the iron
room laid bare before him, would explore the mysterie
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
vvery moment- of diving head-foremost into the coal-box,
DOMBEY AND SON. 289
could not withhold the tribute of his admiration from this
eealous conduct, although it much contracted his domestic
enjoyments ; and again, and again, expatiated to Mrs.
Perch (now nursing twins) on the industry and acute-
ness of their managing gentleman in the City.
The same increased and sharp attention that Mr
Carker bestowed on the business of the House, he ap-
plied 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, partici-
pating 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 see 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 alive his keenest
powers.
The only decided alteration in him, was, that as ha
VOL. Ill 19
290 DOMBEY AND SON
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
gee and hear nothing until arrival at his destination, cr
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 uncon-
scious of the observation of two pairs of women's eyes, aa
of the fascinated orbs of Rob the Grinder, who, in wait-
ing a street's length from the appointed place, as a dem-
onstration of punctuality, 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
gate-way.
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 we man, 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 ? "
"!$ee where he goes!' muttered the old woman.
DOMBEY AND SON. 291
watching her daughter with her red eyes ; " so easy
mid so trim, a' horseback, while we are in the mud"
" And of it," said her daughter impatiently. " We are
mud, underneath his horse's feet. What shodld 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 ob-
structed by mere sound. Her mother watching her, and
not him, remained silent ; until her kindling glance sub-
sided, and she drew a long breath, as if in the relief of
his being gone.
" Deary ! " said the old woman then. " Alice ! Hand-
some 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 will not have money from
him ? " she returned. " And don't you yet believe me ?
Did I take his sister's money ? Would I touch a 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.
u 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'll 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 Rob the
Grinder returning down the street, leading the riderless
aorse, appeared to have some extraneous interest that it
3id not possess in itself, surveyed that young man with
292 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 oh her lip, and emerging from the gate-way ai
the moment of his passing, touched him on the shoulder.
" Why, where's my sprightly Rob been, all this time '
she said, as he turned round.
The sprightly Rob, whose sprightliness was very much
diminished by the salutation, looked exceedingly dis-
mayed, 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 con-
ducting himself respectable ? What do you come and
deprive a cove of his character for, by talking to Lim
in the streets, when he's taking his master's horse to a
honest stable a horse you'd go and sell 1 for cats' and
dogs' meat if you had your way ! Why, I thought," paid
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
Rob, in a tone of the acutest anguish. " I think a cove
liad 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 d'ye do and what do you
want ! " These polite inquiries the Grinder uttered, as
it were under protest, and with great exasperation and
vjndictiveness.
DOMBEY AND SON. 298
" Hark how he speaks to an old friend, my deary !
said Mrs. Brown, again appealing to her daughter.
u 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 him "
" Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown ? " inter
rupted the miserable Grinder, glancing quickly round,
B8 though he expected to see Jjis master's teeth shining
at his elbow. " What do you take a pleasure in ruining
a cove for ? At your time of life too ! when you ought
to be thinking of a variety of things ! "
" What a gallant horse ! " said the old woman, patting
the animal's neck.
" Let him alone, will you, Misses Brown ? " cried Rob,
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 Rob. " He's got a master that would
find it out if he was touched with a straw." And he
blew upon the place where the old woman's hand had
rested for a moment, and smoothed it gently with his fin-
ger, 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 Rob's heels
as he walked on with the bridle in his hand ; and pur-
sued the conversation.
" A good place, Rob, eh ? " said she. " You're in
'u?k, my child."
u Oh don't talk about luck, Misses Brown," returned
the wretched Grinder, facing round and s topping. " If
fou'd never come, or if you'd go away, then indee;! fl
cove might be considered tolerable lucky. Can't you gy
294 DOMBEY AND SON.
/
along, Misses Brown, and not Toiler me!" blubbered Rolj,
with iudden 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 puck-
ered 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, school-boy, sneak,
and what not, and do you tell me to go along ? __ Could
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 Alice."
" 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-rfo you do? Be-
sides," said Rob piteously, " look here ! How can a
cove stand talking in the street with his master's prad
a-wanting to be took to be rubbed down, and his master
up to every individgle thing that happens ? "
The old woman made a show of being partially ap-
peased, but shook her head, and mouthed and muttered
still.
" Come along to the stables, and have a glass of
something that's good for you, Misses Brown, can't
you ? " said Rob, " instead of going on, like that, which
is no good to you, nor anybody else ? Come along
DOMBEY AND SON. 295
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 by-street
The old woman, mouthing at her daughter, followed
close upon him. The daughter followed.
Turning into a silent little square or court-yard that
had a great church-tower rising above it, and a packer's
warehouse, and a bottle-maker's warehouse, for its places
of business, Rob the Grinder delivered the white-legged
horse to the hostler of a quaint stable at the corner; and
inviting Mrs. Brown and her daughter to seat themselves
upon a stone bench at the gate of that establishment,
soon reappeared from a neighboring public-house with a
pewter measure and a glass.
" Here's master Mr. Carker, child ! " said the old
woman, slowly, as her sentiment before drinking. "Lord
bless him ! "
" Why, I didn't tell you who he was," observed Rob,
with staring eyes.
" We know him by sight," said Mrs. Brown, whose
working mouth and nodding head, stopped for the mo-
ment, in the fixedness of her attention. " We saw him
pa:;s this morning, afore he got off his horse ; when you
were ready to take it."
" Ay, ay ? " returned Rob, appearing to wish that his
easiness had carried him to any other place. " What'a
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.
TLe old woman shook her head. " Don'l mind her.'
296 DOMBEY AND SON.
ghe said ; u she's a strange creetur, if you know'd her,
Rob. But Mr. Carker "
" Hush ! " said Rob, glancing cautiously up at the
packer's, and at the bottle-maker's, as if, from any one
of the tiers of warehouses, Mr. Carker might be looking
down. " Softly."
" Why, he a'n't here ! " cried Mrs. Brown.
" I don't know that," muttered Rob, whose glance eveii
wandered to the church-tower, as if he might be there,
with a supernatural power of hearing.
" Good master ? " inquired Mrs. Brown.
Rob nodded ; and added, in a low voice, " precious
sharp."
u Lives out of town, don't he, lovey ? " said the old
woman.
" When he's at home," returned Rob ; " but we don't
live at home just now."
" Where then ? " asked the old woman.
' Lodgings ; up near Mr. Dom bey's," i-eturned Rob.
The younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly
upon him, and so suddenly, that Rob was <juite con-
founded, and offered the glass again, but with no more
effect upon her than before.
" Mr. Dombey you and I used to talk about him,
sometimes, you know," said Rob to Mrs. Brown. " Yen
used to get me to talk about him."
The old woman nodded.
" Well, Mr. Dombey, he's had a fall from his horse,"
said Rob, unwillingly; "and my master has to be up
there, more than usual, either with him, or Mrs. Dom-
bey, or some of 'em ; and so we've come to town."
" Are they good friends, lovey ? " asked the old
voman
DOM HEY AND SON. 297
"Who?'' retorted Rob.
" He and she ? "
" What, Mr. and Mrs. Dombey ? " said Rob. " How
Should / know ! "
" Not them Master and Mrs. Dombey, chick," re-
plied the old woman, coaxingly.
" I don't know," said Rob, looking round him again.
" I suppose so. How curious you are, Misses Brown
Least said, soonest mended."
" Why there's no harm in it ! " exclaimed the old
woman, with a laugh and a clap of her hands. " Spright-
ly Rob has grown tame since he has been well off)
There's no harm in it."
" No, there's no harm in it, I know," returned Rob,
with the same distrustful glance at the packer's and the
bottle-maker's, a<id 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'l
known it. Talk about somebody else."
As Rob took another cautious survey of the yard, the
old woman made a secret motion to her daughter. It
was momentary, but the daughter, with a slight look of
intelligence, withdrew her eyes from the boy's face, and
sat folded in her cloak as before.
" Rob, lovey ! " said the old woman, beckoning him to
the other end of the bench. " You were always a pet
and favorite of mine. Now, weren't you ? Don't you
know you were ? "
" Yes, Misses Brown," replied the Grinder, with a
eery bad grace.
"And you tould leave me!" said the old womfin.
298 DOMBEY 1ND SON.
flinging her arms about his neck. " You could go away,
and grow almost out of knowledge, and never come to
tell your poor old friend how fortunate you were, proud
lad ! Oho, oho ! "
" Oh here's a dreadful go for a cove that's got a
master wide awake in the neighborhood ! " exclaimed
the wretched Grinder. " To be howled over like this
here ! "
" Won't you come and see me, Robby ? " cried Mrs.
Brown. " Oho, won't you ever come and see me ? "
" Yes, I tell you ! Yes, I will ! " returned the Grin
der.
" That's my own Rob ! That's my lovey ! " said Mrs.
Brown, drying the tears upon her shrivelled face, and
giving him a tender squeeze. " At the old place, Rob ? "
" Yes," replied the Grinder.
" Soon, Robby, dear ? " cried Mrs. Brown ; " and
often ? "
"Yes. Yes. Yes," replied Rob. "I will indeed,
upon my soul and body."
" And then," said Mrs. Brown, with her arms uplifted
towards the sky, and her head thrown back and shaking,
" if he's true to his word, I'll never come a-near him,
though I know where he is, and never breathe a syllable
about him ! Never ! "
This ejaculation seemed a drop of comfort to the
miserable Grinder, who shook Mrs. Brown by the hand
Upon it, and implored her with tears in his eyes, to leave
a cove, and not destroy his prospects. Mrs. Brown,
with another fond embrace, assented ; but in the act of
following her daughter, turned back, with her finger
stealthily raised, and asked in a hoarse whisper foi
on>e money.
DOMBET AND SON. 299
" A shilling, dear ! " she said, with her eager, avari
cious face, " or sixpence ! For old acquaintance' sake
I'm so poor. And my handsome gal" looking over
her shoulder " she's my gal, Rob half starves me.
But as the reluctant Grinder put it in her hand, hei
daughter, coming quietly back, caught the hand in hers
and twisted out the coin.
" What," she said, " mother ! always money ! money
from the first, and to the last. Do you mind so little
what I said but now ? Here. Take it ! "
The old woman uttered a moan as the money was
restored, but without in any other way opposing its
restoration, hobbled at her daughter's side out of the
yard, and along the by-street upon which it opened.
The astonished and dismayed Rob staring after them,
saw that they stopped, and fell to earnest conversation
very soon ; and more than once observed a darkly
threatening action of the younger woman's hand (ob-
viously 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 prospective comfort that Mrs. Brown could not
live forever, 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 inci-
dental consequences, composed his ruffled features to a
more serene expression by thinking of the admirable
manner in which he had disposed of Captain Cuttle (a
reflection that seldom failed to put him in a flow of
spirits), and went to the Dombey counting-house to re-
ceive his master's orders.
SCO DOMBEY AND SOJX.
There his master, so subtle and vigilant of eye, that
Rob quaked before him, more than half expecting to be
taxed with Mrs. Brown, gave him the usual morning's box
of papers for Mr. Dombey, and a note for Mrs. Dombey :
merely nodding his head as an enjoinder to be caieful,
and to use despatch a mysterious admonition, fraught
in the Grinder's imagination with dismal warnings and
threats ; and more powerful with him than any words.
Alone again, in his own room, Mr. Carker applied
himself to work, and worked all day. He saw many
visitors ; overlooked a number of documents ; went in
and out, to and from, sundry places of mercantile resort ;
and indulged in no more abstraction until the day's busi-
ness was done. But, when the usual clearance, of papers
from his table was made at last, he fell into his thought-
ful mood once more.
He was standing in his accustomed place and attitude,
with his eyes intently fixed upon the ground, when his
brother entered to bring back some letters that had been
taken out in the course of the day. He put them quietly
on the table, and was going immediately, when Mr. Car-
ker the manager, whose eyes had rested on him on his
entrance, as if they had all this time had him for the
subject for their contemplation, instead of the office-floor,
said:
u Well, John Carker, and what brings you here ? "
His brother pointed to the letters, and was again with
drawing.
a I wonder," said the manager, " that you can com*
and go, without inquiring how our master is."
" We had word this morning, in the counting-house,
that Mr. Dombey was doing well," replied his brother.
" You are such a meek fellow," said the manager with
DOMBET AND SON. 301
\ smile " but you have grown so, in the course o*
fears that if any harm came to him, you'd be misera*
ale, I dare swear now."
" I should be truly sorry, James," returned the other.
" He would be sorry ! " said the manager, pointing at
him, as if there were some other person present to whom
he was appealing. " He would be truly sorry ! This
brother of mine ! This junior of the place, this slighted
piece of lumber, pushed aside with his face to the wall,
like a rotten picture, and left so, for Heaven knows how
many years ; he's all gratitude and respect, and devotion
too, he would have me believe ! "
" I would have you believe nothing, James," returned
the other. " Be as just to me as you would to any other
man below you. You ask a question, and I answer it."
" And have you nothing, spaniel," said the manager,
with unusual irascibility, "to complain of in him? No
proud treatment to resent, no insolence, no foolery of
Btate, no exaction of any sort ! What the devil ! are you
man or mouse ? "
"It would be strange if any two persons could be to-
gether for so many years, especially as superior and in-
ferior, without each having something to complain of in
the other as he thought, at all events," replied John
Carker. " But apart from my history here "
" His history here ! " exclaimed the manager. " Why,
(here it is. The very fact that makes him an extreme
wise, puts him out of the whole chapter ! Well ? "
"Apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a rea-
wn to be thankful that I alone (happily for all the rest)
possess, surely there is no one in the house who would
not say and feel at least as much. You do not think
L Jbat anybody here would be indifferent to a mischance
S02 DOMBEt AND BON.
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 be-
lieved that I am kept here for more kind and disinter-
ested 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 mis-
interpret 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
otheis, for advancement, confidence, and distinction (se-
lected, in the beginning, I know, f or your great ability
and trustfulness), and who communicate more freely
with Mr. Dombey than any one, and stand, it may be
eaid, on equal terms with him, and have been favored
and enriched by him that it would be a mistake to
juppose that it is only you who are tender of his welfare
DOMBEY AND SON. 303
Rnd reputation. There is no one in the house, from
yourself down to the lowest, I sincerely believe, who does
not participate in that feeling."
" You lie," said the Manager, red with sudden anger.
" You're a hypocrite, John Carker, and you lie ! "
" James ! " cried the other, flushing in his turn
What do you mean by these insulting words? Why
do you so basely use them to me, unprovoked ? "
" I tell you," said the manager, " that your hypocrisy
and meekness that all the hypocrisy and meekness of
this place is not worth that to me, snapping his thumb
and finger, " and that I see through it as if it were air !
There is not a man employed here, standing between
myself and the lowest in place (of whom you are very
considerate, and with reason, for he is not far off), who
wouldn't be glad at heart to see his master humbled .
who does not hate him, secretly : who does not wish
him evil rather than good : and who would not turn
upon him, if he had the power and boldness. The
nearer to his favor, the nearer to his insolence ; the
closer to him, the farther from him. That's the creed
here ! "
" I don't know," said his brother, whose roused feel-
ings had soon yielded to surprise, " who may have
abused your ear with such representations ; or why
you have chosen to try me, rather than another. But
that you have been trying me, and tampering with me,
I am now sure. You have a different manner and a dif-
ferent aspect from any that I ever saw in you I will
only say to you, once more, you are deceived."
" 1 know I am," said the manager. " I have told
you so."
u Not by me," returned his brother. ' By your in
B04 DOMBET AND SON.
forraant, if you have one. If not, by your own thoughts
and suspicions."
" I have no suspicions," said the manager. " Mine
are certainties. You pusillanimous, abject, cringing
dogs ! All making the same show, all canting the
same story, all whining the same professions, all har-
boring 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 a pride there, not to be
forgotten witness our own acquaintance ! " With that
he fell into a deeper revery, and sat pondering over the
blackening grate, until he rose up like a man who had
Deen absorbed in a book, and looking round him took
bis 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 805
tvas 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 quartei
there were clouds, to shadow you if needful. But
planet has arisen, and you are lost in its light."
He turned the white-legged horse, round the street
corner, and sought one shining window from among those
at the back of the house. Associated with it was a cer-
tain stately presence, a gloved hand, the remembrance
how the feathers of a beautiful bird's wing had been
showered down upon the floor, and how the light white
down upon a robe had stirred and rustled, as in the ris-
ing 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 suro
degrees had been led on by his craft, and her pride ami
resentment, to endure his company, and little by little to
receive him as one who had the privilege to talk to hr
i f her own defiant disregard of her own husband, and
her abandonment of high consideration for herself. They
were associated with a woman who hated him deeplyi
and who knew him, and who mistrusted him because she
knew him, and because he knew her ; but who fed her
fierce resentment by suffering him to draw nearer and
yet nearer to her every day, in spite of the hate she
cherished for him. In spite of it ! For that very reasou ;
since its depths, too far down for her threatening eye to
pierce, though she could see into them dimly, lay the
dark retaliation, whose faintest shadow seen once and
800 DOMBEY AND SON.
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
Lis ride ; true to the reality, and obvious to him ?
Yes. He saw her in his mind, exactly as she was
She bore him company with her pride, resentment,
hatred, all as plain to him as her beauty ; with nothing
plainer to him than her hatred of him. He saw her
sometimes haughty and repellant at his side, and some-
times down among his horse's feet, fallen and in the
dust. But he always saw her as she was, without dis-
guise, and watched her on the dangerous way that she
was going.
And when his ride was over, and he was newly
dressed, and came into the light of her bright room with
his bent head, soft voice, and soothing smile, he saw her
yet as plainly. He even suspected the mystery of the
gloved hand, and held it all the longer in his own for
that suspicion. Upon the dangerous way that she was
going, he was still ; and not a footprint did she mark
upon it, but he set his own there, straight.
? ,sfa.ii!> ct'.' ii*T recovery Captain Cuttle . witb an. ii-.'
. c: -v'/^ti'h with ;. j'Lvsji-ian'3 tj^atnierit of a paUfnt.iocik
.wi, uov.ri fr. -;;. ih- aiaatRl-ahptf.aTiii hoidmg it cut on. his hook
taking rlorei^f-p's hand in his, locked steadily from one to the othe
x.p*:i-ting ihr difti tt no aoTTip thing.*
DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XLyil.
THE THUNDERBOLT.
THE barrier between Mr. Dombey and his wife, was
not weakened by time. Ill-assorted couple, unhappy in
themselves and in each other, bound together by no tie
but the manacle that joined their fettered hands, and
straining that so harshly, in their shrinking asunder, that
it wore and chafed to the bone, Time, consoler of afflic-
tion 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 rec-
gnition of his vast importance, and to the acknowledg-
ment of her complete submission to it, and so far it waa
8 DOMBEY AND SON.
necessary to correct and reduce her ; but otherwise he
still considered her, in his cold way, a lady capable of
doing honor, if she would, to his choice and name, and
of reflecting credit on his proprietorship.
Now, she with all her might of passionate and proud
resentment, bent her dark glance from day to day, and
hour to hour from that night in her own chamber,
when she had sat gazing at the shadows on the wall, to
the deeper night fast coming upon one figure directing
a crowd of humiliations and exasperations against her;
and that figure, still her husband's.
Was Mr. Dombey's master-vice that ruled him so in-
exorably, an unnati ral characteristic ? It might be worth
while, sometimes, to inquire what Nature is, and how men
work to change her, and whether, in the enforced distor-
tions 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 de-
signing 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 dis-
tinctions 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 doc-
tor, who, with his life imperilled at every breath he
Iraws, goes down into their dens, lying within the echoes
DOMBEY AND SOX. 9
of cur carriage-wheels and daily tread upon the pave-
ment stone*. Look round upon the world of odious
sights millions of immortal creatures have no other
world on earth at the lightest mention of which hu-
manity revolts, and dainty delicacy living in the next
street, stops her ears, and lisps, " I don't believe it ! "
Breathe the polluted air, foul with every impurity that
is poisonous to health and life ; and have every sense,
conferred upon our race for its delight and happiness,
offended, sickened, and disgusted, and made a channel
by which misery and death alone can enter. Vainly
attempt to think of any simple plant, or flower, or
wholesome weed, that, set in this foetid bed, could have
its natural growth, or put its little leaves 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, far away from Heaven but think a little
of its having been conceived, and born and bred in
Hell!
Those who study the physical sciences, and bring
them to bear upon the health of man, tell us that if the
noxious particles that rise from vitiated air, were pal-
pable 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 eter-
';al laws of outraged Nature, is inseparable from them,
ould be made discernible too, how terrible the revela-
tion ! Then should we see depravity, impiety, drunk-
enness, theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins
against the natural affections and repulsions of mankind,
iverhunging the devoted spots, and creeping on, to blighf
10 DOMBEY AND SON.
the innocent and spread contagion among the pure. Then
should we see how the same poisoned fountains that flow
into our hospitals and lazar-houses, inundate the jails,
aud make the convict-ships swim deep, and roll across
the seas, and over-run vast continents with crime. Theu
should we stand appalled to know, that where we genei.
ate 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 in guilt, blasted old age that
is a scandal on the form we bear. Unnatural humanity !
When we shall gather grapes from thorns, and tigs from
thistles ; when fields of grain shall spring up from the
offal in the by-ways of our wicked cities, and roses
bloom in the fat. church-yards 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 aud benignant hand than the
lame demon in the tale, and show a Christian people
what dark shapes issue from amidst their homes, to swel 1
the retinue of the Destroying Angel as he moves forll
among them ! For only one night's view of the pale
phantoms rising from the scenes of our too-long neglect ;
and, from the thick and sullen air where Vice and Fever
propagate together, raining the tremendous social retri-
butions which are ever pouring down, and ever coming
thicker! Bright and blest the morning that should rise
on such a night: for men, delayed no more by stum-
bling-blocks of their own making, which are but specks
of dust upon the path between them ana eternity, would
ihen apply themselves, like creatures of one
DOMBEY AND SOX. 11
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 estimates ; as great, and yet as natural in its devel-
opment when once begun, as the lowest degradation
known.
But no such day had ever dawned on Mr. Dombey,
or his wife ; and the course of each was taken.
Through six months that ensued upon his accident
tli<-v held the same relations one towards (lie 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 lie
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
lef', 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 remembrarce of hia
coldness since and before, or only remembered as a
sorrowful delusion.
Florence loved him still, but by degrees, had come to
1 2 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 her mother,
Beemed to enter now into her thoughts of him, and to
make them, as it were, a dear remembrance. Whether
it was that he was dead to her, and that partly for this
reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her
affection, and partly for the long association of him with
hopes that were withered and tendernesses he had fro-
zen, she could not have told ; but the father whom she
loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her ,
hardly more substantially connected with her real lift,
than the image she would sometimes conjure up of her
dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, who
would protect and cherish her.
The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on
her like the change from childhood to womanhood, and
had come with it. Florence was almost seventeen,
when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of these
thoughts.
She was often alone now, for the old association be-
tween her and her mama 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.
" Mama," said Florence, stealing softly to her side
* have I offended you ? "
Edith answered, "No."
u I must have done something," said Florence. " Tell
DOMBEY AND SON. 18
me what it is. You have changed your manner to me,
dear mama. I cannot say how instantly I feel the least
change ; for I love you with my whole heart."
" As I do you," said Edith. " Ah, Florence, believe
me never more than now ! "
" Why do you go away from me so often, and keep
away ? " asked Florence. " And why do you sometimes
look so strangely on me, dear mama ? You do so, do
you not ? "
Edith signified assent with her dark eyes.
" Why," returned Florence imploringly. " Tell me
why, that I may know how to please you better ; and
tell me this shall not be so any more."
" My Florence," answered Edith, taking the hand that
embraced her neck, and looking into the eyes that looked
into hers so lovingly, as Florence knelt upon the ground
before her ; " why it is, I cannot tell you. It is neither
for me to say, nor you to hear ; but that it is, and that
it must be, I know. Should I do it if I did not ? "
" Are we to be estranged, mama ? " asked Florence,
gazing at her like one frightened.
Edith's silent lips formed " Yes."
Florence looked at her with increasing fear and won-
der, until she could see her no more through the blind-
ing 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
oae?"
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
14 DOMBEY AND SON.
Che same to you, and ever will be. But what I dc is
not done for myself."
" Is it for me, mama ? " asked Florence.
" It is enough," said Edith, after a pause, " to know
what it is ; why, matters little. Dear Florence, it id
better it is necessary it must be that oui asso-
ciation should be less frequent. The confidence thfic
has been between us must be broken off."
" When ? " cried Florence. " Oh, mama, when ? "
Now," said Edith.
" For all time to come ? " asked Florence.
" I do not say that," answered Edith. " I do not know
that. Nor will I say that companionship between us, is,
at the best, an ill-assorted and unholy union, of which I
might have known no good could come. My way here
has been through paths that you will never tread, and
my way henceforth may lie God knows I do not
see it"
Her voice died away into silence ; and she sat, look-
ing at Florence, and almost shrinking from her, with the
same strange dread and wild avoidance that Florence
had noticed once before. The same dark pride and rage
succeeded, sweeping over her form and features like an
angry chord across the strings of a wild harp. But no
softness or humility ensued on that. She did not lay
her head down now, and weep, and say that she had no
hope but in Florence. She held it up as if she were a
beautiful Medusa, looking on him, face to face, to strike
him dead. Yes, and she would have done it, if she had
oad the charm.
" Mama," said Florence anxiously, " there is a change
in you, in more than what you say to me, which alarms
ne. Let me stay with you a little."
DOMBEl' AND SON. 15
" No." said Edith, " no, dearest. I am best left alone
low, and 1 do best to keep apart from you, of all else.
Ask me no questions, but believe that what I am when
I seem fickle or capricious to you, I am not of my own
will, or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to
each other than we have been, that I am unchanged to
you within. Forgive me for having ever darkened ycur
dark home I am a shadow on it, I know well and
It t us never speak of this again."
" Mama," sobbed Florence, " we are not to part?"
" We do this that we may not part," said Edith. " Ask
no more. Go, Florence ! My love and my remorse go
with you !"
She embraced her, and dismissed her ; and as Flor-
ence passed out of her room, Edith looked on the retir-
ing 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 pres-
ent. Then Edith, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never
looked at her. Whenever Mr. Curker was of the party,
as he often was, during the progress of Mr. Dombey's
recovery, and afterwards, Edith held herself moie re-
moved from her, and was more distant towards her, than
at other times. Yet she and Florence never encoun-
tered, when there was no one by, but she wculd 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 whispe/
16 DOMBEY AND SON.
* 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.
Jiut less and less often as the months went OL.
And now the void in Florence's own heart began
again, indeed, to make a solitude arc.und her. As the
image of the father whom she loved had insensibly be-
come a mere abstraction, so Edith, following the fate of
all the rest about whom her affections had entwined
themselves, was fleeting, fading, growing paler in the
distance, every day. Little by little, she receded from
Florence, like the retiring ghost of what she had been ;
little by little, the chasm between them widened and
seemed deeper ; little by little, all the power of earnest-
ness 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, wonder-
ing 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 17
wad 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 tho
rolling back of that strong tide upon itself, Florenc
grew to be seventeen. Timid and retiring as her soli-
tary 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 feeling; 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
ppring should be unwilling to depart when summer came,
and sought to blend the earlier beauties of the flowers
with their bloom. But in her thrilling voice, in her
calm eyes, sometimes in a strange ethereal light that
seemed to rest upon her head, and always in a certain
pensive air upon her beauty, there was an expression,
euch as had been seen in the dead boy ; and the coun-
cil 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 en-
joyed themselves very much.
VOL iv. 2
18 DOMBEY AND SCN.
The general visitors who came to the hou^e, and those
among whom Mr. and Mrs. Dombey visited, thought it a
pretty equal match, as to haughtiness, at all events, and
thought nothing more about it. The young lady with
the back did not appear for some time after Mrs. Skew-
ton's death ; observing to some particular friends, with
ber usual engaging little scream, that she couldn't sepa-
rate the family from a notion of tombstones, and horrors
of that sort ; but when she did come, she saw nothing
wrong, except Mr. Dombey's wearing a bunch of gold
seals to his watch, which shocked her very much, as an
exploded superstition. This youthful fascinator consid-
ered a daughter-in-law objectionable in principle ; other-
wise, 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, go-
ing home, " Indeed ! was that Miss Dombey, in the
corner? Very pretty, but a little delicate and thoughtful
in appearance ! "
None the less so, certainly, for her life of the, last six
months, Florence took her seat at the dinner-table, on
the day before the second anniversary of her father's
marriage to Edith (Mrs. Skewton had been lying
stricken Avith paralysis when the first came round),
with an uneasiness, amounting to dread. She had no
other warrant for it, than the occasion, the expression
of her father's face, in the hasty glance she caught of
t it, and the presence of Mr. Carker, which, always un-
pleasant to her, was more so on this day, than she had
iver fell it before.
Edith was richly dressed, for she and Mr. Dombey
were engaged in the evening to some large assembly
DOMBEY AND SON. 19
am! 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 lustroua
as sin was, there was that in her face and air which
itemed to separate her hopelessly from Florence, and
from every one, for evermore. And yet, for an instant,
Florence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, when they
were turned on her, that made the distance to which she
had withdrawn herself, a greater cause of sorrow and
regret than ever.
There was very little said at dinner. Florence heard
her father speak to Mr. Carker sometimes on business
matters, and heard him softly reply, but she paid little
attention to what they said, and only wished the dinner
at an end. When the dessert was placed upon the table,
and they were left alone, with no servant in attendance,
Mr. Dornbey, who had been several times clearing hia
throat in a manner that augured no good, said :
" Mrs. Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have
instructed the house-keeper that there will be some com-
pany to dinner here to-morrow."
" I do not dine at home," she answered.
" Not a large party/' pursued Mr. Dombey, with an
indifferent assumption of not having heard her; "merely
some twelve or fourteen. My sister, Major Bagstock,
and some others whom you know but slightly."
" I do not dine at home," she repeated.
" However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs. Dom-
bf y," said Mr. Dombey, still going majestically on, as if
she had not spoken, " to hold the occasion in very pleas-
ant remembrance just now, there are appearances in
Jhese things which must be maintained before the world,
If you have no respect for yourself, Mrs. Dombey "
20 DOMBEY AND SON.
" 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 i i
return would not have changed, if death itself Laxi
looked.
" Carker," said Mr. Dombey, turning more quietly tc
that gentleman. " as you have been my medium of com-
munication with Mrs. Dombey on former occasions, and
as I choose to preserve the decencies of life, so far as I
am individually concerned, I will trouble you to have the
goodness to inform Mrs. Dombey that if she has no
respect for herself, I have some respect for myself,
and therefore insist on my arrangements for to-mor-
row."
" Tell your sovereign master, sir," said Edith, " that I
will take leave to speak to him on this subject by-and-by,
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. I
But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although nol
raised in the least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct,
that it might have been heard in a whir' wind.
DOMBEY AND SON. 21
" I tell you I will speak to you alone," she said. * If
you are not mad, heed what I say."
" I have authority to speak to you, madam," returned
her husband, " when and where I please ; and it is my
pleasure to speak here and now."
She rose up as if to leave the room ; but sat down
again, and looking at him with all outward composure,
said, in the same voice :
"You shall!"
" I must tell you first, that there is a threatening
appearance in your manner, madam," said Mr. Dombey,
" which does not become you."
She laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair
started and trembled. There are fables of precious
stones that would turn pale, their wearer being in dan-
ger. Had these been such, their imprisoned rays of
light would have taken flight that moment, and they
would have been as dull as lead.
Corker listened with his eyes cast down.
" As to my daughter, madam," said Mr. Dombey, re-
suming the thread of his discourse, " it is by no means
inconsistent with her duty to me, that she should know
what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very
strong example to her of this kind, and I hope she may
profit by it."
" I would not stop you now," returned his wife, im
movable in 3ye, 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'a
quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and Edith'g
22 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 unthankf'ully indulged in, I will add after the
gratification of ambition and interest. Both of which, 1
believe, had some share in inducing you to occupy your
present station at this board."
" No ! I would not rise, and go away, and save you
the utterance of one word," she repeated, exactly as be-
fore, " if the room were burning."
" It may be natural enough, Mrs. Dombey," he pur-
sued, " that you should be uneasy in the presence of any
auditors of these disagreeable truths; though why"
he could not hide his real feelings here, or keep hts 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 un-
derstand. It may be natural enough that you should
object to hear, in anybody's presence, that there is a
rebellious principle within you which you cannot curb
too soon ; which you must curb, Mrs. Dombey ; and
which, I regret to say, I remember to have seen mani-
fested with some doubt and displeasure, on more than
one occasion before our marriage towards your de-
ceased 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."
DOMBEY AND SON. 2S
" So it >s 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
gtill 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
band 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-de-
served, but not conceivable by such as you) in which I
wish I had died ! You add to all this, do you, the last
crowning meanness of making her a witness of the depth
to which I have fallen ; when you know that you have
made me sacrifice to her peace, the only gentle feeling
and interest of my life ; when you know that for her
sake, I would now if I could but I cannot, my soul
recoils from you too much submit myself wholly to
your will, and be the meekest vassal that you have ! "
This was not the way to minister to Mr. Dombey's
greatness. The old feeling was roused by what she
said, into a stronger and fiercer existence than it had
ever had. Again, his neglected child, at this rough
passage of his life, put forth by even this rebellious
woman, as powerful where he was powerless, and every-
thing 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 \\\*\\
24 DOMBEY AND SON.
turned your affections in that channel, but they have
been met, Mrs. Dombey ; they have been met, and
turned back ! ''
" The worse for you ! " she answered, with her voice
and manner still unchanged. " Ay ! " for he turned
sharply when she said so, " what is the worse for me, in
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 warn-
ing in them, or they would have turned as dull and dim
as tarnished honor. Carker still sat and listened, with
his eyes cast down.
" Mrs. Dombey," said Mr. Dombey, resuming as much
as he could of his arrogant composure, "you will not
conciliate me, or turn me from any purpose, by this
course of conduct."
" It is the only true although it is a faint expression
of what is within me," she replied. " But if I thought
it would conciliate you, I would repress it, if it were
repressible by any human effort. I will do nothing that
you ask."
" I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs. Dombey," he ob-
served ; " I direct."
" I will hold no place in your house to-morrow, or on
any recurrence of to-morrow. I will be exhibited to no
one, as the refractory slave you purchased, such a time.
If I kept my marriage-day, I would keep it as a day of
shame. Self-respect ! appearances before the world
what are these to me ? You have done all you can to
make them nothing to me, and they are nothing."
" Curker," said Mr. Dombey, speaking with knitted
brows, and after a moment's consideration, " Mrs. Dona-
DOMBEY AND SON. 25
bey is so foigetful of herself and me in all this, and
places me in a position so unsuited to my character, that
I must bring this state of matters to a close."
" Release me, then," said Edith immovable in voice,
in look, and bearing, as she had been throughout, " from
he chain by which I am bound. Let me go."
** Madam ? " exclaimed Mr. Dombey.
** Loose me. Set me free ! "
" Madam ? " he repeated, " Mrs. Dombey ? "
u 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
Boon."
" 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 rep-
resent ? 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 se-
riously think, Mrs. Dombey, that I would permit my
name to be handed about in such connection ? Pooh,
pooh, madam ! Fie for shame ! You're absurd." Mr,
Dombey absolutely laughed.
But not as she did. She had better have been dead
than laugh as she did, in reply, with her intent look
fixed upon him. He had better have been dead, than
Bitting there, in his magnificence, to hear her.
'' No, Mrs. Dombey," he resumed, " no, madam.
There is no possibility of separation between you and
26 DOMBEY AND SON.
me, and therefore I the more advise you to be awakened
lo 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 un-
asual light-
" As I was about to say to you," resumed Mr.
Domb ?y, " I must beg you, now that matters have come
to this, to inform Mrs. Dombey, that it is not the rule
of my life to allow myself to be thwarted by anybody
anybody, Carker or to suffer anybody to be paraded
as a stronger motive for obedience in those who owe
obedience to me than I am myself. The mention that
has been made of my daughter, and the use that is
made of my daughter, in opposition to me, are unnatu-
ral. 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 shall consider
my daughter responsible in some degree, on that lady'a
own avowal, and shall visit her with my severe displeas-
ure. Mrs. Dombey has asked 'whether it is not enough,'
that she had done this and that. You will please to
answer no, it is not enough."
" A moment ! " cried Carker, interposing, " permit ine !
painful as my position is, at the best, and unusually pain-
ful in seeming to entertain H different opinion from you,"
addressing Mr. Dombey, " I must ask, had you not bet
ter reconsider the question of a separation. I know
how incompatible it appears with your high public po-
sition, and I know how determined you are when you
DOM13EY AND SON. 27
ghe Mrs. Dombey to understand" the light in hia
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. Doiubey, by living in
this house, and making it, as you have said, a scene of
contention, not only has her part in that contention, but
compromises Miss Dombey every day (for I know how
determined you are), will you not relieve her from a
continual irritation of spirit, and a continual sense of
being unjust to another, almost intolerable ? Does this
not seem like I do not say it is sacrificing Mrs.
Dombey to the preservation of your preeminent and
unassailable position ? "
Again the light in his eyes fell upon her, as she stood
looking at her husband : now with an extraordinary and
awful srnile upon her face.
' Carker," returned Mr. Dombey, with a supercilious
frown, and in a tone that was intended to be final,
" you mistake your position in offering advice to me
on such a point, and you mistake me (I am surprised
to find) in the character of your advice. I have no
more to say."
" Perhaps," said Carker, with an unusual and inde-
finable taunt in his air, "you mistook my position, when
you honored me with the negotiations in which I have
been engaged here" with a motion of his hand towards
Mrs. Dombey.
" Not at all, sir, not at all," returned the other haugh-
tily. " You were employed "
" Being an inferior person, for the humiliation cf Mra,
Dombuy. I forgot. Oh, yes, it was expressly under
stood ! " said Carker. " I beg your pardon ! "
28 DOMBEY AND SON.
As he bunt his head to Mr. Dombey, with an air of
deference that accorded ill with his words, though they
were humbly spoken, he moved it round towards her,
and kept his watching eyes that way.
She had better have turned hideous and dropped dead,
than have stood up with such a smile upon her face, in
such a fallen spirit's majesty of scorn and beauty. She
lifted her hand to the tiara of bright jewels radiant on
her head, and, plucking it off with a force that dragged
and strained her rich black hair with heedless cruelty,
and brought it tumbling wildly on her shoulders, cast
the gems upon the ground. From each arm, she un-
tlasped a diamond bracelet, flung it down, and trod
upon the glittering heap. Without a word, without a
shadow on the fire of her bright eye, without abatement
of her awful smile, she looked on Mr. Dombey to the
last, in moving to the door ; and left him.
Florence had heard enough before quitting the room,
to know that Edith loved her yet ; that she had suffered
for her sake ; and that she had kept her sacrifices quiet,
lest they should trouble her peace. She did not want
to speak to her of this she could not, remembering to
whom she was opposed but she wished, in one silent
and affectionate embrace, to assure her that she felt it
all. and thanked her.
Her father went out alone, that evening, and Florence
issuirij from her own chamber soon afterwards, went
aboiu the house in search of Edith, but unavailingly.
She v*s in her own roqms, where Florence had long
ceased *o go, and did not dare to venture now, lest she
bhould unconsciously engender new trouble. Still Flor-
ence, haying to meet her before going to bed, changed
from roirm to room, ana wandered through the house
DOMBEY AND SON. 29
BO splendid and so dreary, without remaining any-
where.
She was crossing a gallery of communication that
opened at some little distance on the staircase, and was
only lighted on great occasions, when she saw, through
the opening, which was an arch, the figure of a man
coming down some few stairs opposite. Instinctively
apprehensive of her father, whom she supposed it was,
she stopped, in the dark, gazing through the arch into
the light. But it was Mr. Carker coming down alone,
and looking over the railing into the hall. No bell was
rung to announce his departure, and no servant was in
attendance. He went down quietly, opened the door
for himself, glided out, and shut it softly after him.
Her invincible repugnance to this man, and perhaps
the stealthy act of watching any one, which, even under
such innocent circumstances, is in a manner guilty and
oppressive, made Florence shake from head to foot. Her
blood seemed to run cold. As soon as she could for
at first she felt an insurmountable dread of moving
she went quickly to her own room and locked her door;
but even then, shut in with her dog beside her, felt a
chill sensation of horror, as if there were danger brood-
ing somewhere near her.
It invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night.
Rising in the morning, unrefreshed, and with a heavy
recollection of the domestic unhappiness of the preced-
ing day, she sought Edith again, in all the rooms, and
did so, from time to time, alt the morning. But she
remained in her own chamber, and Florence saw noth-
ing of her. Learning, however, that the projected din-
ner at home was put off, Florence thought it likely that
*he would go out in the evenirg i n fulfil the engagement
80 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 th<
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, a
sight of her, with her tearful face, and outstretched
arms, Edith recoiled and shrieked !
" Don't come near me ! " she cried. " Keep away !
Let me go by ! "
" Mama ! " said Florence.
u Don't call me by that name ! Don't speak to me
Don't look at me ! Florence ! " shrinking back, as
Florence moved a step towards her, " don't touch me ! "
As Florence stood transfixed before the haggard face
and staring eyes, she noted, as in a dream, that Edith
spread her hands over them, and, shuddering through
all her form, and crouching down against the wall,
crawled by her like some lowe.r 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.
u Where is mama ? " was her first question.
" Gone out to dinner," said Mrs. Pipchin.
" And papa ? "
" Mr. Dombey's in his own room, Miss Dorabey," said
Mis. Pipchin, " and the best thing you can do, is to take
off your things and go to bed this minute." This was
DOMBEY AND SON. 31
the sagacious woman's remedy for all complaints, partic-
ularly lowness of spirits, and inability to sleep; for which
offences many young victims in the days of the Brighton
Castle had been committed to bed at ten o'clock in the
morning.
Without promising obedience, but on the plea of desir-
ing to be very quiet, Florence disengaged herself, as soon
as she could, from the ministration of Mrs. Pipchin and
her attendants. Left alone, she thought of what had
happened on the staircase, at first in doubt of its reality ;
then with tears ; then with an indescribable and terrible
alarm, like that she had felt the night before.
She determined not to go to bed until Kdith returned,
and if she could not speak to her, at least to be sure that
she was safe at home. What indistinct and shadowy
dread moved Florence to this resolution, she did nol
know, and did not dare to think. She only knew that
until Edith came back, there was no repose for her
aching head or throbbing heart.
The evening deepened into night ; midnight came ; no
Edith.
Florence could not read, or rest a moment. She
paced her own room, opened the door and paced the
staircase-gallery outside, looked out of window on the
night, listened to the wind blowing and the rain fall-
ing, 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-
ttairs.
One o'clock. The carriages that rumbled in the dis-
tance, turned away, or stopped short, or went past ; the
82 DOMBET AND SON.
silence gradually deepened, and was morp and mort
rarely broken, save by a rush of wind or sweep of rain.
Two o'clock. No Edith.
Florence, more agitated, paced her room ; and pacec.
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
BO different from the repose below, and yet so tranquil
and solitary. Three o'clock ! There was a terror in
every ash that dropped out of the fire. No Edith
yet.
More and more agitated, Florence paced her room,
and paced the gallery, and looked out at the moon with a
new fancy of her likeness to a pale fugitive hurrying
away and hiding her guilty face. Four struck ! Five !
No Edith yet.
But now there was some cautious stir in the house;
and Florence found that Mrs. Pipchin had been awak-
ened by one of those who sat up, had risen and had gone
down to her father's door. Stealing lower down the
stairs and observing what passed, she saw her father
come out in his morning-gown, and start when he was
told his wife had not come home. He despatched a mes-
senger to the stables to inquire whether the coachman
was there; and while the man was gone, dressed him-
self very hurriedly.
The man came back, in great haste, bringing tho
coachman with him, who said he had been at home
and in bed since ten o'clock. He had driven his mis-
tress 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 name-
DOMBEY AND SON. 33
less terror of that sight, and had hardly steadiness enough
to hear and understand what followed.
Who had told him, the man went on to say, that his
mistress would not want the carriage to go home in ; and
had dismissed him.
She saw her father turn white in the face, and heard
him ask in a quick, trembling voice, for Mrs. Dombey'd
maid. The whole 'house was roused ; for she was thero
in a moment, very pale too, and speaking incoherently.
She said she had dressed her mistress early full two
hours before she went out and had been told, as she
often was, that she would not be wanted at night. She
had just come from her mistress's rooms, but "
" But what ! what was it?" Florence heard her father
demand like a madman.
" But the inner dressing-room was locked, and the key
gone."
Her father seized a candle that was flaming on the
ground some one had put it down there, and forgotten
it and came running up-stairs 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 wildly 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
Bee 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
?n which he had seen, in yonder mirror, the proud face
discard him. Tins was the room in which he had wtn-
:lered, idly, how these things would look when he should
*ee them next !
VOL. IV. 8
84 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 mar-
riage, and a letter. He read that she was gone. He
read that he was dishonored. He read that she had fledf
upon her shameful wedding-day, with the man whom he
had chosen for her humiliation ; and he tore out of the
room, and out of the house, with a frantic idea of finding
her yet, at the place to which she had been taken, and
beating all trace of beauty out of the triumphant face
with his bare hand.
Florence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl
Rnd bonnet, in a dream of running through the streets
until she found Edith, and then clasping her in her arms,
to save and bring her back. But when she hurried out
upon the staircase, and saw the frightened servants going
up and down with 'lights, and whispering together, and
falling away from her father as he passed down, she
awoke to a sense of her own powerlessness ; and hiding
in one of the great rooms that had been made gorgeous
for this, felt as if her heart would burst with grief.
Compassion for her father was the first distinct emotion
that made head against the flood of sorrow which over-
whelmed her. Her constant nature turned to him in his
distress, as fervently and faithfully, as if, in his pros-
perity, 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
itood before her wronged and deserted ; and again her
yearning love impelled her to his side.
He was not long away : for Florence was yet weeping
In the great room and nourishing these thoughts, when
DOMBET AND SON. 3d
lhe heard him come back. He ordered the servants to
et 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 i?i
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 him with her trembling hands ; she did
not weep ; she did not utter one word of reproach. But
she looked at him, and a cry of desolation issued from
her heart. For as she looked, she saw him murdering
that fond idea to which she had held in spite of him.
She saw his cruelty, neglect, and hatred dominant
above it, and stamping it down. She saw she had
no father upon earth, and ran out, orphaned, from hia
bouse.
Ran out of his house. A moment, and her hand waa
on the lock, the cry was on her lips, his face was there,
amde paler by the yellow candles hastily put down and
guttering away, and by the daylight coming in above the
loor. Another moment, and the close darkness of the
86 DOMBEY AND SON.
shut-up house (forgotten to be opened, though it wag
long since day) yielded to the unexpected glare and
freedom of the morning; and Florence, with her head
bent down to bide her agony of tears, was in the
treete
DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE FLIGHT OF FLORENCE.
IN the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the
forlorn girl hurried through the sunshine of a bright
morning, as if it were the darkness of a winter night.
Wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, insensible to
everything but the deep wound in her breast, stunned by
the loss of all she loved, left like the sole survivor on a
lonely shore from the wreck of a great vessel, she fled
without a thought, without a hope, without a purpose,
but to fly somewhere anywhere.
The cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the
morning light, the sight of the blue sky and airy clouds,
the vigorous freshness of the day, so flashed and rosy in
its conquest of the night, awakened no responsive feel-
ings in her so hurt bosom. Somewhere, anywhere, to
hide her head ! somewhere, anywhere, for refuge, never
more to look upon the place from which she fled !
But there were people going to and fro ; there were
opening shops, and servants at the doors of houses ; there
was the rising clash and roar of the day's struggle. Flor-
uice 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
38 DOM BEY AND SON.
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
endeavoring 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, endeavoring to kiss his mistress
flying, tumbling over and getting up again without the
least concern, dashing at big dogs in a jocose defiance of
his species, terrifying with touches of his nose young
house-maids who were cleaning doorsteps, and continually
stopping, in the midst of a thousand extravagances, to
took back at Florence, and bark until all the dogs within
hearing answered, and all the dogs who could come out*
same out to stare at him.
DOMBEY AND SON. 39
Willi this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the
advancing morning, arid the strengthening sunshine, to
the city. The roar soon grew more loud, the passengers
more nuniM-ons, the shops more busy, until she wan
carried onward in a stream of life setting that way, and
flowing indifferently, past marts and mansions, prisons,
churches, market-places, wealth, poverty, good and evil,
liko 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 observa-
tions. 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 parlor.
The captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the
fire, making his morning's cocoa, with that elegant trifle,
his watch, upon the chimney-piece, for easy reference
during the progress of the cookery. Hearing a footstep
and the rustle of a dress, the captain turned with a pal-
pitating remembrance of the dreadful Mrs. MacStinger,
at the instant when Florence made a motion with her
hand towards him, reeled, and fell upon the floor.
The captain, pale as Florence, pale in the very knoba
upon his face, raised her like a baby, and laid her on
the same old sofa upon which she had slumbered long
ago.
" It's Heart's Delight ! " said the captain, looking
40 DOMBET AND SON.
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.
14 My Heart's Delight!" said the captain, withdrawing
to a little distance, with the greatest alarm and sympathy
depicted on his countenance. " If you can hail Ned
Cuttle with a finger, do it!"
But Florence did not stir.
" My Heart's Delight ! " said the trembling captain.
* For the sake of Wal'r drownded in the briny deep, turn
to, and histe up something or another, if able ! "
Finding her insensible to this impressive adjuration
also, Captain Cuttle snatched from his breakfast-table, a
basin of cold water, and sprinkled some upon her face.
Yielding to the urgency of the case, the captain then,
using his immense hand with extraordinary gentleness,
relieved her of her bonnet, moistened her lips and fore-
head, put .back her hair, covered her feet witli his own
coat which he pulled off for the purpose, patted her hand
so small in his, that he was struck with wonder when
he touched it and seeing that her eyelids quivered,
and that her lips began to move, continued these restora-
tive applications with a better heart.
" Cheerily," said the captain. u 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 41
Imperfect association of a Watch with a Physician's treat-
ment of a patient, took his own down from the mantel
shelf, and holding it out on his hook, and taking Flor-
ence'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 throw-
ing an approving glance upon his watch. " Put you
back half an hour every morning, and about another
quarter towards the afternoon, and you're a watch as
can be ekalled by few and excelled by none. What
cheer, my lady lass ! "
" Captain Cuttle ! Is it you ! " exclaimed Florence,
raising herself a little,
" Yes, yes, my lady lass," said the captain, hastily
deciding in his own mind upon the superior elegance
of that form of address, as the most courtly he could
think of.
" Is Walter's uncle here ? " asked Florence.
"Here, pretty!" returned the captain. "He a' n't
been here this many a long day. He a'n't been heerd
on, since he sheered off arter poor Wal'r. But," said
the captain, as a quotation, " Though lost to sight, to
memory dear, and England, Home, and Beauty ! "
"Do yofl live here?" asked Florence.
" Yes, my lady lass," returned the captain.
"Oh Captain Cuttle!" cried Florence, putting her
Lands together, and speaking wildly. "Save me! keep
me here ! Let no one know where I am ! I'll tell you
what has happened by and by, when I can. I have no
one in the world to go to. Do not send me away ! "
" Send you away, my lady lass' '* exclaimed the cap-
42 DOMBEY AJSu SON.
tain. " You, 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 shuttef
of the door, put it up, made it all fast., and locked th
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 compas-
sion and gentleness.
" My lady lass," said the captain, polishing the bridge
of his nose with his arm until it shone like burnished
copper, "don't you say a word to Ed'ard Cuttle, until
such times as you finds yourself a-riding smooth and
esisy ; which won't be to-day, nor yet to-morrow. And
as to giving of you up, or reporting where you are, yea
verily, and by God's help, so I won't, Church catechism,
make a note on ! "
This the captain said, reference and all, in one
breath, and with much solemnity ; taking off *his hat at
"yes verily," and putting it on again, when he had quite
concluded.
Florence could do but one thing more to thank him
and to show him how she trusted in him ; and she did it
Clinging to this rough creature as the last asylum of her
bleeding heart, she laid her head upon his honest shoul-
ier, and clasped him round hi? ck. and would have
EJMBEY AND SCN. 43
kneeled down to bless him 'but that he divined her pur
pose, and held her up like a true man.
" Steady ! " said the captain. " Steady ! You're too
weak to stand, you see, my pretty, and must lie down
here again. There, there ! " To see the captain lift her
on the sofa, and cover her with his coat, would have
been worth a hundred state sights. " And now," said
the captain, " you must take some breakfast, lady lass,
and the dog shall have some too. And arter that you
shall go aloft to old Sol Gills's room, and fall asleep
there, like a angel."
Captain Cuttle patted Diogenes when he made allu-
sion to him, and Diogenes met that overture graciously,
halt-vt-ay. During the administration of the restoratives
Oe had olearly been in two minds whether to fly at the
captain or to offer him his friendship ; and he had ex-
pressed that conflict of feeling by alternate waggings of
his tail, and lisplays of his teeth, with now and then a
growl or sc. But by this time his doubts were all re-
moved. It w."u plain that he considered the captain one
of the most ai/iiable of men, and a man whom it was an
honor to a dog to know.
In evidence o/ these convictions, Diogenes attended on
the captain while ae made some tea and toast, and showed
a lively interest in his house-keeping. But it was in
vain for the kind captain to make such preparations for
Florence, who sorely tried to do some honor 1o them,
but could touch nothing, and could only weep and weep
again.
" Well, well ! " said the compassionate captain, ' arter
turning in, my Heait's Delight, you'll get more way
upon you. Now, I'll serve out your allowance, my lad."
To Diogenes. " And you shall keep guard on your m\&
Vress aloft "
14 DOMBEf AND SON.
Diogenes, however, although he hud heen eying hia
intended breakfast with a watering mouth and glistening
eyes, instead of falling to, ravenously, when it was put
before him, pricked up his ears, darted to the shop-door,
and barked there furiously : burrowing with his head at
the bottom, as if he were bent on mining his way out.
" Can there be anybody there ! " asked Florence, in
alarm.
" No, my lady lass," returned the captain. " Who'd
stay there, without making any noise ! Keep up a good
heart, pretty. It's only people going by."
But for all that, Diogenes barked and barked, and
burrowed and burrowed with pertinacious fury ; and
whenever he stopped to listen, appeared to receive some
new conviction into his mind, for he set to, barking and
burrowing again, a dozen times. Even when he was
persuaded to return to his breakfast, he came jogging
back to it, with a very doubtful air ; and was off again,
in another paroxysm, before touching a morsel.
" If there should be some one listening and watching,"
whispered Florence. " Some one who saw me come
who followed me, perhaps."
" It a'n'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
Bay that that there young woman's run, my pretty ! "
" Oh, no, no ! " cried Florence. " She is one of the
truest hearts in the world ! "
The captain was greatly relieved by this reply, and
expressed his satisfaction by taking off his hard glazed
hat, and dabbing his head all over with his handkerchief,
DOMBEY A.ND SON. 45
rolled up like a ball, observing several times, wilh infinite
complacency, and with a beaming countenance, that he
know'd it.
"So you're qmet now, are you, brother?" said the
captain to Diogenes. " There warn't nobody there, my
lady lass, bless you ! "
Diogenes was not so sure of that. The door still had
an attraction for him at intervals ; and he went snuffing
about it, and growling to himself, unable to forget the
subject. This incident, coupled with the captain's ob-
servation of Florence's fatigue and faintness, decided
him to prepare Sol Gills's chamber as a place of retire-
ment for her immediately. He therefore hastily betook
himself to the top of the house, and made the best ar-
rangement of it that his imagination and his means sug-
gested.
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 tea-
spoons, a flower-pot, a telescope, his celebrated walch, a
pocket-comb, and a song-book, as a small collection of
rarities, that made a choice appearance. Having dark-
ened the window, and straightened the pieces of carpet
on the floor, the captain surveyed these preparations with
great delight, and descended to the little parlor again, to
bring Florence to her bower.
Nothing would induce the captain to believe thai it
was possible for Florence to walk np-stairs. If he could
flave got the idea into his head, he would have considered
t an outrageous breach of hospitality to allow her to do
46 DOMBEY AND SON.
K). 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 (here 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'sird Cuttle, as'll stand off and on
outside that door, and that there man will wibi-ate with
joy." The captain concluded by kissi ig 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 parlor, Captain Cuttle, after
holding a hasty council with himself, decided to open the
shop-door for a few minutes, and sati.-fy himself that now,
at all events, there was no one loitering about it. Ac-
cordingly he set it open, and stood upon the threshold,
keeping a bright look-out, and sweeping the whole street
with his spectacles.
u How de do, Captain Gills ? " said a voice beside
him. The captain, looking down, found that he had
IKMJII 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' expect that I ever shall be
iny more."
Mr. Toots never approached any n^rer than this to
.he great theme of his life, when in conversation witb
DOMBEY AND SON. 47
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 particu-
lar."
" "Why, you see my lad," replied the captain, leading
the way into the parlor, " I a'n't what you may call ex-
actly free this morning; and therefore if you can clap on
a bit, I should take it kindly."
" Certainly Captain Gills," replied Mr. TooU, 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 Ins
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 perspira-
tion broke out on his forehead, and he found it impos-
sible, while slowly drying the same, glazed hat in hand,
to keep his eyes off Mr. Toots's face. Mr. Tocts, who
himself appeared to have some secret reasons for being in
a nervous state, was so unspeakably disconcerted by the
captain's stare, that after looking at him vacantly for
some time in silence, and shifting uneasily on his chair,
he said :
"I beg your pardon, Captain Gills, but you don't hap
pen to see anything particular in me, do you ? "
" No, my lad," returned the captain. " No."
" Because you know," said Mr. Toots with a chuckle,
" 1 KNOW I'm wasting away. You needn't at all mind
alluding to that. I I should like it. Burgess and Co.
Dave altered my measure, I'm in that state of thinness.
It's a gratification to me. I I'm glad of it. I I'd
48 DOMBEY AND SUN.
a great deal rather go into a decline, if I could. I'm a
mere brute you know, grazing upon the surface of the
earth, Captain Gills."
The more Mr. Toots went on in this way, the more
tl.c captain was weighed down by his secret, and stared
Bt him. What with this cause of uneasiness, and his
desire to get rid of Mr. Toots, the captain was in such
B scared and strange condition, indeed, that if he had
been in conversation with a ghost, he could hardly have
evinced greater discomposure.
fa 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 admon-
itory voice.
" Certainly, Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots. u Per-
fectly true ! Happening to be this way early this
morning (an hour or so ago), and finding the door
shut "
" What! were you waiting there, brother?" demanded
the captain.
" Not at all, Captain Gills," returned Mr. Toots. " I
didn't stop a moment. I thought you were out. Bui
the person said by the by, you don't keep a dog do
you, Captain Gills ? "
The captain shook his head.
" To be sure," said Mr. Toots, " that's exactly what I
said. I knew you didn't. There it a dog, Captain
Gills, connected with but excuse me. That's forbid
len gi-ound."
DOMBET AND SON. 49
The captain stared at Mr. Toots until lie seemed tc
swell to twice his natural size ; and again the perspira-
tion broke out on the captain's forehead, when he though;
of Diogenes taking it into his head to come down and
make a third in the parlor.
"The person said," continued Mr, Toots, "that he hail
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 ho
had seen the dog."
" What person, my lad ? " inquired the captain.
* Why, you see there it is, Captain Gills," said Mr.
Toots, with a perceptible increase in the nervousness
of his manner. " It's not for me to say what may have
taken place, or what may not have taken place. In-
deed, 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 ex-
isting circumstances, might occur he said ' might,' very
strongly and that if you were requested to prepare
yourself, you would, no doubt, come prepared."
" Person, my lad ! " the captain repeated.
" I don't know what person, I'm sure, Captain Gills,"
replied Mr. Toots, " I haven't the least idea. But com-
ing to the door, I Tbund 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 hare said
VOL. iv. 4
50 DOMBEY AND SON.
about existing circumstances and coming prepared, and
as soon as ever I saw you, would I a*k you to step round
the corner, if it was only for one minute, on most impor-
tant business, to Mr. Brogley's the broker's. Now, I
tell you what, Captain Gills whatever it is, I am con-
vinced it's very important; and if you like to step round
Dow, I'll wait here till you come back."
The captain, divided between his fear of compromis-
ing 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 men-
tal 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 inter-
view 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 : previ-
ously locking the door that communicated with the up-
per part of the house, and putting the key in his pocket.
' If so be," said the captain to Mr. Toot*, with not a lit-
tle shame and hesitation, " as you'll excuse my doing of
it, brother."
" Captain Gills," returned Mr. Toots, " whatever you
do, is satisfactory to me."
The captain thanked him heartily, and promising to
come back in less than five minutes, went out in quest
of the person who had intrusted Mr. Toots "A'ith this
mysterious message. Poor Mr. Toots, left to himself,
lay down upon the sofa, little thinking who had reclinea
there last, and, gazing up at the skylight and resigning
himself to visions of Miss Dombey, lost all heed of time
and place.
DOMBEY AND SON. 5l
II w-.is as well that he did so ; for although the captain
was not <ron<- long, he was gone much longer than he had
proposed* When he came back, he was very pale in-
deed, and greatly agitated, and even looked as if he had
been shedding tears. He seemed to have lost the fac-
ulty 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 hia
hand before his face.
" Captain Gills," said Toots, kindly, " I hope and trust
there's nothing wrong ? **
" Thank'ee my lad, not a bit," said the captain. " Quite
contrairy."
t " You have the appearance of being overcome, Cap-
tain 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 ten-
derness, and took him by the hand, and shook it
hard.
*' No thank'ee," said the captain. "Nothing. Only
I'll take it as a favor if you'll part company for the
present. I believe, brother," wringing his hand again,
u that, after Wal'r, and on a different model, you're as
good a lad as ever stepped."
" Upon my word and honor Captaii Gills," returned
Mr. Toots, giving the captain's hand a preliminary slap
before shaking it again, '-it's delightful to me to possesa
four good opinion. Thank'ee."
w And bear a hand and cheer up," said the captain,
52 DOMBET AND SON.
\
patting him on the back. u What ! There's more than
one sweet creetur in the world ! "
" Not to me, Captain Gills," replied Mr. Toots gravely,
K Not to me, I assure you. The state of my feelings
towards Miss Dombey is of that unspeakable descrip-
tion, that my heart is a desert island, and she lives in it
alone. I'm getting more used up every day, and I'm
proud to be so. If you could see my legs when I take
my boots off, you'd form some idea of what unrequited
affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I don't
take it, for I don't wish to have any tone whatever
given to my constitution. I'd rather not. This, how-
ever, is forbidden groimd. Captain Gills, good-by ! "
Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth *f
Mr. Toots's farewell, locked the door behind him, and
shaking his head with the same remarkable expression
of pity and tenderness as he had regarded him with be-
fore, 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 hand-
kerchief, 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 seme
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 10 take
the latter step, perhaps, by the familiar recognition of
Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side
DOMBEY AND SON. 63
of her couch, wagged his tail, and winked his eyes at
the captain, without being at the trouble of getting
up.
She was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her sleep j
and Captain Cuttle, with a perfect awe of her youth and
beauty, and her sorrow, raised her head, and adjusted
the coat that covered her, where it had fallen off, and
darkened the window a little more that she might sleep
on, and crept out again, and took his post of watch upon
the stairs. All this, with a touch and tread, as light ta
Florence's own.
Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not
easy of decision, which is the more beautiful evidence
of the Almighty's goodness the delicate lingers 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 home-
lessness 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 waa
oc disturbed.
54 DOMBET AND SON.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE MIDSHIPMAN MAKES A DISCOVERT.
IT was long before Florence awoke. The day waa
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. Per-
fect unconsciousness of what had happened 'in the home
that existed no more, even the deep slumber of exhaus-
tion 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 cap-
tain, 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 rivei
and its flat banks, it was gleaming like a path of fire
and out at sea it was irradiating sails of ships and,
looked towards, from quiet churchyards, upon hill-tops
in the country, it was steeping distant prospects in a
flush and glow that seemed to mingle earth and sky
DOMBEY AND SON. 55
together in one glorious suffusion vhen 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, " la
it you ? "
The captain felt so much pride in the name, and was
BO 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.
h 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
Borrowful 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 say-
ing a word. However strange the form of speech ii.to
which he might have fashioned the feeling, if he had
had to give it utterance, the captain felt, as sensibly
as the most eloquent of men could ha^e done, that there
56 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 (he 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 wai
understood.
" Better now, my pretty ! " said the captain. " Cheer-
ily, cheerily ; I'll go down below, and get some dinner
ready. Will you come down of your own self, arter-
wards, 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 doubt-
ful of his own hospitality in permitting it, left her to do
so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at the
fire in the little parlor. To achieve his cookery with
the greater skill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his
wristbands, and put on his glazed hat, without which
assistant he never applied himself to any nice or difficult
undertaking.
After cooling her aching head and burning face in
the fresh water which the captain's care had provided
for her while she slept, Florence went to the little
mirror to bind up her disordered hair. Then she knew
in a moment, for she shunned it instantly that on
her breast there was the darkening mark of an angry
hand.
Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight ; she was
Rshamed and afraid of it ; but it moved her to no anger
against him. Homeless and fatherless, she forgave him
DOM BEY AND SON. 57
everything ; hardly thought that she had noed 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 gene
and lost. There was no such Being in the world.
What to do, or where to live, Florence poor, in-
experienced girl ! could not yet consider. She had
indistinct dreams of finding, a long way off, some little
sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, and
to whom, under some feigned name, she might attach
herself, and who would grow up in their happy home,
and marry, and be good to their old governess, and
perhaps intrust, her, in time, with the education of their
own daughters. And she thought how strange and
sorrowful it would be, thus to become a gray-haired
woman, carrying her secret to the grave, when Florence
Dombey was forgotten. But it was all dim and clouded
to her now. She only knew that she had no Father
upon earth, and she said so many times, with her sup-
pliant head hidden from all, but her Father who was
in Heaven.
Her little stock of money amounted to but a few
guineas. With a part of this, it would be necessary to
buy some clothes, for she had none but those she wore.
She was too desolate to think how soon her money
would be gone too much a child in worldly matters
to be greatly troubled on that score yet, even if her
other trouble had been less. She tried to calm her
thoughts and stay her tears ; to quiet the hurry in her
throbbing head, and bring herself to believe that what
had happened were but the events of a few hours ago,
instead of weeks or months, as they appeared ; and went
lown to her kind protector.
The captain had spread the cloth with great care,
58 DOMBEY AND SON.
und was making some egg-sauce in a little saucepan :
basting the fowl from time to time during the process
with a strong interest, as it turned and browned on a
string before the fire. Having propped Florence up
with cushions on the sofa, which was already wheeled
into a warm corner for her greater comfort, the captain
pursued his cooking with extraordinary skill, making
hot gravy in a second little saucepan, boiling a handful
of potatoes in a third, never forgetting the egg-sauce in
the first, and making an impartial round of basting and
stirring with the most useful of spoons every minute.
Besides these cares, the captain had to keep his eye on
a diminutive frying-pan, in which some sausages were
hissing and bubbling in a most musical manner; and
there was never such a radiant cook as the captain
looked, in the height and heat of these functions : it
being impossible to say whether his face or his glazed
hat shone the brighter.
The dinner being at length quite ready, Captain Cut-
tle 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,
eaid grace, unscrewed his hook, screwed his fork into its
place, and did the honors of the table.
** My lady lass," said the captain, u cheer up, and try
to eat a deal. Stand by, my deary ! Liver wing it is.
Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And potato ! " all which the
captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and, pouring
hot gravy on the whole with the useful spoon, set before
his cherished guest.
" The whole row o' dead lights is up, for'ard, lady lass "
observed the captain, encouragingly, " and everythink i
UOMBEY AND SON. 5*
made snug. Try and pick a bit, my pretty. "If Wal'r
was here "
"Ah ! If I had him for my brother now ! " cried
Florence.
' Don't ! don't take on, my pretty !" said the captain $
" awast to obleege me ! He was your nat'ral boru friend
like, warn't he Pet ? "
Florence had no words to answer with. She only
Mid, " Oh, dear, dear Paul ! oh Walter ! "
" The wery planks she walked on," murmured the cap-
tain, 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 senti-
ments like a new-blowed rose, at dinner. Well, well !
If our poor Wal'r was here, my lady lass or if he
could be for he's drownded, a'n'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-ou*
for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold your own,
my lady lass, as if it was for Wal'r's sake, and lay your
pretty head to the wind."
Florence essayed to eat a morsel, for the captain's
pleasure. The captain, meanwhile, who seemed to have
quite forgotten his own dinner, laid down his knife and
fork, and drew his chair to the sofa.
" Wal'r was a trim lad, warn't he, precious ? " said the
captain, after sitting for some time silently rubbing hia
chin, with his eyes fixed upon her, " and a brave lad,
ind a good lad ? "
60 DOMBET AND SON.
Florence tearfully assented.
" And he : s drownded, Beauty, a'n't he ?" said the cap-
tain, 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. " A'n'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 disap-
pointed 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 for-
gotten all about the dinner and her want of appetite,
went on growling at intervals, in a ruminating tone of
sympathy, " Poor Wal'r. Ay, ay ! Drownded. A'n't
he ? " And always waited for her answer, in which the
great point of these singular reflections appeared to con-
sist.
The fowl and the sausages were cold, and the gravy
and the egg-sauce stagnant, before the captain remem-
bered that they were on the board, and fell to with the
assistance of Diogenes, whose united efforts quickly de-
spatched the banquet. The captain's delight and wonder
at the quiet housewifery of Florence in assisting to clear
the table, arrange the parlor, and sweep up the hearth
only to be equalled by the fervency of his protest when
she began to assist him were gradually raised to that
DOMBEY AND SON. 61
degree, that at last he could not' choose but do nothing
himself, and stand looking at her as if she were some
Fairy, daintily performing these offices for him ; the red
rim on his forehead glowing again, in his unspeakable
admiration.
But when Florence, taking down his pipe from the
mantel-shelf gave it into his hand, and entreated him to
smoke it, the good captain was so bewildered by her at-
tention 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 per-
fect glass of grog for him, unasked, and set it at his
elbow, his ruddy nose turned pale, he felt himself so
graced and honored. When he had filled his pipe in an
absolute re very of satisfaction, Florence lighted it for
him the captain having no power to object, or to pre-
vent 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 be-
lieve that the cause of these effects lay hidden in the
pipo 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 pip
eoon getting into better condition, he fell into that state
of repose becoming a good smoker ; but sat with hia
eyes fixed on Florence, and, with a beaming placidity
not to be described, and stopping every now and then to
discharge a little cloud from his lips, slowly puffed it
62 DOMBEY AND SON.
forth, as if it were a- scroll coming out of his moutL
bearing the legend " Poor Wal'r, ay, ay. DrowndeA,
u'n'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 Flor-
ence in her delicate youth and beauty, and Captain Cut-
tle 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 sur-
passed Captain Cuttle in inexperience of everything bul
wind and weather; in simplicity, credulity, and generous
trustfulness. Faith, hope, and charity, shared his whole
nature among them. An odd sort of romance, perfectly
unimaginative, yet perfectly unreal, and subject to no
considerations of worldly prudence or practicability, was
the only partner they had in his character. As the cap-
tain sat, and smoked, and looked at Florence, God
knows what impossible pictures, in which she was the
principal figure, presented themselves to his mind.
Equally vague and uncertain, though not so sanguine,
were her own thoughts of the life before her ; and even
as her tears made prismatic colors 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 wander-
ing princess and a good monster in a story-book might
have sat by the fireside, 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 responsi-
bility therebj incurred Having put up the shutters and
DOMBEY AN 7 D SON. 63
locked the door, he was quite satisfied on this head. If
she had been a Ward in Chancery, it would have made
no difference at all to Captain Cuttle. He was the last
man in the world to be troubled by any such consider-
ations.
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 neighboring
shop, where she could buy the few necessaries she imme-
diately wanted. It being quite dark, the captain con-
sented : peeping carefully out first, as he had been wont
to do in his time of hiding from Mrs. MacStinger ; and
arming himself with his large stick, in case of an appeal
to arms being rendered necessary by any unforeseen cir-
cumstance.
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 attract-
ing 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 deli-
cacy to retire during the making of the purchases, aa
they were to consist of wearing apparel ; but he pre-
viously deposited his tin canister on the counter, and in-
forming the young lady of the establishment that it con
tained fourteen pound two, requested her, in case that
amount of property should not be sufficient to defray the
expenses of his niece's little outfit at the word "niece"
he bestowed a most significant look on Florence, accom-
panied with pantomime, expressive of sagacity and mys-
*ery to have the goodness to " sing out," and he would
make up the difference from his pocket. Casually con-
64 DOMBET AND SON.
suiting 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
outaide the window, where it was a choice sight to see
his great face looking in from time to time, amcng the
silks and ribl/ons, with an obvious misgiving that Flor-
ence 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."
u 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 ? "
u May I put it back in its usual place," said Florence,
u and keep it there ? "
The captain was not at all gratified by this proposal,
but he answered, " Ay, ay, put it anywheres, my lady
lass, so long as you know where to find it again. It a'n't
o' no use to me" said the captain. " I wonder I haven't
chucked it away afore now."
The captain was quite disheartened for the moment,
but he revived at the first touch of Florence's arm, and
they returned with the same precautions as they had
come ; the captain opening the door of the little Midship-
man's berth, and diving in, with a suddenness which his
freat 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-raarket, selling poultry, to
some and put her room in order, and render her any
DOMBEY AND SON. 65
little services she required ; and this damsel now appear-
ing, 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 en
hor eating a slice of dry toast, and drinking a glass of
epiced negus (which he made to perfection) ; and, en-
couraging her with every kind word and inconsequential
quotation he could possibly think of, led her up-stairs to
her bedroom. But he too had something on his mind,
and was not easy in his manner.
" Good-night, dear heart," said Captain Cuttle to her
at her chamber-door.
Florence raised her lips to his face, and kissed
him.
At any other time the captain would have been over-
balanced 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 testi-
fied before, and seemed unwilling to leave her.
" Poor Wal'r ! " said the captain.
" Poor, poor Walter ! " sighed Florence.
" Drownded, a'n't he ? " said the captain.
Florence shook her head, and sighed.
" Good-night, my lady lass ! " said Captain Cuttle
putting out his hand.
" God bless you, dear, kind friend ! "
But the captain lingered still.
' Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuttle ?" said
Florence, easily alarmed in her then state of mind.
' Have you anything to tell me ? "
" To tell you, lady lass ! " replied the captain, meeting
her eyes in confusion. " No, no ; what should I have to
voi. iv 5
66 DOMBET AND SON.
tell you, pretty ! You don't expect as Fve got any-
thing good to tell you, sure ? "
u No ! " said Florence, shaking her head.
The captain looked at her wistfully, and repeated
u No," still lingering and still showing embarrass-
mint.
" Poor Wal'r ! " said the captain. " My Wal'r, as I
nsed to call you ! Old Sol Gills's nevy ! Welcome to
all as knowed you, as the flowers in May ! Where
are you got to, brave boy ! Drpwnded, a'n'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 parlor,
when his head and shoulders unexpectedly emerged
again, as from the deep, apparently for no other pur-
pose than to repeat, " Drownded, a'n't , he, pretty ? "
For when he had said that in a tone of tender condo-
lence, 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
hitting down before the little table where the captain had
arranged the telescope and song-book, and those other
rarities, thought of Walter, and of all that was connected
with him in the past, until she could have almost wished
to lie down on her bed and fade away. But in her lonely
yearning to the dead whom she had loved, no thought of
home no possibility of going back no presentation
of it as yet existing, or as sheltering her father once
entered her thoughts. She had seen the murder done.
DOMBEY *JS T D SON. 67
[. 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 sucli a dread as could have risen out of nothing but
the depths of sucha love, so wronged.
She dared not look into the glass ; for the sight of the
darkening mark upon her bosom made her afraid of her-
eelf, as if she bore about her something wicked. She
covered it up, with a hasty, faltering hand, and in the
dark ; and laid her weary head down, weeping
The captain did not go to bed for a long time. He
walked to and fro in the shop, and in the little parlor, for
H full hour, and, appearing to have composed himself by
that exercise, sat down with a grave and thoughtful face,
and read out of a Prayer-book the forms of prayer ap-
pointed to be used at sea. These were n6t easily dis-
posed of ; the good captain being a mighty slow, gruff
reader, and frequently stopping at a hard word to give
himself such encouragement as " Now, my lad ! With
a will ! " or, " Steady, Ed'ard Cuttle, steady ! " which
hai a great effect in helping him out of any difficulty.
Moreover, his spectacles greatly interfered with hie
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 up-stairs,
68 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 hear-
ing footsteps near her door.
" Yes, my lady lass," replied the captain, in a growl-
ing whisper. "Are you all right, di'mond?"
Florence thanked him, and said ""Yes."
The captain could not lose so favorable an opportunity
of applying his mouth to the key-hole, and calling through
it, like a hoarse breeze, " Poor Wal'r ! Drownded, a' n't
he ? " After which he withdrew, and turning in again,
slept till seven o'clock.
Nor was he free from his uneasy and embarrassed
manner all that day ; though Florence, being busy with
her needle in the little parlor, was more calm and tran-
quil than she had been on the day preceding. Almost
always when she raised her eyes from her work, she
observed the captain looking at her, and- thoughtfully
stroking his chin ; and he so often hitched his arm-chair
close to her, as if he were going to say something very
confidential, and hitched it away again, as not being able
to make up his mind how to begin, that in the course of
the day he cruised completely round the parlor in that
frail bark, and more than once went ashore against the
wainscot or the closet-door, in a very distressed con-
dition.
It was not until the twilight that Captain Cuttle, fairly
dropping anchor, at last, by the side of Florence, began
to talk at all connectedly. But when the light of the fire
was shining on the walls and ceiling of the little room.
DOMBEY AND SON. 69
and on the tea-board and the cups and saucers that were
ranged upon the table, and on her calm face turned tow
ards the flame, and reflecting it in the tears that filled
her eyes, the captain broke a long silence thus
" You never was at sea, my own ? "
" No," replied Florence.
"Ay," said the captain reverentially; "it's a almight L
element. There's wonders in the deep, my pretty.
Think on it when the winds is roaring and the waves
is fowling. 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, except-
ing when the wiwid lightning reweals the same ; and
when you drive, drive, drive through the storm and
dark, as if you was a driving, head on, to the world
without end, evermore, amen, and when found making
a note of. Them's the times, my beauty, when a man
may say to his messmate (previously a-overhauling of
the vvollume), ' 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, a>
particularly applicable to the terrors of the ocean, the
captain delivered in a most impressive manner, conclud
ing with a sonorous " Stand by ! "
" Were you ever in a dreadful storm ? " asked Flof
ence.
" Why ay, 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 a'n't of myself as I was a-meaning to speak. Our
''aar boy," drawing closer to her, " Wal'r, darling, as was
irownded."
The captain spoke in such a trembling voice, and
70 DOMBEY AND SON.
looked at Florence with a face so pale and agitated, that
she clung to his hand in affright.
" Yonr face is changed," cried Florence. " You are
altered in a moment. What is it? Dear Captain Cut-
tle, it turns me cold to see you!"
" What ! Lady lass," returned the captain, support-
ing her with his hand. " Don't be took aback. No,
no ? All's well, all's well, my dear. As I was a-saying
' W:il'r he's he's drownded. A'n't he ? "
Florence looked at him intently ; her color came and
went ; and she laid her tiand 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 ! maybe 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 fire, maybe you'd like to hear me tell it. Would
you, deary ? "
Florence, trembling with an agitation which she 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.
DOMBEY AND SON. 71
Tlie captain murmured something about its btiug dul]
flint way, and about the fire being cheerful. He drew
Ihe door ajar, which had been standing open until now,
find 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 weather, bound for don't be
took aback, my lady lass, she was only out'ard bound,
pretty, only out'ard bound ! "
The expression on Florence's face alarmed the cap-
tain, 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.
The 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 blovved down towns, and there was galea
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 did her
duty brave, my pretty, but at one blow a'most hei bul-
warks 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' tha
ship's life or a living man, and so she went to pieces
72 DOMBEY AND SON.
Beauty, and no grass will never grow upon the graves
af 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 clinching 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 ay, 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, u Why not ? "
" Because there's nothing there, my deary," said the
aptain. " 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 working with the
best, and standing by the faint-hearted, and never mak-
ing no complaint nor sign of fear, and keeping up a
Bpiiit in all hands that made 'em honor him as if he'd
been a admiral, that lad, along with the second-mate
and one seaman, was left, of all the beat in' hearts that
went aboard that ship, the only living crceturs la.4ied
DOMBEY AND SOX. 73
(O & fragment of (he wreck, and drifting on the stormy
gea."
k Were they saved ! " cried Florence.
" Days and nights they drifted on them endless wa-
ters," 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, toek 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 voy-
age, right away across the chart (for there warn't no
touching nowhere), and on that voyage the seaman as
was picked up with him died. But he was spared,
and"
The captain, without 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 great
emotion in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and
burn like fuel.
" Was spared," repeated Florence, " and " ?
" And come home in that ship," said the captain, still
looking in the same direction, "and don't be fright-
ened, pretty and landed ; and one morning come cau-
tiously to his own door to take a obserwation, knowing
'Jiat his friends would think him drownded, when he
sheered oft' at the unexpected "
" At the unexpected barking of a dog ? " cried Flor-
ence, quickly.
74 UOMBEY AND SON.
'"Yet," roared tiw captain. " Steady, darling ! cour-
1^0 . Don't look round yet. See there ! upon tho.
wall ! "
There was the shadow of a man upon the wall close
to her. She started up, looked round, and with i piere
ing cry, saw Walter Gay behind her. i
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 soul, like music in
the night. " Oh welcome home, dear Water. 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, pirt
it into the crown of his glazed hat, put the. 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 com
pletely 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 tta
spoons, the sugar-tongs, and the canister, and laying
them on the table, swept them with his great hand into
Walter'o hat ; but in handing that singular strong box
to Walter, he was so overcome again, that he wa5 fain
DOMBEY AND SON. 76
ro make another retreat into the shop, and absent him-
self for a longer space of time than on his first retire-
ment.
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
BO earnestly, that he turned quite rational, and positively
interdicted any further allusion to Walter's adventure
for some days to come. Captain Cuttle then became
sufficiently composed to relieve himself of the toast in his
nat, and to take his place at the tea-board ; but finding
Walter's grasp upon his shoulder, on one side, and Flor-
ence whispering her tearful congratulations on the other,
the captain suddenly bolted again, and was missing lor 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 administered to his face with his coat-sleeve during
the last half-hour. It was solely the effect of his internal
emotions. There was a glory and delight within the
captain that spread itself over his whole 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 fervor of his
youth, and all its frank and hopeful qualities, shining
once more, in the fresh, wholesome manner, and the ar-
dent face : would have kindled something of this light in
his countenance. The admiration and sympathy with
Vhich he turned his eyes on Florence, whose beauty
76 DCMBEY AND SON.
grace, and innocence could have won no truer or more
zealous champion than himself, would have had an equal
influence upon him. But the fulness of the glow he shod
around him could only have been engendered in his con-
templation of the two together, and in all the fancies
pringing out of that association, that came sparkling ard
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 up-stairs 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 Flor-
ence, as it were, from a new and far-off place ; that
while his eyes often sought the lovely face, they seldom
met its open glance of sisterly affection, but withdrew
themselves when hers were raised towards him ; than he
believed that it was Walter's ghost who ?at beside IJm.
He saw them there together in their youth and beauty,
and he knew the story of their younger days, and he uad
no inch of room beneath his great blue waistcoat for a.iy-
thing save admiration of such a pair, and gratitude for
their being reunited.
They sat thus, until it grew late. The captain wculd
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 lasn,"
laid Captain Cuttle, " round at Brogley's. Within hjl
Heart's Delight."
DOMBEY AND SON. 77
" I am the cause of your going away, Walter," said
Florence. " There is a houseless sister in your place."
" Dear Miss Doinbey," 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 changed," said Walter
" I changed ! " she interrupted.
" To me," said Walter, softly, as if he were think-
ing aloud, " changed to me. I left you such a child, and
find you oh ! something so different "
" But your sister, Walter. You have not forgotten
what we promised to each other, when we parted ? "
" Forgotten ! " But he said no more.
O
" 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 Waltei.
" Oh, Walter," exclaimed Florence, through her sobs
and tears. " Dear Brother ! Show me some way
through the world some humble path that I may take
alone, and labor 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
fou. But your friends are proud and rich. Your
78 DOMBKY AND SOX.
" No, no ! T\ alter ! " She shrieked, and put :ier
hands up to her head, in an attitude of terror that
transfixed him w here he stood. " Dou't say that
word ! "
He never, fi-oni mat hour, forgot the voice and look
with which she stopped him at the name. He felt tha*
if he were to live a hundred years, he never could for-
jet it
Somewhere anywhere hut never home! All
just, all gone, all lost, and broken up ! The whole his-
ory of her untold slight and suffering was in the cry
and look ; and he felt he never could forget it, and he
uever did.
She laid her gentle face upon the captain's shoulder,
and related how and why she had fled. If every sor
rowing 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
Bpoke ; listening, with his glazed hat all awry, and L's
mouth wide open. " Awast, awast, my eyes ! Wal'r,
dear lad, sheer off for to-night, and leave the pretty one
to me ! "
Walter took her hand hi both of his, and put it to his
lips, and kissed it. He knew now that she was, indeed,
a homeless wandering 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,
DOJ1BKV AND SON. 79
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 key-hole,
" Drownded. A'n'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.
DUM1U..Y AND SON.
CHAPTER L.
MR. TOOTS'S COMPLAINT.
THERE was an empty room above stairs at the
Wooden Midshipman's, which, in days of yore, had beer
Walter's bedroom. Walter, rousing up the captain be-
times in the morning, proposed that they should carry
thither such furniture out of the little parlor 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 will ; and, in a couple of hours,
this garret was transformed into a species of land-cabin,
adorned with all the choicest movables out of the
parlor, inclusive even of the Tartar frigate, which the
captain hung up over the chimney-piece with such ex-
treme delight, that he could do nothing for half an
hour afterwards but walk backward from it, lost in
admiration.
The captain could be induced by no persuasion of
Walter's to wind up the big watch, or to take back
flic- 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, evidently believing that
DOMBEY AND SON. 81
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 im-
portance the unconscious captain attached to it, was not
wholly superfluous ; for, on the previous day, so much
excitement had been occasioned in the neighborhood, by
the shutters remaining unopened, that the Instrument-
maker's house had been honored 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 particularly interested in the
captain's fate ; constantly grovelling in the mud to apply
their eyes to the cellar-grating, under the shop-window,
and delighting their imaginations with the fancy that
they could see a piece of his coat as he hung in a cor-
ner ; 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 sul>-
ject of these rumors was seen early in the morning
standing at his shop-door as hale and hearty as if noth-
ing 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
ftpen of the door, and of giving evidence in full uniform
before the coroner, went so far as to say to an oppo-
VOL. iv. 6
82 DOMBEY AND SON.
site neighbor, that the chap in the glazed hat had better
not try it on there without more particularly mention-
ing what and further, that he, the beadle would keep
his eye upon him.
" Captain Cuttle," said Walter, musing, when they
etood resting from their labors 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, shak-
ing 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 presence of the enlightened Bunsby, " that if you
never hear from him before opening it, you may believe
him dead. Heaven forbid ! But you would have heard
of him, even if he were dead ! Some one would have
written, surely, by his desire, 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 Lon-
don, who left this last remembrance and this last request
to you."'"
The captain, who had never climbed to such a clear
height of probability before, was greatly impressed by the
wide prospect it opened, and answered, with a thought-
ful shake of his head, " Well said, my lad ; wery well
said."
" I have been thinking of this, or, at least," said Wal-
ter, coloring, " I have been thinking of one thing and
another, all through a sleepless night, and I cannot be-
lieve, Captain Cuttle, but that my Uncle Sol (Lord bless
DOMBEY AND SON. 33
him !) is alive, and will return. I don't so much won-
der at his going away, because leaving out of consider-
ation 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 noth-
ing, as no one ought to know so well as I who had
the best of fathers in him," Walter's voice was indis-
tinct 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 plnce 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, per-
haps, bui why my uncle shouldn't write to you, when
he so cleany intended to do so, or how he should 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 uncle 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," said Walter
" or if he had been a reckless sailor, going ashore with
two or three months' pay in his pocket, I could under-
stand his disappearing, and leaving no trace behind
84 DOMB'EY AND SON.
But, being what he was and is, I hope I can't be
lieve it."
" Wal'r my lad," inquired the captain, wistfully ey-
ing him as he pondered and pondered, " what do you
make of it, then ? "
" Captain Cuttle," returned Walter, " I don't know
what to make of it. I suppose he never has written 1
There is no doubt about that ? "
" If so be as Sol Gills wrote, my lad," replied the
captain, argumentatively, " where's his despatch ? "
" Say that he intrusted it to some private hand," sug-
gested Walter, " and that it has been forgotten or care-
lessly 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 lhat as animates you. Hope is a buoy,
for which you overhaul your Little Warbler, sentimen-
tal 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 on the back ; and saying, with enthu-
siasm, " Hooroar, my lad ! Indiwidually, I'm o' youi
opinion."
DOMBEY AND SON. 85
"Walter, with his cheerful laugh, returned the saluta-
tion, 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,
cr ship-letter, you understand "
" Ay, ay, 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, " a'n'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 ? A'n't my heart been heavy and watch-
ful always, along of him and you ? Sleeping and wak-
ing, a'n'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 faithft 1 !
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 beam-
ing face.
" I'll hazard no more conjectures, said Walter, fer-
vently 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."
b6 DOMBEY AND SON.
There was a change in Walter's manner, as he came to
these two words j^and when he uttered them, all his con-
fidence and cheerfulness appeared to have deserted him.
" I thought, before Miss Dombey stopped me when I
gpoke of her father last night," said Walter, " you
remember how ? "
The captain well remembered, and shook his 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 u Avvast ! " or a " Stand
by! " or something or other, equally pertinent to the oc-
casion ; but it was rendered so extremely feeble by the
total discomfiture with which he received this announce-
ment, that what it was, is mere matter of conjecture.
" But," said Walter, " that is over. I think so no lon-
ger. I would sooner be put back again upon that piece
of wreck, on which I have so often 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 uncontrollable satisfaction. " Hooroar ! Hooroar
Hooroar ! "
"To think that she, so young, so good, and beautiful,"
eaid Walter, " so delicately brought up, and born to such
a different fortune, should strive with the rough world 1
But we have seen the gulf that cuts off all behind her,
though no one but herself can know how deep it is ; and
f here is no return."
Captain Cuttle, without quite understanding this,
greatly approved of it, and observed, in a tone of strong
"orroboratiou, that the wind was right abaft.
DOMBET AND SON. 87
" She ought not to be alone here ; ought she, Captain
Cuttle ? " said Walter, anxiously.
" Well, my lad," replied the captain, after a little sa-
gacious consideration. " I don't know. You being here
to keep her company, you see, and you two being
jiatly"
" Dear Captain Cuttle ! " remonstrated Walter. " 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, familiar-
ly, in that character if I pretended to forget that I
am bound, in honor, not to do it ! "
" Wal'r, my lad," hinted the captain, with some re
vival of his di.scom6ture, "a'n't there no other character
as"
" Oh ! " returned Walter, " would you have me die in
her esteem in such esteem as hers and put a veil
between myself and her angel's face forever, by taking
advantage of her being here for refuge, so trusting, and
so unprotected, to endeavor 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, " prowiding as there is any just cause or impedi-
ment why two persons should not be jined together in
the house of bondage, for which you'll overhaul the
place and make a note, I hope I should declare it aa
promised and wowed in the banns. So there a'n't NO
Other character ; a'n't there, my lad ! "
Walter briskly waved his hand in the negative.
" Well, my lad," growled the captain slowly, " I won'l
88 DOMBET AND SON.
deny but what I find myself wery much down by the
bead, along o' this here, or but what I've gone clean
about. But as to Lady-lass, Wal'r, mind you, wot's re-
spect 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 a'n't no other character, fi'n'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
would 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
my 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'll try to find her. The morn-
ing'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 all down here."
The captain, very crestfallen indeed, echoed the sigh
with which .Walter said this, and complied. Florence
was delighted with her new room, anxious to see Walter,
%nd overjoyed at the prospect of greeting her old friend
Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan wa*
DOMBEY AND SON. 89
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
lo 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
lie was a young gentleman of property, and thai he
hopelessly adored Miss Dombey. The captain also re-
lated how the intelligence of Walter's supposed fate had
first made him acquainted with Mr. Toots, and how
there was solemn treaty and compact between 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 parlor, that Mr. Toots was sure to
be there soon, when in came Mr. Toots himself.
' Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, rushing into the par-
lor without any ceremony, " I'm in a state of mind bor-
dering on distraction ! "
Mr. Toots had discharged those wo'rds, as from a
mortar, before he observed Walter, whom he recog-
nized with wha f may be described as a chuckle of mis-
ery.
" You'll excuse me, sir," said Mr. Toots, holding hia
forehead, '' but I'm at present in that state that my brain
is going, if not gone, and anything approaching to polite-
ness in an individual so situated would be a hollow mock-
ery. Captain Gills, I beg to request the favor of a pr>
vate interview."
00 DOMBEY AND SON.
" Why, brother," returned the captain, taking him by
the hand, " you are the man as we was on the look-out
for." .t
" Oh, Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, "what a look-cut
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 veri-
fied in Mr. Toots's appearance, which was wild and sav-
age.
" See here, brother," said the captain. " This here's
old Sol Gills's nevy Wal'r. Him as was supposed to
have perished at sea."
Mr. Toots took his hand from his 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 Gills, is the party you spoke of,
when you said that he and Miss Dombey were made for
one another ? "
" Why, ay, my lad," replied the disconsolate captain ;
u I was of that mind once."
" And at this time ! " exclaimed Mr. Toots, with his
hand to his forehead again. " Of all others ! a hated
rival ! At least, he a'n'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 iry s*f-
DOMBEY AND SON. 91
fection has been truly disinterested, Captain Gills, let
me prove it now ? "
Mr. Toots shot back abruptly into the parlor, and said,
wringing Walter by the hand :
" How-de-do ? I hope you didn't take any cold. I
1 shall be very glad if you'll give me the pleasure of
your acquaintance. I wish you many happy returns of
the day. Upon my word and honor," said Mr. Toota,
warming as he became better acquainted with Walter's
face and figure, " I'm very glad to see you ! "
" Thank you heartily," said Walter. " I couldn't de-
sire 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 honorable ; but I trust I may be allowed now,
to allude to a certain subject that "
"Ay, ay, my lad," returned the captain. "Freely,
freely."
" Then, Captain Gills/' said Mr. Toots, " and Lieu-
tenant Walters, are you aware that the most dreadful
circumstances have been happening at Mr. Dombey's
Louse, and that Miss Dombey herself has left hei
father, who, in my opinion," said Mr. Toots, with great
excitement, " is a Brute, that it would be a flattery to
will a a marble monument, or a bird of prey and
that she is not to be found, and has gone no one knows
where ? "
92 DOMBEY AND SON.
" May I ask how you heard this ? " inquired Walter.
" Lieutenant Walters," said Mr. Toots, who had arrived
at that appellation by a process peculiar to himself; prob-
ably by jumbling up his Christian name with the seafar-
ing profession) and supposing some relationship 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 selfish rea-
son, 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 re-
garded 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 Lieuten-
ant Walters I have been perfectly frantic, and have
been lying down on the. sofa all night, the Rum you
behold."
" Mr. Toots," said Walter, " I um happy to be able
to relieve your mind. Pray calm yourself. Miss Dom-
bey is safe and well."
" Sir ! " cried Mr. Toots, starting from his chair and
shaking hands with him anew, " the relief is so exces-
sive, 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
night do to myself immediately afterwards, that I could
imile. I am so relieved."
DOMBEY AND SON. 98
w It will be a greater relief and delight still, to such
A generous mind as yours," said Walter, not at all slow
in returning his greeting, " to find that you can render
service to Miss Dombey. Captain Cuttle, will 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 Florence's new
retreat.
Poor Mr. Toots's amazement and pleasure at sight of
her were such, that they could find a vent in nothing
but extravagance. He ran up to 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 mis-
tress 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 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 ex-
hibit.
"Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have men-
tioned, Miss Dombey," gasped Mr. Toots, " that I can
94 DOMBEY AND SON.
do you some service. If I could by any means wash
But the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I
conducted myself much more like a Parricide than
person of independent property," said Mr. Toots, with
severe self-accusation, " I should sink into the silenl
tomb with a gleam of joy."
" Pray, Mr. Toots," said Florence, " do not wish me
lo forget anything in our acquaintance. I never can,
believe me. You have been far too kind and good to
me, always."
" Miss Dombey," returned Mr. Toots, " your consid-
eration for my feelings is a part of your angelic charac-
ter. Thank you a thousand times. It's of no conse-
quence 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 youi
object is to find her, and to have her here, myself and
the Chicken will produce her with every despatch that
devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the Cluck
en'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
wi instinctive delicacy, forbore to urge the least obstacle,
though she did not forbear to overpower him with thanks;
DOM BEY AND SON. i5
and Mr. Toof? proudly took the commission upon himself
for immediate execution.
" Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots, touching her prof-
fered hand, with a pang of hopeless love visibly shoot-
ing through him, and flashing out in his face, " Good-
by ! 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
T am entirely to be relied upon, I do assure 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 unin-
terested 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 harbor in my breast. We cannot always com-
mand our feelings, Captain Gills, and I should take it
as a particular favor if you'd let me out at the private
locr."
" Brother," returned the captain, " you shall shape
your own course. Wotever course you take, ifi plain
tnd seamanlike, I'm wery sure."
"Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, "you're ext -emely
kind. Your good opinion is a consolation to me. There
96 DOMBEY AND SON
Is one thing," said Mr. Toots, standing in the passage
behind the half-opened door, " that I hopo you'll beai
in mind, Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieuten-
ant Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite
come into my property now, you know, and 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 pleas-
ure. 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 reason, it was so affecting io 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 even-
ing 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
Mnnment and appreciation that his own honesty and sym-
pathy could surround it with.
Mr Toots did not return upon the next day, or the
next, or for several days ; and in the mean while Flor-
ence, without any new alarm, lived like a quiet bird m
a cage, at the top of the old Instrument-maker's house
But Florence drooped and hung her head more and more
DOMBEY AND SON. 97
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 Bought 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 influ-
ences 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, proud and glad to
serve her, and showing all this with the enthusiasm and
ardor 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 hira
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 au
indefinable division between them which could not be
passed.
An-i she could not but see that these revealings of 'a
great alteration in Walter manifested themselves in de-
spite of his utmost efforts to hide them. In his considera*
lion for her, she thought, and in the earnestness of hia
desire to spare her any wound from his kind hand, he
resorted to innumerable little artifices and disguises. So
VOL. IV. 7
98 DOMBEY AND SON
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 zealoua
friend saw it too, Florence thought, and it pained him.
lie was less cheerful and hopeful than he had been at
first, and would steal looks at her and Walter, by turn?,
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 estrange-
ment was, and she thought it would be a relief to her full
heart, and would 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-collar, 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'll rouse him up here, Beauty," said the captain,
* in a trice."
Thereupon the captain, with much alacrity, shouldered
hit book for he made it a point of duty to read none
but very large books on a Sunday, as having a more
Btaid 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.
DOMBEY AND SON. 99
" Captain Cuttle tells me, Miss Dombey," he eagerly
began on coming in but stopped when he saw her
face.
" You are not so well to-day. You look distressed.
You have been weeping."
He spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremor in
bis voice, that the tears gushed into her eyes at the sound
of his words.
44 Walter," said Florence, gently, " I am not quite well,
and I've been weeping. I want to speak to you."
He sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful
and innocent face ; and his own turned pale, and his lips
trembled.
" You said, upon the night when I knew that you were
paved 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
Bay 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 ingenu-
ous, confiding, loving child, he saw and heard. Not the
dear woman, at whose feet he would have laid the riches
of the earth.
" You remember the last time I saw you, Walter, be-
fore you went away?"
He put his 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."
100 DOMBEY AND SON.
"And you will wear it still, Walter, for iny 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
BO, Walter. Do you recollect that a thought of this
change seemed to come into our minds at the same time
that evening, when we were 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, but 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 character, 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
all 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 yourself, for my sake, now that I
tnow all."
Walter had looked upon her while she said this, with
* face so full of wonder and amazement, that it had
DOMliEY AND SON. 101
room for nothing else. Now he caught up the hand thai
touched his, so entreatingly, and held it between his own.
" Oh, Miss Dombey," he said, " is it possible that whiU
I have been suffering so much, in striving with my sense
of what is due to you, and must be rendered to you, 1
have made you suffer what your words disclose to me.
Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you bi t
as the single bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boy-
hood 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 we 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?"
" Respect," said Walter, in a low tone. " Reverence."
The color dawned in her face, and she timidly and
thoughtfully withdrew her hand ; still looking at him
with unabated earnestness.
" I have not a brother's right," said Walter " I have
not a brother's claim. I left a child. I find a woman."
The color overspread her face. She made a gesture
as if of entreaty that he would say no more, and her
tace dropped upon her hands.
They were both silent for a time , she weeping.
" I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good," said
Walter, " even to tear myself from it, though I rend raj
own. How daro I say it is my sister's !"
102 POMBEY AND S( N".
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 affec-
tionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered
to the name from my distant place, with no inward as-
surance that I wronged your spotless truth by doing so.
But here and now ! "
' Oh thank .you, thank you, Walter ! Forgive my
having wronged you so much. T had no one to advise
me. I am quite alone."
u Florence ! " said Walter, passionately, " I am hurried
on to say, what I thought, but a few moments ago, noth-
ing could have forced from my lips. If I had been pros-
perous ; if I had any means or hope of being one day
able to restore you to a station near your own ; I would
have told you that there was one name you might
bestow upon me a right above all others, to protect
and cherish you that I was worthy of in nothing but
the love and honor 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 u trust so
precious and so priceless, that the undivided truth and
fervor of ray life would poorly acknowledge its worth."
The head was still bent down, the tears still falling,
and the bosom swelling with its sobs.
"Dear Florence! dearest Florence! whom I called
30 in my thoughts before I could consider how pre-
sumptuous and wild it was. One last time let me call
you by your own dear name, and touch this gentle hand
DOMBEY AND SON. 103
in token of your sisterly forgetful 71 ess of what I have
raid."
She raised her head, and spoke to him with such a.
solemn sweetness in her eyes ; with such a cairn, bright,
placid smile shining on him through her tears; with such
H low, soft tremble in her frame and voice ; that the in-
nermost 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. Are you are you very poor ? "
" I am but a wanderer," said Walter, " making voy-
ages 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 your wife, Walter, I will
love you dearly. If you will let me go with you, Wal-
ter, 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 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, harmonizing with the calmness in their souls, and
making holy air around them ! Blessed twilight stealing
wi, and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as she
fells asleep, like a hushed child, upon the bosom she has
clung to !
104 DOMBEY AND SON.
Oh load of love and trustfulness that lies so ligbtlj
Ihere ! Ay, look down on the closed eyes, Walter, with a
proudly tender gaze ; for in all the wide wide world they
seek but thee now only thee !
The captain remained in the little parlor until it was
quite dark. He took the chair on which Walter had
been sitting, and looked up at the skylight, 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 up-stairs,
and why they didn't call him to tea.
Florence came to his side while he was in the height
of his wonderment.
"Ay ! lady lass!" cried the captain. "Why, you and
Wal'r have had a long spell o' talk, my beauty."
Florence put her little 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, and himself
With it as far as they could go.
" What ! Heart's Delight ! " cried tho captain, sud-
denly elated. "-Is it that?"
" Yes ! " said Florence, eagerly.
w Wal'r ! Husband ! THAT ? " roared the captain,
tossing up his glazed hat into the skylight.
" Yes ! " cried Florence, laughing and crying to-
gether.
The captain immediately hugged her; and then, pick-
*ng up the glazed hat and putting it on, drew her arm
DOMBEY AND SON. 106
through liis, and conducted her up-stairs again ; where
he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be
made.
14 What, "Wal'r my lad ! " said the captain, looking hi
t the door, with his face like an amiable warming-pan.
1 So there a'n't NO other character, a'n't there ? "
He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleas-
antry, 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-handkerchief,
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 undertone, 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
propcr'y over, jintly I "
106 DOMBEY AND SON
CHAPTER LI.
MR. 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 lie 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 hav-
ing been asked to dinner on the day of the first party,
Mrs. Chick makes great use of her pocket-handkerchief,
und falls on Mr. Dombey's neck. But Mr. Dombcy
frigidly lifts her off, and hands her to a chair.
" I thank you, Louisa," he says, " for this mark of your
nfTeetion; but desire that bur conversation may refer to
any other subject. When I bewail my fate, Louisa, or
express myself as being in want of consolation, you can
offer it, ii you will have the goodness."
DOMBEY AND SON 107
" My dear Paul," rejoins his sister, with her handker
chief to her face, and shaking her head, " I know your
great spirit, and will 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 in-
culpated in the flight of Edith, or has followed her, or
has done too much, or too little, or anything, or nothing,
B|IC has not the least idea.
lie 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 his disgrace, he is
not yet humbled 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
108 DOMBEY AND SON.
time, and that to watch him eagerly wherever 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 every-
where where he is ; and, worse than that, it is every-
where where he is not. It comes out with him among
his servants, and yet he leaves it whispering behind ; he
sees it pointing after him in the street ; it is waiting for
him in his counting-house : it leers over the shoulders of
rich men among the merchants ; it goes beckoning and
babbling among the crowd ; it always anticipates 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, steam-
ing 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 Fee-
nix, 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
glands 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 eye?
in its own map, hanging on the wall.
DOMBEY AND SON. 109
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 counter-
feit. If you want to hold your friends off, 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 Royal Highness the late Duke of
York did me the honor to say, deservedly or undeserv-
edly never mind that ' If there is a man in the
service on whom I can depend for coming to the point,
that man is Joe Joe Bagstock.' "
Mr. Dombey intimates his acquiescence.
" Now, Dombey," says the major, " I am a man of the
world. Our friend Feenix if I may presume to "
" Honored, I am sure," says Cousin Feenix.
" is," proceeds the major, with a wag of his head,
" also a man of the world. Dombey, you are a man of
the world. Now, when three men of the world meet
together, and are friends as I believe " again ap-
pealing to Cousin Feenix.
" I am 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 tlio
world on any particular subject, is very easily got at."
"Undoubtedly," says Cousin Feenix. "In point of
fact, it's quite a self-evident sort of thing. I am ex-
tremely anxious, major, that my friend Dombey should
hear me express my very great astonishment and regret,
that my lovely and accomplished relative, who was pos-
sessed of every qualification to make a man liappv.
should have so far forgotten what was due to in point
of fact, to the world as to commit herself in such a
110 DOMBEY AND SON.
very extraordinary manner. I have been in a devilish
Mate 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 up-
set 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
Pro\idential manner; for if my aunt had been living at
the lime, 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, Dorabey ! " says the major, resuming his
discourse with great energy.
" I beg your pardon," interposes Cousin Feenix. " Al
low 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 sup[>osed to have so
committed herself with a person man with white teeth,
in point of fact of very inferior station to her hus-
band. But while I must, rather peremptorily, request
my friend Dombey not to criminate my lovely and ac-
complished relative until 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 ob-
stacle in his way, and will be happy to assent to any
honorable course of proceeding, with a view to the
future, that he may point out. I trust my friend Dom-
bey will give me credit for the intentions by which J am
niitnated in this very melancholy affair, and a in
DOMBEY AND SON. Ill
point of fact, I am not aware tFmt 1 need trouble my
friend Doinbey witli any further observations."
Mr. Dombey bows, without raising his eyes, and is
silent.
u Now, Dombey," says the major, u our friend Fecnu
having, with an amount of eloquence that old Joe B, has
never heard surpassed no, by the Lord, sir! never!"
snys the major, very blue, indeed, and grasping his
cane in the middle " stated the case as regards the
lady, I shall presume upon our friendship, Domboy, 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.
1 speak out prematurely, perhaps because the Bag-
stock 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 ! "
"Major," returns Mr. Dombey, "I am obliged. 1
phall put myself in your hands when the time conv?e.
The time not being come, I have forborne to speak to
you."
" Where is the fellow, Dombey?" inquires the major
ifter gasping and looking at him, for a minute.
" 1 don't know."
*' Any intelligence of him ?" asks the major
112 DOM BEY AND SON.
" Yes."
" Dombcy, I am rejoiced to hear it," says tbe major
" 1 congratulate you."
' You will excuse even you, major/' replies Mr.
Dombey, " my entering into any further detail at present.
Tlitj intelligence is of a singular kind, and singularly ob-
tained. It may turn out to be valueless; it may turn
out to be true ; I cannot say at present. My explana-
tion must stop here."
Although this is but a dry reply to the major's purple
enthusiasm, the major receives it graciously, and is de-
lighted to think that the world has such a fair prospect
of soon receiving its due. Cousin Feenix is then pre-
sented with his meed of acknowledgment by the hus-
band 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 house-keeper'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, which 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. Pip-
chin, in order lo get certain information of the state of
Mr. Dornbey.
" How does he bear it, my dear creature: " asks Miss
1'ox.
" Well," says Mrs. Pipchin, in her snappish way,
K he's pretty much as usual."
" Externally," suggests Miss Tox. " But what he feels
irithin ! "
POMBEY AND SON. 115
Mrs. Pipcliin's hard gray eye looks doubtful as she
answers, in three distinct jerks, " Ah ! Perhaps. I sup-
pose so."
" To tell you my mind, Lucretia," says Mrs. Pipchin ,
she still calls Miss Tox Lucretia, on account of having
made her first experiments in the child-quelling-line of
business on that lady, when an unfortunate and wearei
little girl of tender years ; " to tell you my mind, Lu-
cretia, I think it's a good riddance. I don't want any
of your brazen faces here, myself!"
" Brazen indeed ! Well may you say brazen, Mrs.
Piprhin !" return.* 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 ! What a fuss there is ! She's gone, and well
got rid of. Nobody wants her back, I should think! "
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 she's
well ; observing that he didn't know her at first, in that
bonnet.
" Pretty well, Towlinson, I thank you," says Miss Tox.
"1 beg you'll 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, Towlinson," says Mis*
Tox.
VOL. IV. 8
114 DOMBEY AND SON.
* Very much so indeed, miss," rejoins Towlinson
" I hope, Towlinson," says Miss Tox, who, in her in
Btruction of the Toodle family has acquired an admoni
torial tone, and a habit of improving passing occasions,
* that what has happened here, will 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 bis
particular case, when the vinegary Mrs. Pipcliin, sud-
denly 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 loom, 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 Borrow 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 huffs and rebuffs of Mrs.
Pipchin. and all to ak how he does, and how he bears
his misfortune : but she has nothing to do with Mr. Dom-
bey's world. Exacting and harassing as ever, it goes on
without her ; and she, a by no means bright or particulai
star, moves in her little orbit in the corner of anothei
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 !
Al the counting-house, the clerk? discuss the great
DOMBEY AND SON. 115
disaster in nil its lights and shades, but chiefly wondei
iv ho will get Mr. Carker's place. They are generally
of opinion that it will be shorn of some of its emolu-
ments, anJ 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 thia
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 hap-
pily restored amity, takes place at a neighboring tav-
ern ; 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 himself that this is not a time for
private dissensions. Recent 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 ail
audible murmur), have caused him to reflect ; and he
feels that for him and Robinson to have any personal
differences at such a moment, would be forever to deny
that good feeling in the general cause, for which lie has
reason to think and hope that the gentlemen in Dombey's
House have always been distinguished. Robinson replies
,o this like a man and a brother ; and one gentleman
11G DOMBEY AND SON.
who has been in the office three years, under continua.
notice to quit on account of lapses in his arithmetic, ap
pears in a perfectly new 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, be-
ginning 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 be-
tween 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 ex-
cited. 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 dread-
fully. It appears that he met everybody concerned in
the late transaction, everywhere, and said to them, " Sir,"
or " Madam," as the case was, " why do you look so
pale ? " at which eacn r huddered from head to foot, and
said, " Oh, Perch !" and ran away. Either the conscious-
ness 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 Balls Pond ;
and Mrs. Perch frets a good deal, for she fears his con-
fidence in woman is shaken now, and that he half expects
on coming home at night to find her gone off with some
Viscount.
Mr. Dombsy's servants are becoming, at the same
time, quite dissipated, and unfit for other service. They
nave hot suppers every night, and " talk it over" with
DOMBEY AND SON. 117
smoking drinks upon the board. Mr. Towlinson ia
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. Dotnbey don't 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 house-maid (who is very vir-
tuous), 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.
118 DOMBEY AND SON
CHAPTER LIT.
SECRET INTELLIGENCE.
GOOD Mrs Brown and her daughter Alice, kept si-
lent company together, in their own dwelling. It waa
early in the evening, and late in the spring. But a few
days had elapsed since Mr. Dombey had told Major
Bagstock of his singular intelligence, singularly obtained,
which might turn out to be valueless, and might turn
out to be true ; and the world was not satisfied yet.
The mother and daughter sat for a long time without
interchanging a word : almost without motion. The old
woman's face was shrewdly anxious and expectant ; that
of her daughter was expectant too, but in a less sharp
degree, and sometimes it darkened, as if with gathering
disappointment and incredulity. The old woman, with-
out 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,
gypsy way, that might have connected them, at a
glance, with the younger woman. The shades of even-
ing thickened and deepened as the two kept silence,
until the blackened walls were nearly lost in the
railing gloom.
DOMBEY AND SON. 119
Then Alice broke the silence which had lasted sc
long, and said :
"You may give him up, mother. He'll not come
here."
" Death give him up ! " returned the old woman, im-
patiently. " He will come here."
" We shall see," said Alice.
u 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'll 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 light-
ing 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
*8 still as a crouched tigress, with her kindling eyes.
" Hark ! " said the old woman, triumphantly. " I
bear a step coming. It's not the tread of any one that
lives about here, or comes this way often. We don't
walk like that. We should grow proud on such noigh
bors ! Do you hear him ? "
1 20 DOMBEY AND SON.
" I believe you are right, mother," replied Alice, in a
low voice. " Peace ! 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 Mr. Dombey, 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, courtesying and chatter-
ing. " 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 hia
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 for-
getful of my station in coming here, but you know why
I come, and what you offered when you stopped me in
the street the other day. What is it that you have to
tell me concerning what I want to know ; and how does
it happen that I can find voluntary intelligence in a
hovel like this," with a disdainful glance about him,
DOMBEY AND SON. 121
" 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
endeavor to impose upon me. Butr if you have that
purpose, you had better stop on the threshold of your
scheme. My humor is not a trifling one, and my ac-
knowledgment will be severe."
" Oh a proud, hard gentleman ! " chuckled the old
woman, shaking her head, and rubbing hei shrivelled
hands, " oh hard, hard, hard ! But your worship shall
see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears ;
not with ours and if your worship's put upon their
track, you won't mind paying something for it, will you,
honorable deary ? "
" Money," returned Mr. Dombey, apparently relieved,
and reassured by this inquiry, "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
value."
" 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 power-
ful elsewhere, 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 under-
stand us better, and rely more on us. A woman's angel
122 DOMBET AND SON.
is pretty much the same here, as in your fine house. 1
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 my-
self. I would bring you and him together, because I
have a rage against him. My mother there, is avari-
cious 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 hag-
gled and bargained with her for a sixpence. I have done.
My saucy tongue says no more, if you wait here till sun-
rise to-morrow."
The old woman, who had shown great uneasiness dur-
ing this speech which 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 :
u Go on what do you know ? "
44 Oh, Tjci so fast, your worship! we 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.
u Patience," she croaked, laying her hand, like a claw,
DOMBEY AND SON. 123
upon his arm. " Patience. I'll get at it. I know 1
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 hob
bled to the door, and looked out -again: and then hii
glance sought her daughter; but she remained impas-
sive, 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 ex-
pected 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 lie won't see you. He'd be afraid of you,
and wouldn't talk. You'll stand behind that door, and
judge, him for yourself. We don't ask to be believed on
trust. What ! Your worship doubts the room behind
the door ? Oh the suspicion of you rich gentlefolks 1
Look at it, then."
Her sharp eye had detected an involuntary expres-
sion of this feeling on his part, which was not unreason-
able under the circumstances. In satisfaction of it she
DOW 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 lighf
back in i',s place
L24 DOMBEY AND SON.
"How long," he asked, "before this person con.es?"
" 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 re-
main or depart, and as if he had some quarrel with him-
self for being there at all. But soon his tread grew
Blower and heavier, 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
bad risen to receive him, sat listening anew. The mo-
ootony 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 Rob the
Grinder on his appearance at the door.
" And here's my bonny boy," cried Mrs. Brown, u at
last ! oho, oho ! You're like my own son, Robby ! "
" Oh ! Misses Brown ! " remonstrated the Grinder.
* Don't ! Can't you be fond of a cove without squeedg
ing and throttling of him ! Take care of the bird-cage
in my hand, will you ? "
" Thinks of a bird-cage afore me ! " cried the old
woman, apostrophizing the ceiling. " Me that feels more
than a mother for him ! "
" Well, I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, Misses
DOMBEY AND SON. 125
Brown." said the unfortunate youth, greatly aggravated ;
"but you're so jealous of a cove. I'm very fond of
you myself, and all 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 favorable occa-
sion.
" And to talk about bird-cages, 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 wrapper, on the table, and untying it with his
teeth and hands. "It's our parrot, this is."
"Mr. Carker's parrot, Rob?"
" Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown ? " re-
turned the goaded Grinder. " What do you go naming
names for ? I'm blest," said Rob, pulling his hair with
both hands in the exasperation of his feelings, "if she
a'n't enough to make a cove run wild ! "
" What ! Do 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 I Don't I dote upon you, Misses Brown ? "
" Do you, sweet Rob ? Do you truly, chickabiddy ? "
With that, Mrs. Brown held him in her fond embrace
once mere ; 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 ? "
126 DOMBEY AND SON.
" Ah ! Not here since this night week ! " said the old
Wx>man, contemplating him with a look of reproach.
" Good gracious, Misses Brown," returned the Grin-
der, " 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 Robin," said
the old woman, filling the glass from the bottle and giv-
ing 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 reality on Mr. Dombey's face at the
door, " and wishing her the same and many of 'em ! "
He drained the glass to these two 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
ill out of my head again."
" Judge of birds, Kobby," 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
wtablishtnent broke up and as 1 don't want no notice
DOMBEY AND SON. 127
took at present, I wish you'd attend to her for a week or
K), and give her board and lodging, will you ? If I mu*i
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 Rob. " Not that I want any inducement but
yourself, Misses Brown, I'm sure. Don't begin again,
for goodness sake."
" Ha 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, Misses Brown,"
said Rob, 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, Rob ? " said Mrs. Brown,
quickly.
" Sharp, Misses Brown ! " repeated Rob. " But this
is not to be talked about."
Checking himself abruptly, and not without a fearful
glance across the room, Rob 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 par-
rot's cage, by way of a diversion from the dangerou?
theme that had just been broached.
The old woman eyed him slyly, and hitching her chail
nearer his, and looking in at the parrot, who came down
from the gilded dome at her call, said :
" Out of place now, Robby ? "
" Never you mind, Misses Brown," returned the Qrin-
Icr short Ir.
1 28 DOMBEY AND SON.
u Board wages, perhaps, Rob ? " said Mrs. Brown.
" Pretty Polly ! " said the Grinder.
The old woman darted a glance at him that might
have warned him to con-ider his ears in danger, but it
was his turn to look in at the parrot iiow, and however
expressive his imagination may have made her angry
scowl, it was unseen by his bodily eyes.
u I wonder Master didn't take you with him, Rob,"
said the old woman, in a wheedling voice, but with in-
creased malignity of aspect.
Rob 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 efforts to be coaxing :
" Robby, my child."
" Well, Misses Brown," returned the Grinder.
"I say, I wonder Master didn't take you with him,
dear."
u Never you mind, Misses Brown," returned the Grin-
der.
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 affecficn
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
iirect appeal to her, and by his inarticulate utterance,
DOMBEY AND SON. 129
remained quite neutral, until, after struggling with hi.s
assailant into a corner, Rob 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 ener-
gies for another swoop upon him. At this crisis Alice
interposed her voice, but not in the Grinder's favor, by
gay ing,
" Well done, mother. Tear him to pieces ! "
" What, young woman ! " blubbered Rob ; " 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 ? Call yourselves females,
too ! " said the frightened and afflicted Grinder, with his
coat-cu(F at his eye. " I'm surprised at you ! Where's
your feminine tenderness?"
"You thankless dog!" gasped Mrs. Brown. "You
impudent, insulting dog!"
" What have I been and done to go and give you
offence, Mi<ses Brown ? " retorted the tearful Rob
" You was very much attached to me a minute ago:"
" To cut me off with his short answers and his sulky
words," said the old woman. " Me ! Because I happen
to be curious to have a little bit of gossip about Master
and the lady, to dare to play at fast and loose with me I
But I'll talk to you no more, my lad. Now go ! "
" I am sure, Misses Brown," returned the abject
Grinder, "I never insiniwated that 1 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 coimr. "Not
VOL. IV. 9
130 DOMBEY AND SON.
another word with him shall pass my lips. He's au
ungrateful hound. I cast him off. Now lot him go !
And I'll slip those after him that shall talk too much ;
that won't be shook away ; that'll hang to him like
leeches, and slink arter him like tuxes. What ! He
knows 'em. He knows his old games and his old ways.
If he's forgotten 'em, they'll soon 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'll 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 round
in a ring of some four feet in diameter, constantly re-
peating these words, and shaking her fist above her
head, and working her mouth about.
" Misses Brown," pleaded Rob, 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 wrath-
fully 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 ac
count of his being up to everything ; but I might have
known it wouldn't have gone any farther. I'm sure
I'm quite agreeable," with a wretched face, " for any
little bit of gossip, Misses Blown. Don't go on like
this, if you please. Oh, couldn't you have the good-
DOMBEY AND SON. 131
ness 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 inter
posed, in her stern voice, and with an impatient action
Df her head ; " try him once more, and it' 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 tender
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, com-
bating 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
gpeak a little lower," Rob implored. " Why, he's pretty
well, thank'ee, I suppose."
" You're not out of place, Robby ? " said Mrs. Brown
in a wheedling tone.
" Why, I'm not exactly out of place nor in," faltered
Rob. "I I'm still in pay, Misses Brown."
" And nothing to do, Rob ? "
"Nothing particular to do just now, Misses Brown
Vut to keep my eyes open," said the Grinder, roll-
ing them in a forlorn way.
" Master abroad, Rob ? "
"Oh, for goodness' sake, Misses Brown, couldn't jou
132 DOMBEY AND SON".
gossip with a cove about anything else ! " cried the
Grinder, in a burst of despair.
The impetuous Mrs. Brown rising directly, the tor-
tured 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 prevent his turning round. " It's her way
her way. Tell me, Rob. Did you ever see the
lady, deary?"
*' Oh, Misses Brown, what lady ? " cried the Grinder
in a tone of piteous supplication.
" What lady ? " she retorted. " The lady ; Mrs. Dom-
bey."
" Yes, I believe I see her once," replied Rob.
" The night she went away, Robby, 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,
Misses Brown," replied Rob, " it's no use putting
pinchers into a sove to make him say so."
"Where did they go that night, Rob? Straight
gway ? 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, Rob, boy ! You and me can
keep a secret together, eh ? We've done so befoia
now. Where did they go first, Rob?"
DOMBET AND SON. 138
The wretched 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 lightning. I wish I was 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 * \
grin. *
"I'm wishing my love to you, Misses Brown," re-
turned 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 they didn't go nowhere not together, I
mean," answered Rob.
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 j
" that's the way nobody saw 'em go, or has been able to
say how they did go. They went different 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, Rob? Well?" said the old woman, draw-
ing his arm yet tighter through her own, as if, in hel
sagerness, she were afraid of his slipping away.
134 DOMBEY AND SON.
" 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 oiher 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 woman, 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 him-
self.
" She kept as steady, then, when she and me \venl
down to Southampton," 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 daylight,
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, deci-
sively.
" Oh here's a woman for you ! " cried the unfortunate
Rob, in an outburst of feeble lamentation over his own
helplessness. " What did you wish to know next, Mis-
ses Brown ? "
" What became of Master ? Where did he go ? "
She inquired, still holding him tight, and locking ck>s
into his face, with her sharp eyes.
DOMBEY AND SON. 135
" Upon my ?oul, I don't know, Misses Brown, an
swered Rob. " 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
toniruo, 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 yourself, or shut yourself up in this house, and
set it afire, 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
tell 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 Rob, somewhat 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 cau-
tion, 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
Jown 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 woman,
still holding him as before, took this opportunity of rais-
ing the forefinger of her right hand, in the air, as a
stealthy signal to the concealed observer to give partic-
ular attention to what was about to follow.
" Rob," she said, in her most coaxing tone.
M Good gracious, Misses Brown, what's the matte*
acw ? " returned the exasperated Grinder.
136 DOMBEY AND SOW.
" Rob ! where did the lady and Master appoint to
meet ? "
Rob shuffled more and more, and looked up and locked
down, and bit his thumb, and dried it on his waistcoat,
and finally said, eying 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.
Rob, 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 ! "
" But you have heard it said, Robby," 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."
Rob, with a petulant exclamation between laughing
and crying for he was penetrated with some admira-
tion of Mrs. Brown's cunning, even through this perse-
cution 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 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 tell you beforehand, what it is, Misses
Brown," said Rob, " it's no use asking me anything else.
[ won't answer anything else ; I can't. How long it
was to be before they met, or whose plan it was that
DOMBEY AND SON. 137
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 ? "
" Yes, Rob."
"Well then Misses Brown. The way now you
won't ask any more, you know ? " said Rob, tuiuing
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 per-
son 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 after-
wards, though 1 looked for 'em. There was only one
word on it, and that was this, if you must and will
know. But remember! You're upon your oath, Misses
Brown ! "
Mrs. Brown knew that, she said. Rob, having noth-
ing 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 ? " ho
txclaimed, covering it with his hand, and turning impa-
vicntly upon her, " I won't have it read out. Be quiet,
will you ! "
" Then write large, Rob," she returned, repeating her
<ecret signal ; " for my eyes are not good, oven ftt print,"
138 DOMBEY AND SON.
Mittteiing to himself, and returning to hi.-; work with
an ill-will, Rob went on with the word. As he bent hia
head down, the person for whose information he so un-
consciously labored, 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 ou her lips as he made it, without articulating it
aloud. At the end of every letter her eyes and Mr.
Dornbey'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 color 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 hia
arm and patted his back ; and the Grinder, overcome
with mortification, cross-examination, and liquor, folded
his arms on the table, laid his head upon them, and
fell asleep.
Not until he had been heavily asleep some time, and
was snoring roundly, did the old woman turn towards
the door where Mr. Dombey stood concealed, and beckon
him to come through the room, and pass out. Even
then, she hovered over Rob, ready to blind him with
her hands, or strike his head down, if he should raUe
it while the secret step was crossing to the door. But
though her glance took sharp cognizance of the sleeper,
t was sharp too for the waking man ; and when he
touched her hand with his, and in spite of all his cau-
DOMBEY AND SON. 1/tt
tion, 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 ac-
tive 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 ; nnd
lightly closing it again in her jealousy and avarice,
whispered :
What will he do, Ally ? "
" Mischief."' said the daughter.
" Murder ? " a.sked 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 color-
less, even to her lips.
They said no more, but sat apart ; the mother com-
muning with her money; the daughter with her thoughts;
the glance of each, shining in the gloom of the feebly
lighted room. Rob slept and snored. The disregarded
parrot only was in action. It twisted and pulled at the
wires of its cage, with it* crooked beak, and crawled up
to the dome, and along its roof like a fly, and down again
head-foremost, and shook, aud 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
rf it
140 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER LIII
MORE INTELLIGENCE:
JLBEUL were two of the traitor's own blood his re-
nounced brother and sister on whom the weight of his
guilt rested almost more heavily, at this time, than on
the man whom he had so deeply injured. Prying and
tormenting as the world was, it did Mr. Dombey the ser-
vice 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 exist-
ence resolved itself. All the stubbornness and implaca-
bility of his nature, all its hard impenetrable quality, all
its gloom and moroseness, all its exaggerated sense of
personal importance, all its jealous disposition to resent
the least flaw in the ample recognition of his importance,
by others, set this way like many streams united into
one, and bore him on upon their tide. The most im-
petuously passionate and violently impulsive of mankind
would have been a milder enemy to encounter than the
sullen Mr. Dombey wrought to this. A wild beast
would have been easier turned or soothed than the grave
gentleman without a wrinkle in his starched cravat.
But the very intensity of his purpose became almost a
substitute for action in it While he was yet uninformed
of the traitor's retreat, it served to divert his mind from
DOMIJEY AND SOX. 141
bis own calamity, and to entertain it with another pros-
pect. The brother and sister of his false favorite had no
such relief; everything in their history, past and pres-
ent, 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 it-
self 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 un-
worthiness, and the ruin in which it was at once his con-
solation 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 wliich the brother and sister sat at their
early breakfast, was darkened by the unexpected shad-
ow of a man coming to the little porch: which man was
Perch the messenger.
"I've stepped over from Balls Pond at a early hour,"
said Mr. Perch, confidentially looking in at the room-
door, and stopping on the mat to wipe his shoes all
round, which had no mud upon them, " agreeable to my
instructions last night. They was, to be sure and bring
142 DOMBEY AND SON.
a note to you, Mr. Carker, before you went cut in -the
morning. I should have been here a good hour and a
half ago," said Mr. Perch, meekly, " but for the state of
health of Mrs. P., who I thought I should have lost in
the night, I do assure you, five distinct times."
" Is your wife so ill ? " asked Harriet.
" Why you see," said Mr. Perch, first turning round
tc shut the door carefully, " she takes what has happened
in our House so much to heart, niiss. Her nerves is so
very delicate you see, and soon unstrung. Not but what
the strongest nerves had good need to be shook, I'm
sure. You feel it very much yourself, no doubts."
Harriet repressed a sigh, and glanced at her brother.
" I'm sure I feel it myself, in my humble way," Mr.
Perch went on to say, with a shake of his head, " in a
manner I couldn't have believed if I hadn't been called
upon to undergo. It has almost the effect of drink upon
me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been
taking more than was good for me overnight."
Mr. Perch's appearance corroborated this recital of
his symptoms. There was an air of feverish lassitude
about .it, that seemed referable to drams ; and which in
fact, might no doubt have been traced to those numerous
discoveries of himself in the bars of public-houses, being
treated and questioned, which he was in the daily habit
of making.
" Therefore I can judge," said Mr. Perch, shaking his
head again, and speaking in a silvery murmur, " of the
feelings of such as is at all peculiarly sitiwated ri this
most painful rewelation."
Here Mr. Perch waited to be confided in ; and receiv-
ing no confidence, coughed behind his hand. This lead-
ing to nothing, he coughed behind his hat ; and that
UOMBEY AND SON. 143
leading to nothing, he put his hat on the ground and
nought in his breast-pocket for the letter.
" If 1 rightly recollect, there was no answt.r," said Mr.
Perch; with an affable smile ; " but perhaps you'll be so
good as cast your eye over it, sir."
John Carker broke the seal, which was Mr. DomheyX
and possessing himself of the contents, which were very
brief, replied, " No. No answer is expected."
" Then I shall wish you good-morning, miss,'"' said
Perch, taking a step toward the door, " and hoping, I'm
sure, that you'll not permit yourself to be more reduced
in mind than you can help, by the late painful rewela-
tion. The Papers," said Mr. Perch, taking two steps
back again, and comprehensively addressing both the
brother and sister in a whisper of increased mystery, " ie
more eager lor news of it than you'd suppose possibla
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 key-hole,
which being patent is impervious. Another one," said
Mr. Perch, " with milintary frogs, is in the parlor of the
King's Arms all the blessed day. I happened, last
week, to let a little obserwation fall there, and next
morning, which was Sunday, I see it worked up in print,
iu a most surprising manner."
Mr. Perch resorted to his breast-pocket, as if to pro
duce the paragraph, but receiving no encouragement,
pulled out his beaver-gloves, picked up his hat, and took
tiis Isiu s ; and before it was high noon, Mr. Perch had
related to several select audiences at the King's Arms
and elsewhore, how Miss Carker, bursting inU tears, had
144 DOMBEY AND SON
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 men-
tioned 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 count-
ing-house while I was there. I had been able to avoid
him before, but of course could not'*hope to do that long.
1 know how natural it was that he should regard my
presence as something offensive; I felt it must be so,
myself."
" He did not say bO ? "
" No ; he said nothing : but I saw that his glance
rested on me for a moment, and I was prepared for what
would happen for what has happened. I am dis-
missed ! "
She looked as little shocked and as hopeful as she
could, but it was distressing news, for many reasons.
" ' I need not tell you,' " said John Carker, reading
tlie letter, "' why your name would henceforth have an
unnatural sound, in however remote a connection with
mine, or why the daily sight of any one who bears it,
would be unendurable to me. I have to notifv the ces-
sation of all engagements 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 145
notice, and this is my discharge. Heaven knows, Har-
riet, it is a lenient and considerate one, when we reruem-
ber 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,
Harriet, but for you."
" 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 hear-
ing of such wild mad words ! "
He covered his face with both his hands ; but soon
permitted her, coming near him, to take one in hr
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
etrive, 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 jpon his lips, " for
my sake ! In remembrance of our long companionship! "
He was silent. " Now let me tell you, dear," quietlj
VOL. IV. 10
146 DOMBEY AND SON.
lilting by his side, " I have, as you have., expected this \
and when I have been thinking of it, and .'earing that it
would happen, and preparing myself for it, as well as 1
could, I have resolved to tell you, if it should be so, that
I have kept a secret from you, and that \ve have a
friend."
" What's our friend's name, Harriet ? " he answered
with a sorrowful smile.
" Indeed I don't know, but he onco made a very
earnest protestation to me of his friendship and his
wish to serve us : and to this day I believe him."
" Harriet ! " exclaimed her wondering brother, " where
does this friend live ? "
" Neither do I know that," she returned. " But he
knows us 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."
44 Here ! Has he been here, Harriet ? "
44 Here, in this room. Once."
" What kind of man ? "
44 Not young. ' Gray-headed,' as he said, ' and fast
growing grayer.' But generous, and frank, and good,
T am sure."
" And only seen once, Harriet ? "
44 In this room only once," said his sister, with the
glightest and most transient glow upon her cheek ; " but
when here, he entreated me to suffer 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."
DOMBEY AND SON. Ul
" And once a week "
" Once every week since then, and always or the samo
day, and at the same hour, he has gone past; always on
foot ; always going in the same direction towards Lon-
don ; and never pausing longer than to bow to me, and
wave his hand cheerfully, as a kind guardian might. Ho
made that promise when he proposed these curious iuter-
riews, 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 with what has happened."
" How ? " inquired her brother.
" I don't know how. I have only speculated on the
coincidence; I have not tried to account for it. I feel
sure he will return. When he 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 gare
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 soma
fault in her description, or from some abstraction of his
H8 DOMBEY AXD SON.
thoughts as he walked to and fro, pondering, could not
recognize 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, with a less anxious breast, to
her domestic occupations ; and the gray-haired man,
late Junior of Dombey's, devoted the first day cf hia
unwonted liberty to working in the garden. t
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 atmos-
phere of vague anxiety and dread that lowered about
them in connection with their fugitive brother, this
sound, 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 ap-
proached together.
" Harriet," said her brother, lighting in their late
visitor, and speaking in a low voice, " Mr. Moi-fin
the gentleman so long in Dombey's house vfith James."
Hio sister started back, as if a ghost had entered. In
the door-way stood the unknown friend, with the dark
hair sprinkled with gray, 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 gentle-
man I told you of, to-day ! "
"The gentleman, Miss Harriet," said the visitor, com-
ing in for he had stopped a moment in the door -way,
" is greatly relieved to hear you say that : he has been
devising ways and means, atl the way here, of explain-
ing himst,.f, and has been satisfied with none. Mr. John,
I am not quite a stranger here. You were stricken \\iih
DOMBEY AND SON. 149
Rsfonishment when you saw me at your door just now.
I observe you are more astonished at present. Well
That's reasonable enough under existing circumstances
If we were not such creatures of habit as we are, we
shouldn't have reason to be astonished half so often.''
By this time, he had greeted Harriet with that agree-
able mingling of cordiality and respect which she rec-
ollected 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 hav-
ing conceived a desire to see your sister, Mr. John, or in
ray having gratified it in my own way. As to the regu-
larity of my visits since (which she may have mentioned
to you), there is nothing extraordinary in that. They
soon grew into a habit ; and we are creatures of habit
creatures of habit ! "
Putting his hands into his 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 thoughtfulness : " 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 villany 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, an exactly defined share, in the management of
Dom'iey's house, and saw your brother v \vho has proved
himself a scoundrel ! Your sister will forgive my being
bliged to mention it) extending aud.ex*endiug his influ
150 DOMBE* AND SON.
ence, until the business and its owner were his football
and saw you toiling at your obscure desk every day ; dnd
was quite content to be as little troubled as 1 might 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 regu-
larly 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 affair of mine."
" I can answer for your being more respected and be-
loved 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 man-
ager : 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."
u 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
DOMBEY AND SO*. 151
knowi.ig something 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 referred, 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 recall the history of the two broth-
ers, and to ponder on it. I think it was almost the
first time in my life when I fell into this train of reflec-
tion how will many things that are familiar, 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 frtelj
as they would. I considered them mine by right. After
that, I came here to see the sister for myself. The firs/
time I stopped at the garden-gate, 1 made a pretext of
152 DOMBEY AND SON.
inquiring into the character oi a poor neighbor ; but 1
wandered out of that tract, and I tnink Miss Harriet
mistrusted me. The second time I asked leave to come
in ; came in ; and said what I wished to say. Your
sister showed me reasons which I dared not dispute, for
receiving no assistance from me then ; but I established
a means of communication between us, which remained
unbroken until within these few days, when 1 was pre-
vented, 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
Lave 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 until 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 dis-
tractions of death, courtship, marriage, and domestic un-
happiness, have left us no head but your brother for this
Jong, long time. And it would have been better for us,"
said the visitor, dropping his voice, " to have been a life-
toss trunk."
DOMBEY AND SON. 153
He seemed conscious that these latter words had eg-
Daped 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
All I mean goes beyond words, as I hope y( u under
Btand and believe. The time has come, John though
most unfortunately and unhappily come when I may
help you without interfering with that redeeming strug-
gle, 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-humoredly,
" 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 witli an altered
and graver manner :
" You wish to ask me something of the man whose
sister it is your misfortune to be."
"I dread to ask," said Harriet.
" You have looked so earnestly at me more than
race," rejoined the visitor, " that I think I can divine
?our question. Has he taken money? Is it that?"
" Yes."
" He has not."
" I thank Heaven ! " said Harriet. " For the sake
of John."
154 DOMBEY AND SON.
"That fie 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 repre-
sented ; that he has led the house on, to prodigious ven-
tures, often resulting in enormous losses ; that he has
always pampered the vanity and ambition of his em-
ployer, when it was his duty to have held them in check,
nnd 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 pos-
sibly a few disastrous changes of affairs might render
them the probably ruinous consequences. 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 clew : he has had the opportunity, and he
eeems to have used it, of keeping the various results
afloat, when ascertained, and substituting estimates and
generalities for facts. But latterly you follow me,
Miss Harriet ? "
" Perfectly, perfectly," she answered, with her fright-
ened 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 ! that it has been hia
constant practice to minister to that passion basely and
DOM HEY AND SON. 154
to flatter it corruptly, is indubitable. In that, his crimi
nality, as it is connected with the affairs of the houses
chiefly consists."
" One other word before you leave me, dear sir," Paid
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. Morfin, after a moment's
survey of her face..
" You may. Indeed you may ! "
" I am sure I may. Danger to the house's credit ?
No ; none. There may be difficulty, greater or less dif-
ficulty, but no danger, unless unless, indeed the
head of the house, unable to bring his mind to the re-
duction 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 him-
self, should urge it beyond its strength. Then it would
totter."
" But there is no apprehension of that ? " said Harriet
" There shall be no half-confidence," he replied, shak-
ing her hand, " between us. Mr. Dombey is unapproach-
able by any one, and his state of mind is haughty, rash,
unreasonable, and ungovernable, now. But he is dis-
turbed ani agitated now beyond all common bounds, and
it may pass. You now know all, both worst and boat.
No more to-night, and good-night ! "
With that he kissed her hand, and, passing out at 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 would, but there waa
156 DOMBEY AND SON.
no leisure for it then ; and went away at a round pacts
in order that no word of gratitude might follow 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 wss in the house where
!ris foot had never trod.
Nor was it to be driven out, nor did it fade before the
dun. 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 pursuance 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, an.l a deepening twilight, were not
favorable 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, call-
ing to her, staring at her, frowning on her. The pictures
in her mind were so obtrusive and exact that, as the twi-
light deepened, she dreaded to raise her head and look
at the dark corners of the room, lest his wraith, the off-
spring of her excited imagination, should be waiting
there, to startle her. Once she had such a fancy of his
6eing in the next room, hiding though she knew quite
well what a distempered fancy it was, and had no belief
hi it that she forced herself to go there, for her owi
DOMBEY AND SON. 157
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
solid earth.
It was almost dark, and she was sitting near the win-
dow, with her head upon her hand, looking down, when,
sensible of a sudden increase in the gloom of the apart-
ment, she raised her eyes and uttered an involuntary
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 want to speak to you ! "
and the hand rattled on the glass.
She recognized immediately the woman with the long
dark dair, to whom she had given warmth, food, and
shelter, one wet night. Naturally afraid of her, remem-
bering her violent behavior, 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."
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 lave
to say ? "
"Not much, but let me say it out, or I shall never say
158 POMBEY AND SON.
it. I am tempted now to go aAvay. 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
firelight 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
wrhere 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 forgive-
ness "
" 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 hei
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
mt oiy merits, and was fond of me, and proud of me
DOMBEY AND SON. 159
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 aa
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 mar-
riages don't come of such things, in our degree ; only
wretchedness and ruin. Wretchedness and ruin came
on me came on me."
Raising her eyes swiftly from their moody gaze upon
the fire, to Harriet's face, she said
"I am wasting time, and thf-re is none to spare; yst
if I hadn't thought of all, I shouldn't be here now.
Wretchedness and ruin came on me, I say. I was made
a short-lived toy, and flung aside more cruelly and care-
lessly 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 Devil of me. I ounk
in wretchedness and ruin, lower and lower yet. I waa
ioncerned in a robbery in every part of it but the
ains and was found out, and sent to be tried, without
a friend, without a penny. Though I was but n girl, 1
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. Hut my
160 DOMBEY AND SON.
mother, covetous always, sent to him in my name, told
the true story of my case, and humbly prayed and peti-
tioned for a small last gift for not so many pounds a-
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 satisfied 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 Alice, 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,
weary and lame, over the whole world, to stab him, if 1
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
I have followed him with my eyes, in the broad day.
If any spark of my resentment slumbered in my bosom,
t sprung into a blaze when my eyes rested on !.;m.
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 ! " repeated Harriet.
" What if I had found out one who knew your brother**
DOMBEY AND SON. 161
fcecret : who knew the manner of his flight ; who knew
where he and the companion of his flight were gone?
What if I had made him utter all his knowledge, word
by word, before this enemy, concealed to hear it ? Whal
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 lhan man, and must, in so many hours, come up
with him?"
" Remove your hand ! " said Harriet, recoiling. " Go
away ! Your touch is dreadful to me ! "
' 1 ImvS 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? "
" I fear I must. Let my arm go ! "
" Not yet. A moment more. You can think wha*
my revengeful purpose 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,
u here again, kneeling quietly on the ground, with my
touch upon your arm, with my eyes upon your faco, you
may believe that there is no common earnestness in what
I say, and that no common struggle has been battling in
my bieast. I 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 pos-
sible. I wouldn't have them come together while his pur
uer is so blind, and headlong. If you had seen him as
be went out last night, you would know the danger better/
VOL. IV. 11
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164 POMBEY AND SOU.
Df the wall. But in the daytime, when the lattice-
blinds (now closely shut) were opened, and the light lei
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
euch shows and toys of life seem sensitive like life, and
waste as men shut up in prison do. Even night, and
clusteis 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 colors, were
confined, on this night, to one room that smaller room
within 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^pre-
cious as a gem. In the heart of its radiance sat a beauti-
ful 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 bear-
ing just the same. No shame upon her brow ; no late
repentance bending her disdainful neck. Imperious and
stately yet, and yet regardless of herself and of all
eke, 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 purpose,
ctroug enough to fill up any pause, possessed her. With
her lips pressed together, and quivering if for a mo-
ment ihe released them from her control ; with her
oostril inflated ; her hands clasped in one another ; and
aer purpose swelling in her breast ; she sat, and waited
DOMBEY AND SON. 165
At the sound of a key in the outer door, and a foot-
step 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, when it was his pleas-
Ore to take the apartment. Monsieur had paid, whet
he stayed there for an hour, en route, and left the let- '
ter for Madame Madame had received it surely?"
" Yes."
" A thousand pardons ! The sudden apprehension
that it might have been forgotten had struck him;" a
bald man, with a large beard from a neighboring re-
staurant : " with despair ! Monsieur had said that sup-
per was to be ready at that hour : also that he bad
forewarned Madame of the commands he had given, in
his letter. Monsieur had done the Golden Head the
honor to request that the supper should be choice and
delicate. Monsieur would find that his confidence in
the Golden Head was not misplaced."
Edith said no 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 bedchamber, and into the
drawing-room, where she hurriedly but narrowly ex-
amined all the doors ; particularlyi one in the former
room that opened on the passage in the wall. From
this she took the key, and put k on the outer side.
She then came back.
The men the second of whom was a dark, bilious
Biibject, in a jacket, close shaved, and with a black head
*f hair close cropped had completed their prepara-
tion of the tabl >, and were standing looking at it. He
166 DUMBEY \ND SON.
who had spoken before, inquired whether Madame
thought it would be long before Monsieur arrived?
" She couldn't say. It was all one."
" Pardon ! There was the supper ! It should be
eaten on the instant. Monsieur (who spoke French
like an Angel or a Frenchman it was all the same)
had spoken with great emphasis of his punctuality. But
the English nation had so grand a genius for punctuality.
Ah! what noise! Great 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 color, a figure at full length, embraced Madame,
and addressed her in the French tongue as his charm-
ing 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 immovable.
" Fran9ois 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 al
ready set forth, with the change of service on a side-
joard. Monsieur was satisfied with this arrangement,
The supper-table being small, it pleased him very well
DOMIJEY AND SON. 167
Let them set the chafing-dish upon the floor, am] go.
He would remove the dishes with his own hands.
" Pardon ! " said the bald man, politely. " It was im-
possible ! "
Monsieur \vas of another opinion. He required no
further attendance that night.
** But madaine " the bald man hinted.
u Madame," replied Monsieur, " had her owu moid,
it was enough."
* A million pardons ! No ! madame had no maid ! "
" I came here alone," said Edith. " It was my choice
!o do so. I am well used to travelling ; I want no at-
tendance. 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 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 coma
hushed and stifled 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, lay-
ing 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
Inife within her reach upon the table ; then she stood as
she had stood before.
" How strange to come here by yourself, my love,'
be aid as he entered.
1 68 DOMBEY AXD SON.
" What ! " she returned.
Her tone was so harsh ; the quick turn of her heail so
fierce ; her attitude so repellant ; and her form 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 ?miling his most courtly smile, " how strange to come
here alone ! It was unnecessary caution surely, and might
have defeated itself. You were to have engaged an
attendant at Havre or Rouen, and have had abundance
of time for the purpose, though you had been the most
capricious and difficult (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 hid-
den 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 passed, 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 com-
pensation for old slavery."
He was coming gayly towards her, when, in an instant,
she caught the knife up from the table, and started one
Dace back.
" Stand still ! " she said, " or I shall murder you ! "
DOMBEY AND SON. 169
The sudden change in her, the lowering I'ury nni
intT'ise 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 ihcm,
and said lightly,
" Come, come ! Tush, we are alone, and out of every-
body's sight and hearing. Do you think to frighten me
with these tricks of virtue ? "
" Do you think to frighten me" she answered fiercely,
' from any purpose that I 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 ? If I feared you, should I be here, in the
dead of night, telling you to your face what I am going
to tell ? "
" And what is that,' 1 he said, " you handsome shrew ?
Handsomer so, than any other woman in her best
humor ? "
"I tell you nothing," she returned, " until you go back
to that chair except this, once again Don't come
near me ! 2sot a step nearer. I tell you, if you do,
as Heaven sees us, I shall murder you!"
" Do you mistake me for your husband ? " he re-
lorted, with a grin.
Disdaining to reply, she stretched her arm oat, point
fog to the chair. He bit his lip, frowned, laughed, and
sat down in it, with a baffled, irresolute, impatient air
ue "a< unable to conceal ; and biting his nail net
170 DOMBEY AND SON.
vously, and looking at her sideways, with bitter dis-
comfiture, 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 if, 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
well enough "
" Why, if," she said, surveying him with a haughfy
contempt and disgust, that he shrunk under, let him
brave it as he would, " if all my other reasons for de-
spising him could have been blown away like feathers,
DOMBEY AND SON. 171
nis having you for his counsellor and favorite, 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-niirht.
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 other-
wise answered or threatened her.
" I am a woman," she said, confronting him steadfastly,
" 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 me, but it has been paraded, and vended to
enhance my value, as if the common crier had called it
through 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 pie."
"Yes; I imagined that," h sairf.
"And calculated on it," she rejoined, "and so pur
Mtid 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 v
172 WUMLEY; AND SON.
any woman with a halter round her neck is 5)ld"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
eo pursued me. From my aaarriage-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 hus-
band 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
tiriven 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 honor 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
bated you, to now, when my instinctive repugnance ia
enhanced by every minute's knowledge of you I have
lince had, you have been a loathsome creature to m
Khich has not its like on earth; how then?"
DOMBEY AND SOX. 173
He answered, with a faint laugh, "Ay! How then,
lay 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
iiave no doubt you can recall 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 so thought
6t ; and in the having suffered you to be alone with me
many times before, and having made the opportuni-
ties, you said, and in the having openly avowed lo
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 per-
haps the clinging to that last retreat was ended. On
that night, and then, I turned from everything but
passion and resentment. I struck a blow that laid
your lofty master in the dust, and set you there, be-
fore 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 n< t a finger trembled
174 DOM HEY AND SO.N.
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 Flor-
ence 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 un-
broken. Take them back ! "
She crunched them in her hand, and tossed them to
his feet. And as she looked upon him now, a smile waa
on her face.
u We meet and part to-night," she said. " You have
Callen on Sicilian days and sensual rest, too soon. You
might have cajoled, and fawned, and played your trait-
or's part, a little longer, and grown richer. You pur-
chase your voluptuous retirement dear ! "
" Edith ! " he retorted, menacing her with his hand.
"Sil down! Have done with this! What devil pos-
sesses you ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. J75
* Theii name is Legion," she replied, uprearing hei
proud i'orm 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 in-
nocent child, false every way and everywhere, go forth
and boast of me, and gnash your teeth foi once to know
that you are lying ! "
He stood before her, muttering and menacing, and
ecowling 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 out in you the meanest man I know,
the parasite and tool of the 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 colors 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 fore-
head. If she would have faltered once, for only one
half moment, he would have pinioned her ; but she waa
as firm as rock, and her searching eyes never left him.
" Wo 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'll try, my dear," he said with a ferocious gesture
of his head.
" God's mercy on you, if you try by coming near
toe ! " she replied.
" And what," he said, " if there are none of these samf
176 DOMBEY AND SON.
boasts and vaunts on ray part? what if I were to turn
too ? Come ! " and his teeth fairly shone again. " We
must make a treaty of this, or / may take some unex-
pected course. Sit down, sit down ! "
*' Too late ! " she cried, with eyes that seemed to
Fparkle 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."
lie 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 noth-
ing. 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.
lie did not venture, therefore, to advance towaids
lior ; but the door by which he had entered was behind
him, and he stepped hack to lock it.
"Lastly, take my warning! look to yourself!" she
laid, aud smiled again. " You have been betrayed, as
uU 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 ! "
M Strumpet, it's false! " cried Carker.
DOMBEY AND SON. 17 <
At the moment, the bell rang loudly in the hall. He
turned white, as she held her hand up like an enchant-
ress, 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.
Once turned, once changed in her inflexible unyielding
look, he felt that he could cope with her. He thought a
sudden terror, occasioned by this night-alarm, had sub-
dued her ; not the less readily, for her overwrought con-
dition. 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. He
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 be-
hind 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 .]uicklj
VOL. iv. 12
178 DOMBEY AND SON.
through all the rooms, stopping as he quitted eacl and
looking round for her, with the light raised abo 1 > hit
head. He was standing thus in the bedchamber, when
the door, leading to the little passage in the wall, iught
his eye. He went to it, and found it fastened va tbe
other side ; but she had dropped a veil in going llvough,
and shut it in the door.
All this time the people on the stairs were rinft^g at
the bell, and knocking with their hands and feet,
He was not a coward : but these sounds ; wbt had
gone before ; the strangeness of the place, which had
confused him, even in his return from the hsJl { the
frustration of his schemes (for, strange to say, he would
have been much bolder, if they had succeeded) ; tLe un-
seasonable 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
like lead, that the man whose confidence he had out-
raged, and whom he had so treacherously deceived, waa
there to recognize and challenge him with 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 court-yard ;
but it was a high leap, and the stones were pitiless.
The ringing and knocking still continuing his panic
too he went back to the- door in the bedchtraber, and
with some new efforts, each more stubborn than the last,
wrenched it open. Seeing the little staircase not far off,
and feeling the night-air coming up, he stole back for hia
hat. and coat, made the door as secure after him as he
could, cropt down lamp in hand, extinguished it on see
ing the street, and having put it in a corner, went on'
where the stars were shining.
iX)MBEY AND SON. 179
CHAPTER LV.
ROB THE GRINDER 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 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 com-
pletely. 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, which he had never ex-
pected ; 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
bave rent and shivered all his hardihood and self-reli-
ance Spurned like any reptile ; entrapped and mocked;
turned upon, and trodden down by the proud woman
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
ff, he sneaked away, abashed, degraded, and afraid.
180 DOM BEY AND SON.
Some other terror came upon him quite removed from
this of being pursued, suddenly like an electric shock,
as he was creeping though the streets. Some visionary
terror, unintelligible and inexplicable, associated with a
trembling of the ground, a rush and sweep of some
thing through the air, like Death upon the wing. H?
slirunk, 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 plac'e, where
the laws might not protect him the novelty of the
feeling that it was 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 de-
cide," 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 clinched his hand.
As be crept along, in the shadow of the massive huiM-
Bigs, he set his teeth, and muttered dreadful iinpivcu-
DOMBET AND SON. 181
tions 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 abed ; 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, bar
gaining 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 fol-
low 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 I
Whither did it flow ? What was the end of it ? Aa
he paused, with some such suggestion within him, look-
ing 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 noth-
ing but a horror hi his mind, dark as the scene and un-
defined 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 distance 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 ring-
ing 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 four struggling
dorses at his side.
182 DOMBET AND SON.
" Who goes there ! Monsieur ? "
"Yes."
" Monsieur has walked a long way in the dark mid
niglit."
"No matter. Every one to his taste. Were there
any other horses ordered at the post-house? "
" A thousand devils ! and pardon ! other horses ? at
this hour ? No."
" Listen, my friend. I am much .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 gal-
lop, 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 with-
out 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 immediately upon the road, a lowering
waste. Beyond the shifting images that rose up in his
mind and vani:-hed as they showed themselves, a black
expanse of dread and rage and baffled villany. Occa-
sionally, a sigh of mountain air came from the distant
Jura, fading along the plain. Sometimes 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
lo his thoughts. Shadows of familiar people, stooping at
their desks and books, in their remembered attitudes
DOMBEY AND SON. 183
Mrange apparitions 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 ; confu-
sions 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.
Halloa ! Hi ! away at a gallop over the black land-
scape ; dust and dirt flying like spray, the smoking horsea
snorting and plunging as if each of them were ridden by
a demon, away in a frantic triumph on the dark road
whither ! ,i . < Y
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 slackening ! 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, suffi-
ciently to dwell upon it, by itself, for a minute at a time.
The crash of his project for the gaining of a voluptu-
ous compensation for past restraint ; the overthrow of
bis treachery to on", who had been true and generoua
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
npon 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 lurk-
ing rage against the woman who had sc entrapped him
wid avenged herself was always there ; crude and mis-
184 D051BEY AND SON.
shapen schemes of retaliation upon her, floated in his
brain ; but nothing was distinct. A hurry and contra-
diction pervaded all his thoughts. Even while he waa
BO busy with this fevered, ineffectual thinking, his on*-
constant idea was, that he would postpone reflection until
pome indefinite time.
Then, the old days before the second marriage rose up
IL his remembrance. 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 thia
to be flying now, like a scared thief, from only the poor
dupe ?
He could have laid hands upon himself for his cow-
ardice, 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 with-
in his own knowledge such a miserable tool was like
being paralyzed. 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 wheela
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, driver, all in
& heap together, across the road.
" The devil ! " cried the driver, looking over his shoul
ier, " What's the matter ? "
"Hark! What's that?"
What ? "
DOMBEY AND SON. 185
" Th.it noise."
" Ah Heaven, he quiet, cursed brigand!" to a horse
who shook his bells. " What noise ?"
u 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."
" You are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed.
Go on ! "
The entangled equipage, half hidden in the reek-
Ing cloud from the horses, goes on slowly at first, 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 dis-
cern 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 laborers, risen
from little temporary huts by heaps of stones upon the
road, were, here and there, at work repairing the high-
way, or eating bread. By and by there were peasants go-
ing to their daily labor, or to market, or lounging at the
doors of poor cottages, gazing idly at him as he passed
And then there was a post-yard, ankle-deep in mud,
with steaming dunghills and vast out-houses half ruined j
and looking on this dainty prospect, an immense, old,
shadeless, glaring, stone chateau, with half its windows
186 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 still
always tormented with thinking to no purpose.
Shame, disappointment, and discomfiture gnawed at
his heart ; a constant apprehension of being overtaken,
or met for he was groundlessly afraid even of travel-
lers, who came towards him by the way he was go-
ing oppressed him heavily. The same intolerable
awe and dread that had come upon him, in the night,
returned unweakened in the day. The monotonous ring-
ing of the bells and tramping of the horses ; the monot-
ony 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 vision, in whL'h
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, post-
yards, new horses being put in against their wills, and
ifhe horses of the last stage reeking, panting, and laying
their drooping heads together dolefully at stable-doors;
f little cemeteries with black crosses settled sideways
DOMBEY AND SOX. 187
In the graves, and withered wreaths upon them drop-
ping away ; again of long, long roads, dragging them-
selves out, up hill and down, to the treacherous hori
zon.
Of morning, noon, and sunset ; night, and the rising
of an early moon. Of long roads temporarily left behind
aud a rough pavement reached ; of battering and clat-
tering over it, and looking up, among house-roofs, at ft
great 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 beg-
gars 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 clamor, and looking from his seat at the upturned
countenances and outstretched hands, with a hurried
dread of recognizing some pursuer pressing forward of
galloping away again, upon the long, long road, gathered
up, 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 un-
closed eyes, and springing 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
uot having confronted and defied him. Of having a
deadly quarrel with the whole world, liut chieHy with
himself. Of blighting everything with his black mood
as he was carried on and away.
It was a fevered vision of things past and present
all confounded together ; of his life and journey blended
into one. Of being madly hurried somewhere, whither
188 DOMBEY AND SON.
be 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 'ako 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,
hill 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 vil-
lages, 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 with thinking ; of being unable to reckon
up the hours he had been upon the road, or to compre-
hend 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 could 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, intermin-
able streets ; of wine-shops, water-carriers, great crowds
of people, soldiers, coaches, military drums, arcades. Of
the monotony of bells and wheels and horses' feet being
at length lost in the universal din and uproar. Of the
DOMBEY AND SON. 189
gradual subsidence of that noise as he passed out in an-
other 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
agsin, and dead of night, and feeble lights in windows by
the roadside ; 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
up 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 harbor when the tide
was at its full, and seeing fishing-boats float in, and glad
women and children waiting for them. Of nets and sea-
men's clothes spread out to dry upon the shore ; of busy
sailors, and their voices high among ships' masts and rig-
ging ; 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 gray line on the ocean, on the
vessel's track, fast growing clearer and higher. Of
cliffs and buildings, and a windmill, and a church, becom-
ing 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,
190 DOMBEY AND SON.
while he secretly informed himself of what transpired,
nd determined how to act. Still in the same stunned
condition, he remembered a certain station on the rail-
way, 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 care-
fully. 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 tcwn 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 sufficiently
retired.
His object was to rest, and recover the command of
himself, and the balance of his mind. Imbecile discom-
fiture 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, v still wan-
dered where they would, and dragged him after them.
He was stupefied, and he was wearied to death.
But, as if there were a curse upon him that he 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 bad been another man's. It
was not that they forced him to take note of present
Hounds ind objects, but that they would not be diverted
x DOMBEY AND SON. 191
from the whole hurried vision of his journey. It was
constantly before him all 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 pave
ment, hill and valley, height and hollow, jaded and scared
by the monotony of bells, and wheels, and horstjs' feet,
and no rest.
" What day is this ? " he asked of the waiter, who was
making preparation for his dinner.
" Day, sir ? "
" Is it "Wednesday ? "
" Wednesday, sir ? No, sir. Thursday, sir."
" I forgot. How goes the time ? My watch is un-
wound."
" Wants a few minutes of five o'clock, sir. Been trav-
elling a long time, sir, perhaps ? "
" Yes."
" By rail, sir ? "
" Yes."
" Very confusing, sir. Not much in the habit of trav-
elling by rail myself, sir, but gentlemen frequently saj
80."
" Do many gentlemen come here ? "
" Pretty well, sir, in general. Nobody here at prea
ent Rather slack just now, sir. Everything i$ slack,,
sir."
He made no answer ; but had risen into a sittmg pos-
ture 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 to-
gether. It rushed away where it would, but it never
for an instant, lost itself, in sleep.
192 DOMBEY AND SON.
He drank a quantity of wine after dinnrr, in vain
No such artificial means would bring sleep to his eyes,
His thoughts, more incoherent, dragged him more un-
mercifully 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 imagination hither and thither, no one cculd
have told less correctly than he. But he knew that he
had beBn 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, run-
uing to a point, were as empty and as silent as a desert.
Unable to rest, and irresistibly attracted or bf
bought 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 trach.
A-fter 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 ciiri
DOMBEY AND SON. IDS
ou.sly at the oridges, signals, lamps, and wondering when
another Devil would come by.
A trembling of. the ground, a quick vibration in his
ears ; a distant shriek ; a dull light advancing, quickly
changed to two red eyes, and a fierce fire, dropping glow-
ing coals ; an irresistible bearing on of a great roaring
and dilating mass ; a high wind, and a rattle auothci
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 was so weary, would appease
these ideas and objects assumed a diseased importance
in his thoughts. When he went back to his room, which
was 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
deep. 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
changing to the two red eyes, and the fierce fire drop-
ping 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 in
VOL. iv. 13
194 DOMBEY AND SON.
ended 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 until 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 overnight, now entering with a candle, " do I leave
here, did you say ? "
'About a quarter after four, sir. Express cornea
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 tho
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.
' Not then, sir. Two gentlemen came in the night bj
Ihe short train that stops here, sir. Warm water, sir ? "
** No ; and take away the candle. There's day enough
for me."
Having thrown himself 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.
Be bathed his head and face with water there was no
DOMBEY AND SON. 194
cooling influence in it for him hurriedly put on his
clothes, paid what 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-light*
burning feebly in the morning, and bereft of their sig-
nificance, 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
Bolemn. As he cast his faded eyes upon it, where it
rose, tranquil and serene, unmoved by all the wrong and
wickedness on which its beams had shone since the be-
ginning 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 oing
down into his grave.
He paid the money for his journey to the country-
place he had thought of; and was walking to am' 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 whom he had fled,
emerging from the door by which he himself had entered
there. And their eyes met.
In the quick unsteadiness of the surprise, he staggered,
ind slipped on to the road below him. But recovering
ais feet immediately, he stepped back a pace or two rpon
196 DOMBEY AND SON.
hat road, to interpose some wider space between them,
ind 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 a moment that the
rush was come uttered a shriek looked round.
saw the red eyes, bleared and dim, in the daylight, close
upon him was beaten down, caught up, and whirled
away upon a jagged mill, that spun him round and round,
and struck him limb from limb, and licked his stream of
life up with its fiery heat, and cast his mutilated frag-
ments in the air.
When the traveller who had been recognized, recov-
ered 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 doga
away that sniffed upon the road, and soaked his blood up,
with a train of ashes.
DOMBEY AND SON. J97
CHAPTF.R LVI.
BRVKRAL PEOPLE DELIGHTED, AND THE GAME CDICKKI*
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 parlor.
"Oh my own pretty darling sweet Miss Floy !" cried
the Nipper, running into Florence's room, "to think that
it should come to this and I should find you here my own
dear dove with nobody to wait upon you and no home to
call your own but never, never will I go away again
Miss Floy for though I may not gather moss I'm not a
rolling stone nor is my heart a stone or else it wouldn't
bust as it is busting now oh dear oh dear ! "
Pouring out these words, without the faintest indica-
tion 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.
198 DOMBEY AND SON.
''Who told you HO?" said Florence.
* Oh gracious me ! that innocentest creetur Toots,"
relumed Susan, hysterically. "I knew he must be right
my dear, because he took on so. He's the devotedest
and innocentest infant ! And is my darling," pursued
Susan, with another close embrace and burst of tears,
14 really, really going to be married ! "
The mixture of compassion, pleasure, tenderness, pro-
tection, and regret with which the Nipper constantly re-
curred 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 shoul-
der, 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 mis-
tress's feet, laughing and sobbing, holding her pocket-
handkerchief to her eyes with one hand, and patting
Diogenes with the other as he licked her face, confessed
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.
" And so comic ! " 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,
&nd you my dear Miss Floy, and the silent tomb," said
Susan.
" The silent tomb ! " repeated Florence.
DOMBEY AND SON. 199
: ' He <=ays," here Susan burst into a vioknt hysterical
laugh, " that he'll go down into it now, immediately and
quite comfortable, but bless your heart my dear Misg
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 crea-
ture human nature never knew ! "
Miss Nipper being still hysterical, laughed immoder-
ately after making this energetic declaration, 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
favor 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 ap-
pearance, and stammering exceedingly.
" Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots. " To be again per-
mitted 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 grati-
tude 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 youi
angelic nature, curse me, you would if I may be al-
bwed to say so floor me infinitely less, than by these
undeserved expressions of kindness. Their effect upon
jae is but," said Mr. Toots, abruptly, " this is a di-
gression, and 's of no consequence at all."
200 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 oppor-
tunity, 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,
[ 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 of things
with Lieutenant Walters. Whatever agony that state of
things may have caused me (which is of no consequenco
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 in-
dividual, that it is of no consequence to name would have
done! That however, still, is not the point. Miss Dom
bey, Captain Gills is a friend of mine; and during the
DOMBEY AND SON. 201
interval that is now elapsing, I believe it weald afford
Captain Gills pleasure to see me occasionally coming
backwards and forwards here. It would afford me pleas-
ure so to come. But I cannot forget that I once com-
mitted myself, fatally, at the corner of the Square at
Brighton ; and if my presence will be, in the least de-
gree, 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 honored with your con-
fidence."
" Mr. Toots," returned Florence, " 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 pock-
et-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."
Florence received this intimation with the prettiest
expression of perplexity possible.
" I mean," said Mr. Toots, " that I shall consider it
my duty as a fellow-creature generally, until I am
claimed by the silent tomb, to make the best of myself,
uid to to have my boots as brightly polished, as as
circumstances will admit of. This is the last time, Miss
Dombey, of my intruding any observation of a private
nd 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 reallj
E02 DOMBEY AND SON.
am, upon my word and honor, particularly sensible of
what is considerate and kind. I feel," said Mr. Toots,
in an impassioned tone, " as if I could express my feel-
ings, at the present moment, in a most remarkable man-
ner, 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, up-
stairs."
" Alow and aloft, eh, ray lad ? " murmured the captain.
' Exactly so, Captain Gills," said Mr. Toots, whose
fervor of acquiescence was greatly heightened by his
entire ignorance of the captain's meaning. " Miss Dom-
bey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be shortly united to
Lieutenant Walters?"
" Why, ay, 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", point-
ing his thumb over 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 ad-
miration, " what follers ? That there pretiy creetur,
as delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes aw:iy
DOMBEY AND SON. 208
upon the roaring main with Wal'r on a woyage to
China/'
" Lord, Captain Gills ! " said Mr. Toots.
" Ay ! " nodded the captain. " The ship as took him
up, when he was wrecked in the hurricane thit had
drove her clean out of her course, WHS a China trader,
and Wal'r made the woyage, and got into favor, 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 atbre), 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 a
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
Hgain. If so be I didn't know that, and didn't know
KS 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. / say Amen. You are aware, Captain Gillfl,
lhat I, too, have adored Miss Dornbey."
204 DOMBEY 1ND SON.
a Cheer up ! " said the captain, laying his hand on
Mr. Toots's shoulder. " Stand by, bey ! "
. " It is ray intention, Captain Gills," returned the spir-
ited 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 favor if you will mention to Lieutenant Wal-
ters, is as follows."
" Is as follers," 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 disagreeable to her, and you and every-
body here being no less forbearing and tolerant towards
one who who certainly," said Mr. Toots, with momen-
tary dejection, " would appear to have been born by
mistake, I 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 moment, 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'll
feel convinced I bear no malice to any living creature
least of all to Lieutenant Walters himself and that
you'll casually remark that I have gone out for a walk,
or probably, to see what o'clock it is by the Royal Ex-
change. Captain Gills, if you could enter into thia
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 considerable poition of my
property."
DOMBEY AND SON. 205
" My lad," returned the captain, " say no more. There
a'n't a color 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 honor, however
badly I may show it. You know," said Mr. Toots, u it's
exactly as if Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a cus-
tomer with a most extraordinary pair of trousers, and
could not cut out what they had in their minds."
With this apposite illustration, of which he seemed a
little proud, Mr. 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 hap-
py 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 pro-
found respect, and whose valiant precipitation of herself
on Mrs. MacStinger he could never forget), he proposed
to Florence that the daughter of the elderly lady who
usually sat under the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Mar-
ket, should, for prudential 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 sugges-
tion she had previously offered to the captain,' Mrs. Rich-
ards. Florence brightened at the name. And Susan,
getting off that very afternoon to the Toodle domicile, to
K)und Mrs. Richards, returned in triumph the same
evening, accompanied by the identical rosy-cheeked,
apple-faced Polly, whose demonstrations, when broughl
206 DOMBEif AND SON.
into Florence's presence, were hardly less affectionate
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 dispo-
sition, and had fully made up her mind that she had
come back never to be parted from her old mistress
any more.
" As to wages dear Miss Floy," she said, " you would-
n't hint and wrong me so as think of naming them, for
I've put money by and wouldn't sell my love and duty
nt a time like this even if the Savings' Bank 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 was took away, and though I'm noth-
ing 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 a'n'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 anywhere everywhere! Walter is poor,
and 1 am very poor, and I must learn, now, both to help
myself, and help him."
" 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 lo Mr. Waltei
DOMBEY AND SON. 207
Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away
across the world alone I cannot, and J won't."
"Alone, .Susan?" returned Florence. "Alone? :md
Walter taking me with him!" All. what a bright,
amazed, enraptured smile was on her face ! He should
have seen it. "I am sure you wi'l not speak to Wair-r,
if 1 ask you not," she added tenderly; "and pray dou't,
teir."
Susan sobbed, "'Why not, Miss Floy?"
" Because," said Florence, " I am going to be his \vifr,
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 wha'. s 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 fervor
of these words, and the simple, heartfelt, all-pervading
euinotness expressed in them, and making the speaker's
face more beautiful and pure than ever, that she could
only cling 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 weak-
nesses, was almost as capable of putting constraint upon
herself as of attacking the redoubtable MacStinger.
From that time, she never returned to the subject, but
wa-. always cheerful, active, bustling, and hopeful. Slie
ilid, indeed, inform Mr. Toots privately, that she wag
only "keeping up "for the time, and that when it was
ell over, and Miss Dorubey was gone, she might be ex-
pected 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; b'lt she never other
208 DOMBEY AND SON.
wise indulged her private feelings in the presence af
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 awny at
her side, all day, with the concentrated zeal of filly
sempstresses. The wonderful contributions Captain Gui-
de would have made to this branch of the outfit, if
he had been permitted as pink parasols, tinted silk
stockings, blue shoes, and other articles no less necessary
on shipboard would occupy some space in the recital.
He was induced, however, by various fraudulent repre
mentations, to limit his contributions to a work-box and
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 generally sat, during
the greater part of the day, gazing at these boxes ;
divided between extreme admiration of them, and de-
jected misgivings that they were not gorgeous enough,
and frequently diving out into the street to purchase
pome wild article that he deemed necessary to their com-
pleteness. But his master-stroke was, the bearing of
them both off, suddenly, one morning, and getting the
hvo words FLORENCE GAT engraved upon a brass heart
inlaid over the lid of each. After this, he smoked four
|:ipes successively in the little parlor by himself, and was
discovered chuckling, at the expiration of as many hours.
Walter was busy and away all day, but came there
67 % ry morning early to see Florence, and sJways passed
the evening with her. Florence never left her high
rooms but tc steal down-stairs to wait for him whin it
ad hi? time to come, or, sheltered by his proud, eccir
DOMBET'AND SON. 209
cling arm, to bear him company to the door again, and
Bonu-t iines peep into the street. In the twilight they
wi;n- always together. Oh blessed time ! Oh wander-
ing heart at rest ! Oh deep, exhatistless, mighty well
of love, in which so much was sunk !
The cruel mark was on her bosom yet. It rose against
hor father with the breath she drew, 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
was 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 hour.
" 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
*re shall be upon the sea, sweet Florence ? "
" I don't mean that, Walter, though I think of
210 DOMBEY AND SON.
that too. E have been thinking 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
IE your thoughts than mine. But I mean a cost."
" A cost, my own ? "
" In money, dear. All these preparations that Susan
nnd 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 ! "
" And how 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 bis shoulder, and
looked into his face, " that I regret to be this burden oi
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."
" Ay ! But Walter, you can never feel it as I do. I
am so proud of you ! It makes my heart swell with
such delight to know that those who speak of you mut
Bay you married a poor disowned girl, who had taken
ehelter 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 yorr sake, as I am ! "
" And you, dear Florence ? are you nothing ? " he
returned.
DOMBEY AND SON. 211
" No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife." Tho
ligh. 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 out to correct his watch by
Ihe Royal Exchange, and once to keep an appoint-
ment 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 fin-
i>lu j d, and probably on the very day of our marriage
she will drop down the river. Shall we go away that
morning, 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 morn-
ing 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
212 DOMBEY AND SON
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 guid-
ance of Miss Nipper, and distracting his mind with the
calculations incidental to the game ; which he found to bt
a very effectual means of utterly confounding himself.
The captain's visage on these occasions presented one
of the finest examples of combination and succession of
expression ever observed. His instinctive delicacy and
his chivalrous feeling towards Florence, taught him that it
was not a time for any boisterous jollity, or violent display
of satisfaction. 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
Florence 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 tho
sudden rushing forth of Mr. Toots, that he had uncon-
sciously been very instrumental indeed, in making that
gentleman miserable. This reflection would make the
captain profoundly melancholy, 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 ary
more. The state that ensued on this, was, perhaps, hu
best ; for then, endeavoring to discharge all
DOMBEY AND SON. 218
from his face, he would sit staring round the rcoin, with
all these expressions conveyed into it at once, and each
wrestling with the other. Delighted admiration of
Florence and Walter always overthrew 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 re-
proachful voice, to " Stand by ! " or growling some
remonstrance to " Ed'ard Cuttle my lad," on the want
of caution observable in his behavior.
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 hia
feelings to Susan Nipper.
" Susan," said Mr. Toots, " 1 am drawn towards the
building. The words which cut me off from Miss Dora-
bey forever, will strike upon my ears like a knell you
know, but upon my word and honor, I feel that I must
hear them. Therefore," said Mr. Toots, " will you ac-
company me to-morrow, 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
') 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 T adored Miss Dombey. The banns which consign
her to Lieutenant Walters, and me to to Gloom, you
214 DO3IBEY AND SON.
know," said Mr. Toots, after hesitating for a strong ex
pression, ' may be dreadful, will be dreadful ; but I feel
that I should wish to hear them spoken. 1 feel that I
should wish to know, that the ground was certainly cut
from under me, and that I hadn't a hope to cherish, or
a or a leg, in short, to to go upon."
Susan Nipper could only commiserate Mr. Toots's un-
fortunate condition, and agree, under these circuinstuice&,
to accompany him ; which she did next morning-
The church Walter had chosen for the purpose, was
a mouldy old church in a yard, hemmed in by a laby-
rinth of back streets and courts, with a little buiyiug-
ground round it, and itself buried in a kind of vault
formed by the neighboring houses, and paved with echo-
ing 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 rolled as if the church had got the
colic, for want of a congregation to keep the wind and
damp out. But so far was this City church from lan-
guishing for the company of other churches, that spires
were clustered round it, as the masts of shipping clus-
ter on the river. It would have been hard to count
them from its steeple-top, they were so many. In al-
most every yard and blind-place near, there wits a
church. The confusion of bells when Susan and Mr.
Toots betook themselves towards it on the Sunday luorn-
ing, was deafening. There were twenty churches clooC
together, clamoring for people to tome in.
The two stray sheep in question were penned by a
beadle in a commodious pew, and, being early, sat for
wme time counting the congregation, listening to th
DOMBET AND SON. 215
lisappoinltd bell high up in the towei, or looking at a
shabby little old man in the porch behind the screen,
who was ringing the same, like thebull in Cock Robin,
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 lady merely shook her head and
frowned ; repelling for the time all approaches of a tem-
poral nature.
Mr. Toots, however, appearing unable to keep his
thoughts from the banns, was evidently looking out for
them during 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 gentle-
men of the medical profession, who happened to be pres-
ent ; 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 tho
high-backed pews, were upon her, would have been .<uf-
Sciently embarrassed by this incident, though it had
.erminated here ; the more so, as the captain IL. the
216 DOMBEY AND SON.
front row of the gallery, was in a state of unmitigated
consciousness which could hardly fail to express to the
congregation that h? had some mysterious connection
with it. But the extreme restlessness of Mr. Toots pain-
fully increased and protracted the delicacy of her situa-
tion. That young gentleman, incapable, in his state of
mind, of remaining alone in the church-yard, a prey to
solitary meditation, and also desirous, no doubt, of Ug-
lifying his respect for the offices he had in some meas
are 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 impossible 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, Mr. 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 with-
out, 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, a* it were,
for the whole congregation to speculate upon the chances
of the different windows, during the comparative leisure
aflbrdeJ them by the sermon. Mr. Toots's movements
in the church-yard were so eccentric, that he seemed
generally to defeat all calculation, and to appear, like
the conjurer's figure, where he was least expected ; and
the effect of these mysterious presentations was much
DOMJEY AND SON. 217
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 glas?, until ho 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 exhib-
ited 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 cap-
tain, 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 Midship-
man'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 pros-
pect of to-morrow, but moderately cheerful too. Flor-
ence, 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 Nip-
per. Miss Nipper was giving it, with all due secrecy
and circumspection. Diogenes was listening, and occa-
fiionally breaking out into a gruff, half-smothered frag'
ment 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,
218 DOMBET AND SON.
'' 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 im-
mediately afterwards, and gave utterance to another
fragment of a bark ; for which he apologized to the cap-
lain, by again wagging his tail.
" It's my opinion, Di," said the captain, looking
thoughtfully at his cards, and stroking his chin with hia
hook, "as you have your doubts of Mrs. Richards;
but if you're the animal I take you to be, you'll think
better o' that ; for her looks is her commission. Now,
brother : " to Mr. Toots : " if so be as you're 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 wide, 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 cap-
tain recovered himself with a great gasp, struck the
table a tremendous blow, cried in a stentorian roar,
" Sol Gills ahoy ! " and tumbled into the arras 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, Florenca
was in the arms of the weather-beaten pea-coat. In an
other moment, Captain Cuttle had embraced Mrs. Rich-
ards and Miss Nipper, and was violently shaking hands
with Mr. Toots, exclaiming, as he waved his hook above
ois head, " Hooroar, my lad, hooroar!" To which Mr.
Toots, wholly at a loss to account for ther.e proceedings.
DOMBET AND SON. 21 S
replied with great politeness, " 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 5
while the shaggy sleeves clasped Walter tight. During
this pause, there was an universal silence, and the cap-
tain 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 Instru-
ment-maker, a little thinner and more careworn than of
old, in his old Welsh wig and his old coffee-colored 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 wery woice as chock full o' science
as ever it was ! Sol Gills, lay to, my lad, upon your
>wn wines and fig-trees, like a taut ould patriaick aa
you are, and overhaul them there adwentures o' yonrn,
in your own formilior woice. 'Tis the woice," said the
raptain, impressively, and announcing a quotation with
his hook, " of the sluggard, I heerd him corn-plain, you
have woke me too soon, I must slumber again. Soattci
uis ene-mies, and make 'era fall 1 "
220 DOMBEY AND SON.
The captain sat down with the air of a man who iiad
Happily expressed the feeling of everybody present, and
immediately rose again ts* present Mr. Toots, who was
much disconcerted by the arrival of anybody, appearing
to prefer a claim to the name of Gills.
' Although," 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 cap-
tain, 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. 1 hope," said Mr. Toots, " that you're
as well as can be expected."
With these courteous words, Mr. Toots sat down
blushing and chuckling.
The old Instrument-maker, seated in a corner between
Walter and Florence, and nodding at Polly, who was look-
ing on, all smiles and delight, answered the captain thus :
" Ned 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, "ym'll overhaul your Adam and Eve, brother."
" I shall make a point of doing so, Captain Gills," said
Mr. Toots.
DOMBET AND SON. 22J
" 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 attempting to finish the sen-
tence " 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 withdraw them from his
face.
" Write ! " echoed the captain. " Write, Sol Gills ! "
" Ay," said the old man, " either to Barbadoes, or
Jamaica, or Demerara. That was what I asked."
" What you asked, Sol Gills ! " repeated the captain.
" Ay," 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 smoothing his hair from behind with his hand,
sat gazing at the group around him : a perfect image of
wondering resignation.
" You dont appear to understand me, Ned ! * observed
eld 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 hem
Did you open my packet, Ned ? "
222 DOMBEY AND SON.
" Why, ay, ay," said the captain. " To be sure, I
opened the packet"
" And read it ? " said the old man.
" And read it," answered the captain, eying him at-
tentively, and proceeding to quote it from memory.
u ' 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 ! " said the captain, &s
if he were relieved by getting hold of anything tl.at
was real and indisputable.
" Well, Ned, Now attend a moment ! " said the old
man. " When I wrote first that was from Barbadoes
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
couldn't come away from that part of the world, without
knowing that my boy was lost or saved. When I wrote
next that, I think, was from Demerara, wasn't it ? "
u That he thinks was from Demerara, warn't it ! " said
the captain, looking hopelessly round.
"I said," proceeded old Sol, " that ftill there was
no certain information got yet. That I found many cap-
tains and others, in that part of the world, who >ad known
me for years, and who assisted me with a passage nero
and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, lo 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 ur :il I
died." ~
DOMBEY AND SON. 223
u Began to think as how he was a scientific flying
Dutchman ! " said the captain, as before, and with great
seriousness.
" But when the news come one day, Ned, that was
to Barbadoes, after I got back there, that a China
trader home'ard bound had been spoke, that had my boy
alward, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and
Clime home ; and arrived at home to-night to find it true,
ihank God ! " said the old man, devoutly.
The captain, after bowing his head with great rever-
ence, stared all round the circle, beginning with Mr.
Toots, and ending with the Ipstrument-maker : then
gravely said :
" Sol Gills ! The observatio i 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 was 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 color 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," returned the old man.
* Mrs. What's-her-name ! I shall forget my own name
aext, but I am behind the present time I always was,
you rccoller t and very much confused. Mrs."
224 DOMBET AND SON.
" Sol Gills ! " said the captain, as if he were putting
the most improbable case in the world, " it a'n't the
name of MacStinger as you're a-trying to remember ? "
" Of course it is ! " exclaimed the Instruraent-makor,
" To be sure Ned. Mrs. MacStinger ! "
Captain Cuttle, whose eyes were now as wide open as
th;y could be, and the knobs upon whose face were per-
fectly luminous, gave a long shrill whistle of a moat
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 forefinger of his right hand upon the palm of his
left, with a steadiness and distinctness that might have
done honor, 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. MacStinger'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 cot and run. Lord love you, Wal'r ! " said
the captain, " you've only seen her in a calm ! But see
her when h*r angry passions rise and make a note
on!"
DOMBEY AND SON 22a
" /d give it her ! " remarked the Nipper, softly.
" Would you, do you think, my dear ? " returned tha
japtain, with feeble admiration. " Well, my dear, it
does you credit. But there a'n'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 circum-
stances ! Why, you could hardly make it worth a man's
while to be the postman ! "
" Then it's pretty clear, Captain Cuttle, that all of us,
and you and Uncle Sol especially," said Walter, " may
thank Mrs. MacStinger for no small anxiety."
The general obligation in this wise to the determined
relict of the late Mr. MacStinger, 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, re-
membering 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,
ehining on all beholders with extraordinary brilliancy;
and he fell into a fit of shaking hands with everybody
over and over again.
At an early hour, but not before Uncle Sol and Wal-
ter 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 parlor. Here
Jhey were soon afterwards joined by Walter, who told
.hern Florence was a little sorrowful and heavy-hearted,
and had gone to bed. Though they could not have dis-
turbed her with their voices down there, they all spoke
VOL IV 15
226 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 was 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.
" Mr. Toots," said Walter, on parting with him at the
house door, " we shall see each other to-morrow morn-
ing?"
" Lieutenant Walters," returned Mr. Toots, grasping
his hand fervently, " I shall certainly be present."
" This is the last night we shall meet for a long time
the last night we may ever meet," said Walter.
" Such a noble heart as yours, must 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 feel 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 together that I would
tell you, with her dear love "
Mr. Toots laid his hand upon the door-post, 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 re-
members you in her prayers to-night, and hopes that you
will think of her when she is far away. Shall I say any-
Jhing for you ? "
u Say, Walters," replied Mr. Toots indistinctly, " that
DOMBEY AND SON. 227
I shall think of her every day, 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 door-post, said them
stoutly. He then shook Walter's hand again with a
fervor 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 Mid-
shipman. The Chicken did not appear to be in a par-
ticularly good-humor 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 shoul-
der at the room where Florence slept. On the road
home, he was more demonstrative of aggressive inten-
tions against the other foot-passengers, than comported
with a professor of the peaceful art of self-defence. Ar-
rived at home, instead of leaving Mr. Toots in his apart-
ments when he had escorted him thither, he remained
before him weighing his white hat in both hands by the
brim, and twitching his head and nose (both of which
had been many times broken, and but indifferently re-
,iaired), with an air of decided disrespect.
His patron being much engaged with his own thoughts,
:1iil not observe this for some time, nor indeed until th
'Jhickt-n, determined not to be overlooked, had mad*
228 DOMBEY AND SON.
divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth, to at*
tract 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 a'n'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 gam-
mon or pluck ? Which ? "
" Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, " your expressions
are coarse, and your 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 of wind and time, are you
going to give* in ? To give in ? " said the Chicken, with
contemptuous emphasis. " Wy, it's mean ! "
" Chicken,'' said Mr. Toots, severely, " you're a per-
fect vulture ! Your sentiments are atrocious."
"My sentiments is game and fancy, master," returned
DOMBEY AND SON. 229
the Chicken. "That's wot my sentiments is. I can't
ftbear a u,eanness. 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 what'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*
M thers's a pair on us, then. Come ! Here's a offer !
You've spoke to rne 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 sen-
timents you have expressed, I shall be glad to part on
guch terms."
" Done then," said the Chicken. " It's a bargin. Thia
here conduct of yourn, won't suit my book, master. Wy
t's mean," said the Chicken ; who seemed equally un-
able to get beyond that point, and to stop short of it.
" That's were it is ! it's mean ! "
So Mr. Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on thia
incompatibility of moral perception ; and Mr. Toota
lying down to sleep, dreamed happily of Florence, who
bad thought of him as her friend upon the last night of
her maiden life, and sent him her dear love.
830 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER LViL
ANOTHER WEDDIXG.
MK. SOWXDS the beadle, and Mrs. Miff the pew<
opener, are early at their" posts in the fine church whero
Mr. Dombey was married. A yellow-faced old gentle-
man from India, is going to take unto himself a young wife
this morning, and six carriages full of company are ex-
pected, 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, pro-
ceeding 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 dis-
senters ; " Baptists or Wesleyans, or some o' them," sho
oays), but she can never understand what business jour
common folks Lave 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
DOMHKY AND SON. 231
nw'am," lie says. " We must marry em. We must
have our national schools to walk at the head tf, 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 a
dusting in the church, when a young couple, plainly
dressed, come in. The mortified bonnet of Mrs. Miff' ia
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. Miff 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-open-
ing eye on the young couple who are walking round the
church. " Ahem," coughs Mrs. Miff, whose cough is
drier than the hay in any hassock in her charge, " you'll
come to us one of these mornings, my dears, unless Pra
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
iye how she is leaning on his arm, and how his head ia
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
ttore curious in couples than in coffins. She is such a
pare, straight, dry old lady such a pew of a woman
232 UOMBEY AND SON.
th:it you should find as many individua. sympathies
In a chip. Mr. Sownds, now, who is fleshy, and has
scarlet in his coat, is of a different temperament. He
says, as they stand upon the steps watching the young
coviple 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 what
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 people 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."
Flo"o*)ce 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 will be so tired, my love."
" Oh no ! T 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
tamest-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
o'far removed from all the worl^ about them as to-day
DOMBEY AND SON. 233
The childish feet of long ago, did not tread such en
chanted 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
uily 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 overspreads
the city. Riches are uncovering in shops ; jewels, gold,
and silver flash in the goldsmiths' 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 lied, 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 curious little
patch of garden, or a burying-ground, where the few
lombs and tombstones are almost black. Lovingly and
trustfully, through all the narrow yards and alleys and
Ihe shady streets, Florence goes, clinging to his arm, to
I -I.; his wife.
Her heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that
their church is very near. They pass a few great stacks
of warehouses, with wagons at the doors, and busy car-
men stopping up the way but Florence does not ?ee
or hear them and then the PO- is quiet, and the day is
234 DOMBET AND SON.
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
bell, is standing in the porch, and has put his hat in the
font for he is quite at home there, being sexton. ITe
ushers them into an old, brown, panelled, dusty vestry
like a corner cupboard with the shelves taken out ; where
the wormy registers diffuse a smell 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 bul
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 dusty o'd
beadle (these are Mr. Toots's beadle and pew-opener
of last Sunday), who has something to do with a Wor-
shipful Company who have-got a Hal' in the next yard,
with a stained-glass window in it that no mortal evei
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. TJiere are
dusty old sounding-boards over the pulpit and reading-
desk, looking like lids to be let down on the (fficialing
ministers, in case of their giving offence. There is everj
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
ilergyman is putting on his surplice in the vestry,
DOM13EY AND SON. 285
the clerk walk.* 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,
kneelin"- at the altar with her timid head bowed down.
O
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 with the wooden leg stumping
away. The amens of the dusty clerk appear, like Mac-
bet h'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.
It a dark corner of the dark church, Florence has turned
to Susan Nipper, and is weeping in her arms. Mr.
Ttwts's eyes are red. The captain lubricates his noso
Uncle Sol has pulled down his spectacles from his fore-
head, and walked out to the door.
God bless you, Susan ; dearest Susan ! If you ever
can bear witness to the love I have for Walter, and the
reason that I have to love him, do it for his sake. Good-
by ! Good-by ! "
236 DOMBEY AND SON.
They have thought it better not to go back to the
Midshipman, but to part so ; a coach is waiting for them,
near at .aud.
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. Florence gives
hun her hand gives him, in the fulness of her heart,
her lips kisses Uncle Sol, and Captain Cuttle, and ig
borne away by her young husband.
But Susan cannot bear that Florence should go away
w'th a mournful recollection of her. She had meant to
be so different, that she reproaches herself bitterly. In-
tent on making one last effort to redeem her character,
she breaks from Mr. Toots and runs away to find the
coach, and show a parting smile. The captain, divining
her object, sets off after her ; for he feels it his duty also,
to dismiss them with a cheer, if possible. Uncle Sol and
Mr. Toota are left behind together, outside the church, 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-still in
the distance, she is sure. Captain Cuttle follows her as she
Hies down the hill, and waves his glazed hat as a general
signal, which may attract the right coach and may not.
Susan outstrips the captain, and comes tip with it.
She looks in at the window, sees Walter, with tho
gentle face beside him, and claps her hands and screams :
" Miss Floy, my darling ! look at me ! We are all so
happy now, dear ! One more good-by, my precious, one
more ! "
How Susan does it, she don't know, but she readies tt
the window, kisses her, and has her arms about her neck
in a moment.
DOMBEY AND SCNT. 237
^ " We 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, Susan ! "
" No, no ; I am sure you won't. I say you won't, mj
pet, my dearest!" exclaims Susan ; " and here's the cap-
tain, too youi friend the captain, you know to say
good-by once more ! "
" Hooroar, my Heart's Delight ! " vociferates the cap-
tain, with a countenance of strong emotion. " Hooijoar,
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 holding 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 smil-
ing 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 ! Hooroar, 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 auy
longer. Finally, when the coach is gone, Su>an Nipper
being rejoined by the captain, falls into a state of insensi-
bility, and is taken into a baker's shop to recover.
Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots wait patiently in the church-
yard, silting on the coping-stone of the railings, ur'.il
Captain Cuttle and Susan come back. Neither being at
all desirous to speak, or to be spoken to, they are excel-
lent company, and quite satisfied. When they all arrive
238 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 aa
a swindle. Mr. Toots says, after breakfast, he will come
back in the evening ; and goes wandering about the town
all day, with a vague sensation upon him as if he hadn't
been to bed for a fortnight.
There is a strange charm in the house, and in the
room, in which they have been used to be together, and
out of which so much is gone. It aggravates, 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 can-
did opinion as to the probability 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 some-
thing for supper. Miss Nipper assenting, they buy a
good many little things ; and, with the aid of Mrs. Rich-
ards, set the supper out quite showily before the captain
and old Sol came home.
The captain and old Sol have been on board the
ship, and have established Di there, and have seen the
chests put aboard. They have much to tell about the
popularity of Walter, and the comforts he will have about
him, and the quiet way in which it seems he has been
working early and late, to make his cabin what the
captain calls " a picter," to surprise his iittle wife. " A
admiral's cabin, mind you," says the captain, " a'n't more
\rirn."
But one of the captain's .thief delight^ is, that he
DOM BEY AND SON. 239
knows the big watch, and the sugar-tongs, and tea-
Bpoons, are on board ; and again and again he mur-
murs to himself, " Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you nevei
shaped a better course in your life, than when you
made that there little property over jintly. Ton se
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 his old ally, Ned Cuttle, at his side ;
and he sits down to supper with a grateful and con-
tented 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 fidgeting about for some time,
and now stands hesitating in his 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 wietfully at the cap-
tain, puts his hand into the breast-pocket of his cofFeo-
colored coat, bffings forth his pocket-book, and takes o
letter out.
" To Mr. Dombey," says the old man. " From Wal-
ter. To be se*nt in three weeks' time. I'll read it."
" Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone
with me upon a distant voyage. To be devoted to hei
is to have no claim on her or you, but God knows that
\ am.
240 DOMBE* AJfD SON.
' ' 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
)OU.
" * I do not think or hope that you will e\ er 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 tor-
row, 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 Mi 1 . Toots are of the same opinion. After
a silence they all sit down to supper, and drink to die
young husband and wife in something 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 favoTing 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 fb have there,
and that should make the voyage prosperous is Flor-
ence. It is night, and she and Walter sit alone, watch-
ftig the solemn path of light upon the sea bet wren them
nd the inoon.
DOMBET AND SON. 241
At length sho cannot see it plainly, for the tears that
fill her eyes ; and then she lays her head down on hia
breast, and puts her arms around his neck, saying, " Oh
Walter, dearest love, I am so happy ! "
Jler 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 watch
ing 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 whispering to Florence, in their ceaseless
murmuring, of love of love, eternal and illimitable,
not bounded by the confines of this world, or by the
end of time, but ranging still, beyond the sea, beyond
the sky, to the invisible country far away !
IV.
242 DOMBEY AUD SON.
CHAPTER LVIIL
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 v Time had been per-
formed, 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 Dorabey and Son had fought a fight for life,
against cross accidents, doubtful rumors, 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 thai tl*<j ohip he strained so hard
against the storm, was \scak, 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 bankrupts published,
headrd 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 243
ill-used world. It was a world in which there was no
other sort of bankruptcy whatever. There were no con-
spicuous people in it, trading far and wide on rotten
banks of religion, patriotism, virtue, honor. There was
no amount worth mentioning of mere paper in circula-
tion, on which anybody lived pretty handsomely, promis
ing to pay great sums of goodness with no effects. There
were no shortcomings anywhere, in anything but money.
The world was very angry indeed ; and the people es-
pecially, who, in a worse world, might have been sup-
posed 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, watch-
ing the strange faces of accountants and others, who
quickly superseded nearly all 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 in-
teresting question, what would he take to drink ? Then
would Mr. Perch descant upon the hours of acute un-
easiness he and Mrs. Perch had suffered out at Balls
Pond, when they first suspected "things was going
A-roii"." Then would Mr. Perch relate to {raping
O
listeners, in a low voice, as if the corpse of the deceased
House were lying unburied in the next room, how Mrs.
i,44 DOMBEY AND SON.
Perch had first come to surmise that things was going
wrong by hearing him (Perch) moaning in his sleep,
" twelve and ninepence in the pound, twelve and nine-
pence 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 faith-
ful 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 (o
his position, tell all manner of lies ; affecting himself to
tears by those that were of a moving nature, and really
believing that the inventions of yesterday had, on repeti-
tion, a sort of truth about them to-day.
Mr. Perch always closed these conferences by meek-
ly remarking, That, of course, whatever his suspicions
might have been, (as if he had ever had any !) it wasn't
for him. to betray his trust was it ? Which sentiment
(there never being any creditors present) was received
as doing great honor 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. Dom-
bey'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 messengership in a Fire Of
See, when the affairs of the House should be wound up.
DOMBEY AND SOX 245
To Major Bagstock, the bankruptcy was quite a calam-
ity. 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 phys-
ical regards of gasping and choking. But he had so
paraded his friend Dombey at the club ; had so flour-
ished 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, wjis 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 France, 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 ; in-
somuch, sir, that if Joe's father were to rise up from the
grave to-morrow, he wouldn't trust the old blade with a
|>enny 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. infldel, sir;
and that if it were consistent with the dignity of a rough
and tough old major, of the old school, who had had tli
honor of being personally known to, and commended by,
their late Royal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and
fork, to retire to a tub and live in it, by Gad ! sir, he'd
have a tub in Pall Mall to-norrow, to show his contempt
for mankind !
246 DOHBEY AND SON.
Of all this, and many variations of the same tjne, 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,
wouldn't hear of such a thing. The unfortunate 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.
For six entire weeks after the bankruptcy, this misera-
ble foreigner lived in a rainy season of bootjacks 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 effort. The third, that if she had been in-
vited 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 e rerything he had,
and asked for no favor from any one. That any re-
sumption of the business was out of the question, as ho
would listen to no friendly negotiation having that com-
promise in view ; that he had relinquished every post of
trust or distinction he had held, as a man respected
imong merchants; that he was dying, according to som.
DOMBEY AND StN. 247
ihat he wa^ 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
affection, and some advertised for employment in the
newspapers : Mr. Perch alone remained of all the late
establishment, Bitting on his bracket looking at the ac-
countants, or starting off it, to propitiate the head ac-
countant, who was to get him into the Fire Office. The
counting-house soon got to be dirty and neglected. The
principal slipper and dogs' collar 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, moralized 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 gray, was perhaps the only per-
son within the atmosphere of the House its head, of
course, excepted who was heartily and deeply affected
by the disaster that had befallen it. He had treated
Mr, Dombey with due respect and deference through
many years, but he had never disguised his natural
character, 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-
lightened springs to release with a quick recoil. He
248 DOMBEY AND SON.
worked early and late to unravel whatever was compli-
cated or difficult in the records of the transactions of the
House ; was always in attendance to explain whatever
required explanation ; sat in his old room sometimes
very late at night, studying points by his mastery of
which he could spare Mr. Dorabey the pain of being
personally referred to ; and then would go home lo
Islington, and calm his mind by producing the most
dismal and forlorn sounds out of his violoncello before
going to bed.
He was solacing himself with this melodious grumbler
one evening, and, having been much dispirited by the
proceedings of the day, was scraping consolation out of
its deepest notes, when his landlady (who was for-
tunately 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 per-
former, 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! la
there anything the matter, my dear? But no," he added,
u your face tells quite another story."
"I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you seo
Jiiere, 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 si
down opposite ; the violoncello tying snugly on the sofa
Detweeii them.
DOMBEY AND SON. 249
" You will not be surprised at my r-oming 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. 1
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 overshad-
owed 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 ap-
proach him. The worst has happened ; and the House
has fallen, never to be built up any more."
" And Mr. Dombey, is he personally ruined ? "
Ruined."
"Will he have no private fortune left? Nothing?"
A certain eagerness in her voice, and something thai
was almost joyful in her look, seemed to surprise him
more and more ; to disappoint him too, and jar discord-
antly 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 \* not accu
2, DOMBET AND SON.
rately within my knowledge ; but though they are donbU
less very large, his obligations are enormous. He is a
gentleman of high honor and integrity. Any man in
his position could, and many a man in his position would,
have saved himself, by making terms which would have
very slightly, almost insensibly, 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 will 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 expres-
sion, 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 will see no one. He has written
me a letter, acknowledging our past connection in higher
terms than it deserved, and parting from me. I am del-
icate 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, en
treated. Quite in vain."
He watched her, as in the hope that she ^would testify
some greater concern than ske had yet shown ; and spoke
gravely and feelingly, as if to impress her the more ; but
there was no change in her.
DOMBEY AND SON. 251
u 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 ? Mr. 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 hers was, and pleasant
as it had been to him, Mr. Morfin, the hazel-eyed bach-
elor, 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 be-
fore.
" 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 wan
pale and melancholy, than it had been a moment since.
He seemed to breathe more cheerily.
" You know," she said, " our history, the history of
both my brothers, in connection with the unfortunate,
unhappy gentleman, of whom you have spoken so truly.
You know how few our wants are John's and mine
Mid what little use we have for money, after the life we
iiave led together for so many years ; and now that he
is earning an income that is ample for us, through your
252 DOMBET AND SON.
kindness. Yoa are not unprepared to hear what favor
1 have come to ask of you ? "
' 1 hardly know. I was, a minute ago. Now, I think,
[ am not."
" Of my dead brother, I say nothing. If the dead
inow what we do but you understand me. Of my
riving 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 knowl-
edge will point out a way of doing it- Mr. Dombey may,
perhaps, be led to believe that it is something saved, un-
expectedly, from the wreck of his fortunes ; or that it ia
a voluntary tribute to his honorable and upright charac-
ter, 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 will choose
the best The favor I have come to ask is, that you
will 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 se-
cretly, 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 se-
cret, faithfully jbut that I am sure you will ; and that,
from this time, it may seldom be whispered, even between
rou and me, but may live in my thoughts only as a new
DOMBEY AND SON. 258
reason for thankfulness 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 of
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 prepared for this. Do I understand you that
you wish to make your own part in the inheritance avail-
able for your good purpose, as well as John's ? "
" Oh yes," she returned. " When we have shared
everything together for so long a time, and have had no
care, 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 re-
plied.
"We may rely on your friendly help?" she said. "I
knew we might ! "
" 1 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 honor, I will keep your secret.
And if it should be found that Mr. Dombey is so re-
duced 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 cor*
dial, happy face.
" Harriet,'' he said, detaining it in his. " To speak to
you of the worth of any sacrifice that you can make
254 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 inspi-
ration 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 would bfe
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
mean time, I'll think of this, and how we can best pro-
ceed. And perhaps you'll think of it, dear Harriet, and
and think of me a little in connection 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 off, that we were
creatures 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-
lion he communicated to the instrument at first, though
DOMBEY AND SON. 255
monstrously pathetic and bland, was nothing to .he ei-
pression 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 de-
grees, however, the violoncello, 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
anvil of a veritable blacksmith. In fine, the violoncello
and the empty chair were the companions of his bachelor-
hood until nearly midnight ; and when he took his sup-
per, 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 emptv
chair out of its crooked eyes, with unutterable intel-
ligence.
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 by-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 woman, of light complexion, with raised
eyebrows, and head drooping on one side, who courtesied
at sight of her, and conducted her across the garden to
the house.
" How is your patient, nurse, to-night ? " said Har-
riet.
" In a poor way, miss, I am afraid. Oh how she do
remind me, sometimes, of my uncle's Be^ey Jane ! " re-
256 DOMBEY AND SOJS.
turned the woman of the light complexion, jn a sort of
doleful rapture.
" In what respect ? " asked Harriet.
" Miss, in all respects," replied the other, " except thai
ehe's grown up, and Betsey Jane, when at death's door,
was but a child."
" But you have told me she recovered," observed Har
riiit mildly ; " so there is the more reason for hope, Mrs,
Wirkiim."
" Ah, miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as haa
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'll excuse my speaking so free would
put it out of my power, in four-and-twenty hours ;
but I a'n'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 n:st
of mankind the most dreary and uncomfortable people
that could possibly be laid hold of, to act as instructors
of youth, fingsr-posts to the virtues, matrons, mentors,
attendants on sick-beds, and the like, had established
DOMBEY AND SON. 257
Mrs. Wickain in very good business as a nurse, and
ha<l led to her serious qualities being particularly com-
mended by an admiring and numerous connection.
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 recognized now, but by the long black hair that
showed so very black against the colorless face, and all
the white things about it.
Oh, the strong eyes, and the weak frame ! The eyea
that turned so eagerly and brightly to the door when
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 vo'^e, " 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.
" It matters very little ! " said Alice, witli a faint smile.
M Better or worse to-day, is but a day's differem-i-
perhaps not so much."
Mrs. Wickam, as a serious character, expiv.-sed her
approval with a groan; and having made some cold
3abs at the bottom of the bedclothes, as ieeling for the
VOL. IV. 17
258 DOMBEY AND SON.
patient's feet and expecting to find them stony, went
clinking among the medicine bottles on the table, as who
should say, " while we are here, let us repeat the mix-
ture as before."
" No," said Alice, whispering to her visitor, " evil
courses, and remorse, travel, want, and weather, storm
within, and storm without, have worn my life away. It
will net last much longer."
She drew the hand up as she spoke, and laid hei
face against it.
" I lie here, sometimes, thinking I should like to live
until I had had a little time to show you how grate-
ful I could be ! It is a weakness, and soon passes. Bet-
ter 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 produced 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 ahes, dost
on dust for she was a serious character and with-
drew to partake of certain funeral baked meats down-
stairs.
" How long is it," asked Alice, " since I went to you
&nd told you what I had done, and when you were ad
vised it was too late for any one to follow ? "
** T t is a year and more," said Harriet.
DOMBEY AND SON. 259
"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 kind-
ness. 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.
By and by Alice lying as before, with the hand against
her face, asked to have her mother called.
Harriet 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 un-
til Harriet went to her and touched her, that she rose
jp, and came.
" Mother," said Alice, taking the hand again, and fix-
ing 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 ? "
" Ay, 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 level with the coverlet, and stretching out her hand,
so as to touch her daughter's arm, began :
" My handsome gal "
Heaven what a cry was that, with which she stopped
'here, gazing at the poor form lying on the bed !
" Changed, long ago, mother ! Withered, long ago,'
260 DOMBEY AND SON.
laid Alice, without looking at her. " Don t grieve for
that now."
" My daughter," faltered the old woman, " my gal
who'll soon get better, and shame 'em all with her good
looks."
Alice smiled mournfully at Harriet, and fondled her
l:and a little closer, but said nothing.
" Who'll soon get better, I say," repeated the old
woman, menacing the vacant air with her shrivelled fist,
a and who'll shame 'em all with her good looks she
will. I say she will ! she shall ! " as if she were in
passionate contention with some unseen opponent at the
bedside, who contradicted her M my daughter has been
turned away from, and cast out, but she could boast re-
lationship 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'll 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 young as any. Ah ! as pretty
too, as many ! I was 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 gentle-
men and the best-liked that come a-visiting from London
they have long been dead, though! Lord, Lord, thii
DOMBEY AND SON. 261
long while.' The brother, who was my Ally 3 father,
longest of the two."
She raised her head a little, and peered at her daugh-
ter'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 all 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
Alice.
" Turn ! " cried the old woman, " but why not hers aa
eoon 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 / doue,
I, what have 1 done worse than her, that only my gal is
to lie there fading ! "
With another of those wild cries, she went running
out into the room from which she had come ; but imme-
diately, in her uncertain mood, returned, and creeping
ap to Harriet, said :
" That's what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That's
all. I found it out when I began to ask who she was,
ind all about her, away in Warwickshire there, one sum-
mer time. Such relations was no good to me, then.
They wouldn't have owned me, and had nothing to give
262 DOMBEY AND SON.
me. 1 should have asked 'em, may be, 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 ; hut she'll shame 'em with
her good looks yet. Ha, ha ! She'll 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 like 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 baa
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,
is I can recollect it. Will you read to me a little
more ? "
Harriet was withdrawing her hand to open the book,
when Alice ietained it for a moment.
** You will not forget my mother? I forgive her, if J
DOMBEY AND SON. 268
Lave 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 yon
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
this 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.
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, murmuring the sacred name that had been
read to her ; and life passed from her face, like light
temoved.
Nothing lay there, any longer, but the ruin of the
mortal house on which the rain had beaten, and th
black hair that had fluttered in the wintry wind.
264 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER LIX.
RETRIBUTION.
CHANGES have come again upon the great honse in
the long dull street, once the scene of Florence's child-
hood 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. Towlinson and company are, at first, incredulous
in respect of the shapeless rumors that they hear.
Cook says our people's credit a'n't so easy shook as
that comes to, thank God ; and Mr. 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. Towlinsoifa
main anxiety is that the failure should be a good round
une not less than a hundred thousand pound. Mr.
Perch don't think himself that a hundred thousand pound
will nearly cover it. The women, Jed by Mrs. Perch
and cook, often repeat "a hun-dred thou-sand pound !"
urith awful satisfaction as if handling the words were
like handling the money ; and the housemaid, who lias
her eye on Mr. Towliuson, wishes she had only a bur*
DOMBEY AND SON. 265
dredth 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 withdraw
in tears.
But not to remain long absent ; for cook, who has the
reputation of being extremely good-hearted, says what-
ever they do, let 'em stand by one another now, Towlin-
son, 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
affected 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 feel-
ing which he could wish to see ; and adjourning in quest
of the housemaid, and presently returning with that
young lady on his arm, informs the kitchen that foreign-
ers is only his fun, and that him and Anne have now
resolved to take one another for better for worse, and to
settle in Oxford Market in the general green grocery
and herb and leech line, where your kind favors ia
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
. hijper.
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 com-
Dounds a lobster salad to be devoted to th*; same hos-
pitable purpose. Even Mrs. Pipchin, agitated by tb
266 DOMBET AND SON.
occasion, rings her bell, and sends down word that she
requests to have that little bit of sweet-bread that was
left, warmed up 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 ! Take your
oath of that." And reference being made to Mr. Perch
he confirms her view of the case. Somebody wonders
what he'll do, and whether he'll go out in any situation.
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 resigna-
tion. There is only one interruption to this excellent
state of mind, which is occasioned by a young kitchen-
maid of inferior rank in black stockings who, hav-
ing sat with her mouth open for a long time, unexpect
sdly discharges from it words to this effect, " Suppose
Jhe wages shouldn't be paid ! " The company sit for a
moment speechless ; but cook recovering first, turns upon
DOMBEY AND SON. 267
the young woman, and requests to know how she dares
insult the family whose bread she eats, by such a dishon-
est supposition, and whether she thinks that anybody,
with a scrap of honor left, could deprive poor servants
of their pittance ? " Because if that is your religious
feelings, Mary Daws," says cook, warmly, '' 1 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 exactlj
herself, and scouted by the general voice, is covered will
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
ih-awiug-room, and, while he is waiting for the other
gentleman, who always has pen and ink in his pocket,
!t.-ks Mr. Towlinson (by the easy name of "Old Cock,")
it he happens to know what the figure of them crimson
and gold hangings might have been, when new bought.
The callers and appointments in the 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 era-pet caps, who immediately begin to pull up the
carpets, and knock the furniture about, and to print <>fl
thousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall
and staircase.
The council down-stairs are in full conclave all (his
Ume, and. having nothing to do, perform perfect feats
268 DOMBEY AND SOW.
of eating. At length they are one day summoned it
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 knowl
edge of the fact.
" And you're all on the look-out for yourselves, 1
warrant you," says Mrs. Pipchin, 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 in-
termediate 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 canvas bag;
und 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."
tays Mrs. Pipchin, " 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
ulut of a cook, who'll go immediately."
" That," says cook, " she certainly will ! I wish yoo
DOMBKV AND SON. 261)
good-day, Mrs. Pipchin, and sincerely wish I eojld com.
pliment you on the sweetness of your appearance ! "
" Get along with you," said Mrs. Pipchin, stamping
her foot.
Cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly
exasperating to Mrs. Pipchin, and is shortly joined below
Btairs by the rest of the confederation.
Mr. Towlinson then says, that, in the first pkce, be
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. Towlinsori's suggestion is, in
effect, 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 u
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 house-maid is much affected
by this generous sentiment, and warmly 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 "orwnnls.
The house-maid is sure of it ; and relates, in confirma-
tion, 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"
ihe offender ; when he is laid hold on by the lad : es. who
270 DOMBEY AND SON.
beseech him to calm himself, and to reflect that it in
easier and wiser to leave the scene of such indecencies
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 re-
treat. "For what," says the good woman, "must hi3
feelings be, if he was to come upon any of the poor
servants that he once deceived into thinking him im-
mensely rich ! " Cook is so struck by this moral con-
sideration, 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 mem-
ber of the party left.
The house stands, large and weather-proof, 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 fur-
niture about; and the gentlemen with the pens and ink
make out inventories of it, and sit upon pieces of furni-
ture never made to be sat upon, and eat broad 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 use*. Cha-
otic combinations of furniture also take place. Mattresses
and bedding appear in the dining-room ; the glass and
china get into the conservatory ; the great dinner-service
\n set out in heaps on the long divan in the large draw-
ing ,-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 he balcony
and a similar appendage graces either side of the halt
loor.
DOMBEY AND SON. 271
Then, all day long, there is a retinue of motiMy gigs
nd chaise-carts in the street ; and herds of shabby vam-
pires, Je\v and Christian, overrun the house, sounding
the plate-glass mirrors with their knuckles, striking dis-
cordant octaves on. the grand piano, drawing wet lore-
lingers 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, locking into the very threads
of the drapery and linsn, and disparaging everything.
There is not a secret place in the whole house. Fluffy
and snuffy strangers stare into the kitchen-range as
curiously as into the attic clothes-press. Stout men with
napless hats on, look out of the bedroom 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 neighborhood from the top of
the house. The swarm and buzz, and going up and
down, endure for days. The Capital Modern House-
hold Furniture, &c., is on view.
Then there is a palisade of tables made in the best
drawing-room ; and on the capital, french-polished, ex-
tending, 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 fluffy and snuffy, and the stout
men with the napbss hats, congregate about it and :-it
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
272 DOMBET AND SON.
dust the head anil shoulders, voice and hammer, of
the Auctioneer, are ever at work. The men in the car-
pet caps get flustered and vicious, with tumbling the
Lots about, and still the Lots are going, going, gone;
gtill coming on. Sometimes there is. joking and a gen-
eral roar. This lasts all day and three days following.
The Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is on sale.
Then the mouldy gigs and chaise-carts reappear ; and
with them come spring-vans and wagons, and an army
of porters with knots. All day long, the men with car-
pet caps are screwing at screw-drivers and bed-winches,
or staggering by the dozen together on the staircase un-
der heavy burdens, or upheaving perfect rocks of Span-
ish mahogany, best rosewood, or plate-glass, into the
gigs and chaise-carts, vans and wagons. All sorts of
vehicles of burden are in attendance, from a tilted wagon
to a wheel-barrow. Poor Paul's little bedstead is car-
ried 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 pewter 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
room? on the ground-floor where tho window-blinds are
DOMBEY AND SON. 273
drawn down close, have been spared the general devasta-
tion. Mrs. Pipchin has remained austere and stony
during the procet dings, in her own room ; or has occa-
Monally looked in at the sale to see what the goods arc
fetching, and to bid for one particular easy-chair. Mrs
Pipchin has been the highest bidder for the easy-chair
and sits upon her property when Mrs. Chick comes \f
see her.
" How is my brother, Mrs. Pipchin?" says Mrs. Chick.
" I don't know any more than the deuce," says Mrs.
Pipchin. " He never does me the honor to speak to me.
He has his meat and drink put in the next room to hia
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, what is to become of him ? I
am sure I should have thought he had seen 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 a'n't so won-
derful a case. People have had misfortunes before now,
and been obliged to part with their furniture. I'm sure
7 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
annatural child it's a comfort to me, now, to rernero-
VOL. IV. 18
274 DOMBEY AND SON.
her that I always said there was something extraordinary
about that child : but nobody minds me would any
body 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 ? Why, 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 isks 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 rea
Boning, remains silent for a minute to admire it.
" Besides," says the discreet lady, with an argumenta-
tive air, " who ever heard of such obstinacy as his stay-
ing shut up here through all these dreadful disagree*-
bles ? It's not as if there was no place for him to go to.
Of course, he could have come to our house. Ht> knows
be is at home there, I suppose ? Mr. Chick has per-
r ectly bored about it, and I said with my own lips, ' Why,
lurelj', Paul, you don't imagine that because your affairs
DOMREY AND SON. 275
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
nil 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 1 am
concerned," replies Mrs. Pipchin, " and that's enough for
me. I'm going to take myself of 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 with frankness.
" It would be pretty much 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 connection 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 ex-
pects me by this time."
" Have you spoken to my brother ? " inquires Mrs.
Chick.
" Oh, yes, it's very easy to say sp<ak to him," retorts
Mrs. Pipchin. " How is it done ! I called out to him
yesterday, that I was no use here, and tbat he had hettci
276 DOMBEY AND SOlf.
let me send for Mrs. Richards. He grunted something
or other that meant yes, and I sent. Grunt indeed ! If
be 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 Peru-
vian 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 re-
tires, 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, Polly 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 favors past. But favors past,
Polly, is never to be forgot. To them which is in adver-
sity, 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 ; and ray views is, that it's right and
dutiful to do this. Good-night, Polly ! "
Mrs. Pipchin by this time looms dark in her black
bombazine skirts, black bonnet, and shawl ; and has her
personal property packed up; and has her chair (late a
favorite chair of Mr. Dombey's, and the dead bargain of
the sale) ready near the street-door ; and is only waiting
for a fly van, going to-night to Brighton on private ser-
vice, which is to call for her, by private contract, and
convey her home.
Presently it comes. Mrs. Pipchin's wardrobe being
DOMBEY AND SON. 27?
handed in and stowed away, Mrs. Pipchin's chair H next
handed in, and placed in a convenient corner among cer-
tain 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
Beat. There is a snaky gleam in her hard gray eye, as
of anticipated rounds of buttered toast, relays of hot
chops, worryings and quellings of young children, sharp
enappings at poor Berry, 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 bombazine
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 Polly, though alone in the deserted mansion
for there is no companionship in the shut-up rooms in
which its late master hides his head is not alone
long. It is night ; and she is sitting at work in the
house-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 sounding as any knock
can be, striking into such an empty place. Opening it,
she returns across the echoing hall, 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 locked 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. Ji
.here no one here, but you ? "
" 4h ! not a soul," says Polly.
" Have you seen him ? " whispers Miss Tox.
278 DOMBEY AND SON.
" Bless you," returns Polly, " no ; he has not been
Been this many a day. They tell ine he never leaves
his room."
" Is he said to be ill ? " inquires Miss Tox.
"No, ma'am, not that I know of," returns Polly 3
u 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. Be-
neath 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 unwill-
ing to go back into the dreary house, and jar its empti-
ness with the heavy fastenings of the door, and glide
away to bed. But all this Polly does ; and in the morn-
ing 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 nev-er ring ; and
though she can sometimes hear a foot-fall going to and
fro, it never comes out.
Miss Tox returns early in the day. It theu begins to
be Miss Tox's occupation to prepare little dainties or
what are such to her to be carried into these rooms
next morning. She derives so much satisfaction from
the pursuit, that she enters on it regularly from that
DOMBEY AND SON. 279
dine ; and brings daily in her little basket, various choice
condiments selected from the scanty stores of the deceased
owner of the powdered head and pigtail. She likewise
brings, in sheets of curl paper, morsels of cold meata,
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 Ln and out like a criminal ; only desiring to be
true to the fallen object of her admiration, unknown
to him, unknown 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 per-
manently bluer 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,
llone ?
Let him remember it in that room, years to come I "
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 foreknowledge in their inel
ancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, years
to come : "
He did remember it. In the miserable night ho
thought of it ; in the dreary day, the wretched dawn,
280 DOMBEY AND SON.
the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight. He did reinem
ber 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 npon
(he trembling hands, and heard the one prolonged low
cry go upward.
He was fallen, never to be raised up any more. Foi
Ihe 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 ! He did remember it ! 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 ; m w, 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
be 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,
DOMBEY AND SON. 281
bis 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 hia
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 alike. It was
m 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 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 sho
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
light showed him this knowledge.
It began, beyond all doubt (however slowly it ad-
vanced for some time), in the receipt of her young hus-
band'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
282 DOMBEY AND SON.
her voice in an adjoining room, he would not have gon
to her. If he could have seen her in the street, and she
had done no more than look at him as she had been used
to look, he would have passed on with his old told unfor-
giving-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 sor-
row 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 com-
mon 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 tread
ing 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,
DOMBEY AND SON. 283
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, look-
ing up towards the skylight; and a figure, childish itself,
but carrying a child, and singing as it went, seemed to be
(here again. Anon, it was the same figure, alone, stop-
ping for an instant, with suspended breath ; the bright
hair clustering loosely round its tearful face ; and look-
ing 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 same 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 already lost coherence
as the footprints did, and were pieced on to one an-
other, 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 all by now, and only recalled miserably,
veakly, fondly, his two children.
Everywhere, the footsteps ! They had had no respe<rt
for the old room high up, where the little bed had been ;
he could hardly find a clear space there, to throw him-
self 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 leaf
284 DOMBEY AND SON.
ashamed of his weakness in this place than in any other
perhaps, with that consciousness, had made excuses
to himself for coming here. Here, with stooping shoul-
ders 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 was 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 knowl-
edge of no human creature, he came forth, and wandered
through the despoiled house like a ghost. Many a morn-
ing when the day broke, his altered face, drooping be-
hind the closed blind in his window, imperfectly trans-
parent to the light as yet, pondered on the loss of his
two children. It was one child no more. He reunited
them in his 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 nov-
elty to him, even before his late sufferings. It never
IB to obstinate and sullen natures; for they struggle
hard to be such. Ground, 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 all. He
might yet give up what his creditors had spared him
DOMBEY AND SON. 285
(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
house-keeper's room, as he walked to and fro ; but not
audible in its true meaning, or it would have had an
appalling sound.
The world was very busy and restless about him.
He became aware of that again. It was whispering
and babbling. It was never quiet. This, and the intri-
cacy and complication of the footsteps, harassed him to
death. Objects began to take a bleared and russet color
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, in the glass, from time to time, this
picture :
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 lorg 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 through its
286 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 oc-
casionally, very curious to watch its motions, and he
marked how wicked and murderous that hand looked.
Now it was thinking again ! What was it thinking ?
Whether they would tread in the blood when it crept
BO 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 fireplace,
and as it lost itself in thought there shone into the room
a gleam of light/; a ray of sun. It was quite unmind-
ful, 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, aud at his knees, his daugh-
ter !
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. Rais-
ing the same face to his, as on that miserable night.
Asking . his 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, deal*, I am changed. I am
penitent. I know my fault. I know my duty bettei
oow. Papa, don't cast me off, or I shall die ! '
DOMBEY AND SON. 287
He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms
about her neck : he felt her put her own round his;
be felt her kisses on his face ; he felt her wet cheek
laid against his own; he felt oh, how deeply! nil
(hat he had done.
Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart
r.hat he had almost broken, she laid his face, now cov-
ered 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. For-
give 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 hands and besought her for pardon, but she
caught them in her own, and put them down, hur-
riedly.
" 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 gray, was encircled by her arm ; and
he groaned to think that never, never, had it rested so
hefore.
" 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 Wal-
vor. He is so kind and tender to me. I am so happy
288 DOMBEY AND SOU.
with him. It was not his fault that we wore 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 honor you as I will. We
will teach our little child to love and honor you : and we
will tell him, when he can understand, that you had a
eon 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 cornea.
Kiss me, papa, as a promise that you will be reconciled
to Walter to my dearest husband to the father of
the little child who taught me to come 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 b'\a
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 tlv
house for a long, long time ; they remaining clasped IP
one another's arms, in the glorious sunshine that had
crept in with Florence.
He dressed himself for going out, with a docile sub-
mission to her entreaty ; and walking with a feeble gait,
and looking back, with a tremble, at the rocm in which
he had been so long shut up, and where he had sesn th
picture in the glass, passed out with her into the hall.
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
Badness and keeping close to him, with her eyes upon
DOMBEY AND SON. 2*1
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 conceal-
ment, 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 cer-
tain sad occasion," said Miss Tox, winding up a host of
recollections, " is indeed a daughter, Poliy, 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 crea-
ture. Robin ! "
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. Rising, he disclosed to view the form and feat-
ures of the Grinder.
"Robin,"' 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 well. Robin." said Miss Tox, u I am glad to
Sear 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 liad. a
VOL. iv 18
290 DOMBEY AND SON.
good mother, and that you will endeavor so to conduct
yourself as to be a comfort to her."
" Upon my soul I will, 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, Robin, 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 Rob. " If I hadn't been and got
made a Grinder on, miss and mother, which was a most
unfortunate 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 "
" Jndi " suggested Miss Tox.
" widdle," said the Grinder, " to mend ; and I hope tc
mend, miss, with your kind trial ; and wishing, mother,
my love to father, and brothers and 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
tup of tea, before we go, Robin ? "
a Thankee, miss," returned the Grinder ; who imme-
diately began to use his own personal grinders in a most
"emarkable manner, as if he had been on very short al-
lowance for a considerable period.
Miss Tox being, in good time, bonneted and shawled,
DOMBEY AND SON. 291
l.nd Polly too, Rob hugged his mother, and followed his
new mistress away ; so much to the hopeful admiration
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 unex-
pected arrival would occasion there. The great house,
dumb as to all that had been suffered in it, and the
changes it had witnessed stood frowning like a dark mute
on the street ; balking any nearer inquiries with the
staring announcement that the lease of this desirable
Family Mansion was to be disposed of.
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 pur-
suing 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 un-
becoming demonstrations of levity, had betaken them-
selves, 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 Sket-
tles, whose popular manners had obtained him a diplo-
matic appointment, the honors of which were discharged
by himself and Lady Skettles, to the satisfaction even of
their own countrymen and countrywomen : which was
considered almost miraculous. Mr. Tozer, now a young
man of lofty stature, in Wellington boots, was so ex-
tremsly full of antiquity as to be nearly on a par with a
genuine ancient Roman in his knowledge of English : a
triumph that affected his good parents with the tenderest
emotions, and caused the father and mother of Mr.
Briggs (whose learning, like ill-arranged luggage, was
to tightly packed that he couldn't get at anything he
wanted) to hide their diminished heads. The fruit la-
DOMBET AND SON. 293
boriously gathered from the tree of knowledge by thia
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
flavor remaining. Master Bitherstone now, on whom
Mie forcing system had the happier and not uncommon
effect of leaving no impression whatever, when the for,,
cing apparatus ceased to work, was in a much more com-
fortable plight ; and being then on shipboard, 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 voy-
age.
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 Roman whom he sought to nominate
us his successor. But there is a Roman here," said Doc-
tor Blimber, laying his hand on the shoulder of Mr.
Feeder, B. A., " adolescens imprimis gravis et doctut,
gentlemen, whom I, a retiring Cincinnatus, wish to pre-
sent to my little senate, as their future Dictator." Gen-
tlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth
v.f 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 be
balf of the rest, instantly presented the doctor with a
gilver inkstand, in a speech containing very little of thfl
mother-tongue, but fifteen quotations from the Latin
294 . DOJIBEY AND SON.
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 for old Tozer
to show off with, they supposed ; did they ? What busi-
ness 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 re-
lief in calling him old Tozer, than in 'any other avail-
able 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 Blimber, especially, seemed
to take pains to look as if nothing would surprise him
more ; but it was perfectly well known to all the young
gentlemen nevertheless, and when they departed for tho
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 gen-
tlemen's departure, and now behold ! the wedding morn-
ing 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 lilac 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
*>o perform the ceremony, were all assembled in the
DOMBEY AND SON. 2<Jd
drawing-room, and Cornelia with her orange-flower* and
bridesmaids had just come down, and looked, as of old,
a little squeezed in appearance, but very charming, wlwr
the door opened, and the weak-eyed young man, ia a
loud voice, made the following proclamation :
'Mi;. AND MKS. TOOTS!"
Upon which there entered Mr. Toots, grown extremely
stout, and on his arm a lady very handsomely and b^
comingly dressed, with very bright hlack eyes.
u Mrs. Blimber," said Mr. Toots, " allow 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. 1 *
" My dear ! " remonstrated Mrs. Toots.
" Upon my word and honor she is," said Mr. Toots.
u I I assure you, Mrs. Blimber, she's a most extraor-
dinary 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, " Well Toots, well
Toots ! So you are one of us, are you Toots?" re-
tired with Mr. Feeder, B. A., into a window.
Mr. Feeder, B. A., being in great spirits, made a spar
it Mr. Toots, and tapped him skilfully with the back
of his hand on the breast-bone.
" Well, old Buck ! " said Mr. Feeder with a laugh.
* Well ! Here we are ! Taken in and done for. Eh?"
" Feeder," returned Mr. Toots. " I give you joy. If
you're as as as perfectly blissful in a matrimonial
life, as I am myself, you'll have nothing to desire."
296 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 until after my mar-
riage had been solemnized. In the first place, I had
made a perfect brute of myself to you on the subject of
Mise Dombey ; 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
ipon my word and honor, at that crisis, would have
Knocked me completely over. In the second place, our
wedding was strictly private ; there being nobody pres-
ent 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, w I
was joking."
" And now Feeder," said Mr. Toots, " I should be
glad to know what you 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 his head, and wouldn't hear of that
being possible.
" You see," said Mr. Toots, " what / wanted in a wife,
was in short, was sense. Money, Feeder, I had.
Sense I I had not, particularly."
DOMLEY AND SON. 297
Mr. Feeder murmured, " Oh yes, you had, Toots ! *
But Mr. Toots said :
" No, Feeder, I had not. Why should I disguise it ?
t had not. I knew that sense was There,'.' said Mr,
loots, stretching out his hand towards his wife, " lu '
l*erfect heaps. I had no relation to object or be of
fen Jed, on the score of station ; for I had no relation. 1
tave never had anybody belonging to me but my guar-
dian, 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 Mr. Feeder.
" Accordingly," resumed Mr. Toots, " I acted on my
own. Bright was the day on which I did so ! Feeder 1
Nobody but myself can tell what the capacity of that
woman's mind is. If ever the Rights of Woman, 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 ne-
cessity 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 Mrs.
O O
Toots. Mr Toots escorted the fair bride, around whose
lambent spectacles two gauzy little bridesmaids fluttered
like moths. Mr. Feeder's brother, Mr. Alfred Feeder
298 DOMBEY AND SON.
M. A., had already gone on. in advance, to assume hia
official functions.
The ceremony was performed in an admirable man
ner. 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 mirrd to it. The gauzy little brides-
maids appeared to suffer most Mrs. Blimber was af-
fected, but gently so ; and told the Reverend 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.
There was a breakfast afterwards, limited to the same
small party ; at which the spirits of Mr. Feeder, B. A.,
were tremendous, and so communicated themselves to
Mrs. Toots, that Mr. Toots was several times heard to
observe, across the table, " My dear Susan, don't 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
wnfusion 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 &
considerable period can not allow my friend
Feeder to be "
Mrs. Toots suggested " married."
" It may not be inappropriate to the occasion, 01 alto-
gether 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
DOMUEY AND SON. 299
allow my friend Feeder to be manied especially
to"
Mrs. Toots suggested "Miss Blimber."
"Tc Mrs. Feeder, my love!" said Mr. Toots, in
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 espe-
cially to Mrs. Feeder without proposing their tbeir
Toasts ; and may," said Mr. Toots, fixing his eyes on
his wife, as if for inspiration in a higli flight, " may the
torch of Hymen be the beacon of joy, and may the
flowers we have this day strewed m their path, be the
the banishers of of gloom ! "
Doctor Bliraber, 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 checkered 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 in-
tention of himself and Mrs. Blimber to dwell, and the
bee that would hum around their cot. Shortly after
which, as the doctor's eyes were twinkling in a remark-
able manner, and his son-in-law had already observed
that lime was made for slaves, and had inqt ired whether
Mrs. Tools sang, the discreet Mrs. Blimber dissolved the
sitting, and sent Cornelia away, very cool and comfort-
able, in a post-chaise, wivh the man of her heart.
Mr. and Mrs. Toots withdrew to the Bedford (Mrs.
Toot* had been there before in old times, under her
800 DOMBEY AND SON.
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 Dom-
bey are expected home ! '*
u My dear," said Mrs. Toots, raising herself quickly
from the sofa, very pale, " 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 rapturous 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 iiei hands.
" My dear," said Mr. Toots ; " pray do not exert your-
self. 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 haa
brought her unfortunate father away from his old house,
to one where she and Walters are living ; that he ia
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
ean't, it's of no consequence but do endeavor 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, ana tne like, tbf
DOMBET AND SOX. 801
Mr. Toots, whose sympathy and admiration wore of the
(strongest kind, consented from his very he-art 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 coin
cidences, had that day brought the captain himself (tow-
ard 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 neces-
sary 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, in-
deed, on the unhappy gentleman's account, but for the*
recollection of the baby ; which afforded him such intent
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 specta-
tors. The rapid alternations of light and shade to which
these two conflicting subjects 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
great deal in the influence of harmonious associations, he
chose, for the scene of this walk, his old neighborhood,
down among the mast, oar, and block-makers, ship-biscuit
bakers, coal-whippers, pitch-kettles, sailors, canals, docks,
wing-bridges, and other soothing objects.
These peaceful scenes, and particularly the region o/
802 DOMBEY AND SON
Limehouse-IIole 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 speech-
less by a triumphant procession that he beheld advancing
towards him.
This awful demonstration was headed by that deter-
mined woman Mrs. MacStinger, who, preserving a coun-
tenance of inexorable resolution, and wearing conspicu-
ously attached to her obdurute bosom a stupendous watch
and appendages, which the captain recognized at a glance
as the property of Bunsby, conducted under her arm no
other than that sagacious mariner ; he, with the dis-
traught and melancholy visage of a captive borne into
a foreign land, meekly resigning himself to her will.
Behind them appeared the young MacStingers, in a
body, exulting. Behind them, two ladies of a terrible
and steadfast aspect, leading between them a short gentle-
man in a tall hat, who likewise, exulted. 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 an-
nounced, 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 impulse of Bunsby.
hopeless as its execution must have proved. But a cry
of recognition proceeding from the party, and Alexander
MacStinger running up to the captain with open arms,
lha captain struck.
" Well, Cap'en Cuttle !" said Mrs. MacStinger k< Thia
DOMBEY AND SON. 308
W indeed a meeting ! I bear no malice now Cap'en
Cuttle you needn't fear that I'm a-going to iast any
reflections. I hope to go to the altar in another apii-it."
Here Mrs. MacStinger paused, and drawing her -:elf up,
and inflating her bosom with a long breath, said, in allu-
sion to the victim, " My usband, Cap'en Cuttle ! "
The abject Bunsby looked neither to the right nor to
the left, nor at his bride, nor at his friend, but straight
before him at nothing. The captain putting out his
hand, Buusby put out his ; but, in answer to the cap-
tain's greeting, spake no word.
" Cap'en Cuttle," said Mrs. MacStinger, " 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. MacStinger, turning round to
the more intrepid of the two, " my bridesmaid, that will
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,
observing that there 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,
aud remembering the legal obligation of saying, "I will,"
he felt himself personally safe so long as he resolved, if
jwsked any question, distinctly to reply " J won't "
threw Uirn into a profuse perspiration ; and rendered
304 DOMBET AND SO?
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 employment
in the Custom House ; that she was the dearest friend
of Mrs. MacStinger, 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 nar-
row turning which appeared favorable 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 gentle-
man with the tall hat, were plainly on guard, according
to a preconcerted plan ; and the wretched man was so
secured by Mrs. MacStinger, that any effort at self-pres-
ervation 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 MacStinger was inflexibly indifferent, while
Runsby himself appeared in a state of unconsciousness.
The captain made many attempts to accost the philos-
opher, if only in a monosyllable or a signal : but always
foiled, in consequence of the vigilance of the guard, and
the difficulty, at all times peculiar to Bunsby's constitu-
tion, ot having his attention aroused by any outward and
risible sign whatever. Thus they approached the chapel
DOMBEY AND SON. ?<>5
a neat whitewashed edifice, recently engaged by the Rev-
erend Melc-hisedech Howler, who had consented, on very
urgent solicitation, to give the world another two yearn
of existence, but had informed his followers that, then, it
must positively go.
While the Reverend Melchisedech was offering up
some extemporary orisons, the captain found an oppor-
tunity of growling in the bridegroom's ear :
"What cheer, my lad, what cheer?"
To which Bunsby replied, with a forgetfulness of the
Reverend 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 will ? "
Mr. Bunsby answered " No."
" Why do you do it, then, my lad ? " inquired the cap-
tain, not unnaturally.
Bunsby, still looking, and always. looking with an im-
movable countenance, at the opposite side of the world,
made no reply.
" Why not sheer off? " said the captain.
" Eh ? " whispered Bunsby, with a momentary gleam
ot hope.
" Sheer off," said the captain.
"Where's the good?" retorted the forlorn sage. "She'd
capter me agen."
" Try ! " replied the captain. " Cheer up ! Come !
Now's your time. Sheer off, Jack Bunsby ! "
Jack Bunsby, however, instead of profiting by the ad
vice, said in a doleful whisper :
"It all began in that there chest o' your'c Why did
I ever conwoy her into port that night? "
VOL. iv. 20
806 DOMBEY AND SOW.
u My lad," faltered the captain, w I thought as you had
come over her ; not as she had come over you A man
aa ha? got such opinions as you have ! "
Mr. Bunshy merely uttered a suppressed groan.
" Come ! " said the captain, nudging him with his el-
bow, "now's your time! Sheer off! I'll cover youf
retreat. The time's a-flying. Bunsby ! It's for liberty.
Will you once?"
Bunsby was immovable.
" Bunsby ! " whispered the captain, " will you twice ? "
Bunsby wouldn't twice.
" Bunsby ! " urged the captain, " it's for liberty ; will
you three times ? Now or never ! "
Bunsby didn't then, and didn't ever ; for Mrs. Mac-
Stinger immediately afterwards married him.
One of the most frightful circumstances of the cere-
mony to the captain, was the deadly interest exhibited
therein by Juliana MacStinger; and the fatal concentra-
tion of her faculties, with which that promising child
already the image of her parent, observed the whole pro-
ceedings. The captain saw in this a succession of man-
traps stretching out infinitely ; a series of ages of op-
pression 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 inflexibility of Mrs. MacStinger. The
Master MacStingers understood little of what was going
on, and cared less ; being chiefly engaged, during the
ceremony, in treading on one another's half boots ; but
the contrast afforded by those wretched infants only set
jff and adorned the precocious woman in Juliana. An-
ither year or two, the captain thought, and to lodge
where that child was, would be destruction.
DOMHKY AND soy. 307
The ceremony was concluded by a general spring of
.In 1 young family on Mr. Bunsby, whom they hailed by
ihe endearing name of father, and from whom they solic-
ted half-pence. These gushes of affection over, the pro-
cession was about to issue forth again, when it was de-
layed for some little time by an unexpected transport on
the part of Alexander MacStinger. 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 interred, and lost to
trim forever. In the anguish of this conviction, he
screamed with astonishing force, and turned black in the
face. However touching these marks of a tender dispo-
sition were to his mother, it was not in the character of
that remarkable woman to permit her recognition of
them to degenerate into weakness. Therefore, after
vainly endeavoring to convince his reason by shakes,
pokes, bawlings-out, and similar applications to his head,
she led him into the air, and tried another method ;
which was manifested to the marriage-party by a quick
succession of sharp sounds, resembling applause, and
subsequently, by their seeing Alexander in contact with
the coolest paving-stone in the court, greatly flushed, and
loudly lamenting.
The procession being then in a condition to form it-
self once more, and repair to Brig Place, where a mar-
riage feast was in readiness, returned as it had come,
O
not without the receipt, by Bunsby, of many humorous
Congratulations from the populace on his recently-acquired
happiness. The captain accompanied it as far as tho
louse-door, but, being made uneasy by the gentler man-
aer of Mrs. Bokum, who, now that she was relieved from
808 DOMBEY AND SON.
her engrossing duty for the watchfulness and a.acritj
of (he ladies sensibly diminished when the bridegroom
was safely married had greater leisure to show an in-
terest in his behalf, there left it and the captive ; faintly
pleading an appointment, and promising to return pres-
ently. The captain had another cause for uneasiness, in
remorsefully reflecting that he had been the first means
of Bunsby's entrapment, though certainly without intend-
ing it, and through his unbounded faith in the resources
of that philosopher.
To go back to old Sol Gills at the Wooden Midship.
man's, and not first go round to ask how Mr. Dom-
bey 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
The blinds were pulled down, and the house so quiet,
that the captain was almost afraid to knock ; but listen-
ing 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 5
having been at the Midshipman's to seek him, and hav-
ing there obtained the address.
They were not so recently arrived, but that Mrs.
Toots had caught the baby from somebody, taken it in
her arms, and sat down on the stairs, hugging and fon-
dling 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 w:i.s
the tenderer, Florence of Mrs. Toots, or Mrs. Toots of
her, or both of the baby ; it was such a little group of
'ove and agitation.
DOMBEY AND SON. SOS
"And is your Pa very ill, my darling dear Miss
Floy?" asked Susan.
" He is very, very ill," said Florence. " But Susan
dear, you must not speak to me as 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 hurst into tears, and showered kisses on the
little hand that had touched her so wonder ingly.
" My dear Miss Dombey," said Mr. Toots, stepping
forward, " I'll explain. She's the most extraordinary
woman. There are not many to equal her ! She ha
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 ! My dear
Miss Dombey, she'll 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'll remember the medical man, and not exert
yoursolf too much ! "
S10 DOMBEY AND SON.
CHAPTER LXI.
RELENTING.
FLORENCE had need of help. Her father's need of
it was sore, and made the aid of her old friend invalu-
able. Death stood at his pillow. A shade, already, of
what he had. been, shattered in mind, and perilously sick
in body, he laid his weary 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 wandering of his brain, he often confused
the circumstances 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 ministering 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, I am here." "I don't know her!"
he would cry. " We have been parted so long, that 1
don't know her ! " and then a staring dread would be
upon him, until she could soothe his perturbation ; and
recall the tears she tried so hard, at other times, to dry.
He rambled through the scenes of his old pursuits
through many where Florence lost him as she listened
sometimes for hours. He would repeat that childish
question, " What is money ? ". and ponder on it, and think
DOMBEY AND SON. 811
ahout it, and reason with himself, more or less connect-
edly, for a good answer ; as if it had never been pro-
posed 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 turn
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 Flor-
ence. What he would oftenest do was this : he would
recall 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, and that he went out
after her, and up the stairs to seek her. Then, confound-
ing 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?
312 DOMBEY AND SON.
He said " very much." And Susan, with no little
trepidation, showed herself at his bedside.
It seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not
to go ; to understand that he forgave her what she had
Baid ; 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 taxed his weakness to whisper to her,
" go and walk r 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 Flor-
ence 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 318
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 companion. Ho had fallen into
a doze. 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
" 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. Will 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, ac-
companied her husband down-stairs. In the pleasant lit-
tle parlor opening on the garden, sat a gentleman, who
rose to advance towards her when she came in, but
turned off, by reason of some peculiarity in his legs, and
was only stopped by the table.
Florence then remembered Cousin Feenix, whom she
bad not at first recognized in the shade of the leaves.
Cousin Feenix took her hand, and congratulated her
upon her marriage.
u 1 could have wished, I am sure," said Cousin Feenix
sitting down as Florence sat, " to have had an earlier
SI 4 DOMBEI AND SON.
opportunity of offering my congratulations ; 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 descrip-
tion of society I have kept, has been my own ; and it
certainly is anything but flattaring to a man's good opin-
ion of his own resources, to know that, in point of fact,
he has the capacity of boring himself to a perfectly un-
limited 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 eccentrici-
ties 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 Mr. Gay, if
I may be allowed to have the honor 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 can-
not 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 honorable man ; and it's calculated to
console my friend Dombey very much, to know, that
this is the universal sentiment. Even Tommy Screwzer,
jnan of an extremely bilious habit, with whom my friend
Gay is probably acquainted cannot say a syllable in
disputation of the fact,"
DOMBEY AND SON. 315
Florence felt, more than ever, that there was some-
thing to come ; and looked earnestly for it. So ear-
nestly, 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 favor 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 daugh-
ter of my friend Dombey will not require much urg-
ing ; 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 file, like myself, and pre-
vented our 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 pop-gun, it was
always considered a great point for him to say that he
had the happiness of believing that his sentiments were
not without an echo in the breast of Mr. Pitt ; the pilot,
in point of fact, who had weathered the storm. Upon
which, a devilish large number of fellows immediately
cheered, and put him in spirits. Though the fact is,
that these fellows, being under orders to cheer most
excessively whenever Mr. Pitt's name was mentioned,
became so proficient thai it always woke 'em. And they
were so entirely innocent of what was going on, other-
316 DOMBEY AND SON.
wise, that it used to be commonly said by Conversa-
tion Brown four bottle man at the Treasury 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 hon-
orable member in the last stage of convulsions in the
Lobby, and that the honorable member's name was Pitt,
the approbation would have been vociferous."
This postponement of the point, put Florence in a
flutter ; and she looked from Cousin Feenix to Walter,
in increasing agitation.
" My love," said Walter, " there is nothing the mat-
ter."
" There is nothing the matter, upon my honor," said
Cousin Feenix ; " and I am deeply distressed at being
the means of causing you a moment's uneasiness. I beg
to assure you that there is nothing the matter. The
favor that I have to ask is, simply but it really does
Beem so exceeding 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 Feenix.
Walter thus appealed to; and appealed to no less in
the look that Florence 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 Feenix.
" And with me and make a visit somewhere."
" To whom ? " asked Florence, looking from one to
the other.
DOMBET AND SON. 317
" If I might entreat," said Cousiu Feenix, " that yon
would not press for an answer to that question, I would
Venture to take the liberty of making the request."
" Do you know, Walter ? " said Florence.
" Yes."
"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 Florence. And ris-
ing quietly, and glancing at them 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 will leave," said Cousin Feenix, " a card for my
friend Dombey, sincerely trusting that he will pick up
health and strength with every returning hour. And
I hope my friend Dombey will do me the favor to con-
sider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration
of his character, as, in point of fact, a British merchant
and a devilish upright gentleman. My place in the
country is in a most confounded state of dilapidation,
hut 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 dull. If my friend Dombey suffers from bod
318 DOMBEY AND SON.
Hy weakness, and would allow me to recommend what
has frequently done myself good, as a man who haa
been extremely queer at times, and who lived pretty
freely in the days when men lived very freely, I should
gay, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an egg, heat
up with sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and
taken in the morning with a slice of dry toast. Jack-
son, 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 head and throw him into a devil of a
state."
Of all 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 eig"ht miles long. When they
drove through certain dull and stately streets, lyiny
westward in London, it was growing dusk. Florence
bad, 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 if
DOMBEY AND SON. 819
this? Who is here?" Walter cheering her, and not
replying, she glanced up at the house-front, and saw that
nil the windows were shut, as if it were uninhabited
Cousin Feeuix had by this time alighted, and was offer-
ing his hand.
: ' Are you not coming, Walter ? "
" No, I will remain here. Don't tremble ! there i
nothing to fear, dearest Florence."
" I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am suit-
of that, but"
The door was softly opened, without any knock, and
Cousin Feenix led her out of the summer evening air
into the close dull house. More sombre and brown
than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the
wedding-day, and to have hoarded darkness and sad-
ness ever since.
Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling;
and stopped with her conductor, at the drawing-rooin
door. He opened it, without 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
820 DOMBET AND SON.
and stately yet It was the face of Florence, and
through all ihe 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
Btill and silent, looking at the other over the black gulf
of the irrevocable past.
Florence was the first to change. Bursting into tears,
ehe 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 will do it, mama. I am almost sure he
will grant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven grant it to
you, too, and comfort you ! "
She answered not a word.
u 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
apon her ; " and he will 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 :
" The stain upon your name/ upon your husband's, on
? o ir chili's. Will that ever be forgiven, Florence ? "
" Will 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
DOMBEY AND SON. 321
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
will 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, " 1 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 dear to me. But I never
can forget that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to
tfeaven,"* 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 i.s
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 inno-
cent."
" 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
lind 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 a"i swore it.
822 DOMBEY AND SON.
u Florence ! " she said, " purest and best of natures, -
whom I love 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
bead, for the la^t time ! "
She was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener
thus in older days, she had been happier now.
" There is nothing else in all the world," she said,
" that would have wrung denial from me. No love, no
hatred, no hope, no threat. 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 incredulous as to
the possibility of my lovely and accomplished relative
having, very unfortunately, committed 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 decid-
edly the most unintelligible thing within a man's expe-
rience 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 de-
ceased person was, in point of fact, destroyed in a devil-
ish horrible manner, that her position was a very pain-
ful one and feeling besides that our family had been a
ittle to blame in not paying more attention to her, and
that we are a careless family and also that my a-int,
DOMBEY AND SON. 828
though a devilish 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 occa-
sion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the
honor 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
shaky, and have derived great comfort from her solic-
itude."
Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a ges-
ture with her hand as if she would have begged him to
Bay QO more.
"My lovely and accomplished relative," resumed
Cousin Feenix, 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 been,
that there was a mystery in the affair which she could
explain if so inclined. But my lovely and accomplished
relative being a devilish resolute woman, I knew that
she was not, in point of fact, to be trifled with, and there-
fore 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 occurred to me that
if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on both
sides, it might lead tc beneficial results. Therefore, w
324 DOMBEY AND SON.
oeing in London, in the present private way before going
to the South of Italy, there to establish ourselves, in
point of fact, until we go to our long homes, which is a
devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied my
self to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay
handsome man of an uncommonly frank disposition,
who is probably known to my lovely and accomplished
relative and had the happiness of bringing his amiable
wife to the present place. And now," said Cousin Fee-
nix, with a real and genuine earnestness shining through
the levity of his manner and his slipshod 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 honor of her family, not for her own fame,
not for any of those considerations which unfortunate
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
*."
" Is it for papa ? " asked Florence.
" It is for whom you will," she answeied. " It is given
to you, and is obtained by you. He never could have
had it otheiwise."
DOMBEY AND SON. 325
Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.
" Mama," said Florence, " he has lost his fortune ; be
has been at the point of death ; he may not recover
even now. Is there any word that I shall say to him
from yon ? "
u Did you tell me," asked Edith, " that you were very
dear to him ? "
" Yes ! " said Florence, in a thrilling voice.
" Tell 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-mor-
row, I should do it. But if he is a changed man "
She stopped. There was something in the silent
touch of Florence's hand that stopped her.
" But that being a changed 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 / foi
them himself, one day, if they have brought that lesson
Florence."
" You wish well 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 some future time to say x
80?"
Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly 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 out-
tide :
u Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find anj
326 DOMBEY AND SON.
reason to compassionate my past, I sent word that 1
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 an-
other, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he
knows there is one feeling 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 hia
Florence most, he will 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 ofj)lame. 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 occa-
sion to believe me, I think 1 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 for-
bearing in my thoughts of him ! Those are the last
words I send him ! Now, good-by, my life ! "
She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour oul
all her woman 3 soul of love and tenderness at once
DOMBEY AND SON. 327
u This kiss for your child ! These kisses for a bless-
ing 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. Remember only that I was once, and that 1
loved you ! "
And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but
accompanied by her embraces and caresses to the last.
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 sorry," said Cousin Feenix, lifting his
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 amia-
ble wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive
nature so very much distressed and cut up by the inter-
view which is just concluded. But I hope and trust I
have acted for the best, and that my honorable 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 al-
liance with our family ; but am strongly of opinion that
if it hadn't been for the infernal scoundrel Barker
man with white teeth everything would have gone on
pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who does me
Vhe honor to have formed an uncommonly good opinion
of myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my friend
Gray, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a
Gather to her. And in regard to the changes of human
328 DOMBEY AND SON.
life, and the extraordinary manner in which we are per
petually conducting ourselves, all I can say is, with my
friend Shakspeare man who wasn't for an age but for
all time, and with whom my friend Gay is no do'jbl
acquainted that it's like the shadow of a dream."
DOMBEY AND SOS. 829
CHAPTER LXIL
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. Gills," says Mr. Dombey.
u 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 fore-
head.
" 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 gratification.
" that we would drink this, one day or other, to
Walter safe at home : 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 Walter and his wife."
"To Walter and -his wife!" says Mr. Demlxy.
Florence, my child " and turns to kiss her.
'To Walter and his wife!" says Mr. Toots.
"To Wal'r and his wife!" exclaims the caplain.
* Hooroar ! " and the captain exhibiting a strong desire
to clink his glass against some other glass, Mr. Dombey,
380 DOMBEY ANE SON.
with a ready hand, holds out his. The others follow ;
and there is a blithe and inerry ringing, as of a little
peal of marriage-bells.
Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira 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 forever, 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 daugh-
ter. Miss Tox is not unfrequently of the family party,
and is quite devoted to it, and a great favorite. Her ad-
miration of her once stately patron is, and has been ever
since the morning of her shock in Princess'-place, pla-
tonic, but not weakened in the least.
Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his for-
tunes, but a certain 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 honorably accepted,
and has no doubt it arises out of some forgotten transac-
tion in the times of the old House.
That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is mar-
ried now, and to the sister of the gray-haired junior. He
visits his old chief sometimes, but seldom. There is a
reason in the gray-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
DOMBEY AND SON. 331
Walter sees them sometimes Florence too and the
pleasant house resounds with profound duets arranged
for the pianoforte and violoncello, and with the labors of
Harmonious Blacksmiths.
And how goes the Wooden Midshipman in these
changed days ? Why, here he still is, right leg fore-
most, hard at work upon the hackney-coaches, and nions
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 anothw 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 invest-
ments are coining out wonderfully well; and that instead
of being behind the time in those respects, as he sup-
posed, he was, in truth, a little before it, and had to wait
the fulness of the time and the design. The \\hisper is
that Mr. Gills'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 liis coffee-colored
suit, with his chronometer in his pocket, and his spec-
tacles on his forehead, he don't appear to break his heart
at customers not coming, but looks very jovial and con-
tented, thuugh 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 coun-
try, as he could possibly be, ii' no ship left the port of
London without the Midshipman's assistance. His de-
light in his own name over the door, is inexhaustible.
He crosses the street, twenty times a dav, to look at il
332 DOMBET AND SON.
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 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 parlor.
Captain Gills," says Mr. Toots, and Mr. Sols, I
am happy to inform you that Mrs. Toots has had an in-
crease to her family."
" And it does her credit ! " cries the captain.
" I give you joy, Mr. Toots ! " says old Sol.
" Thankee," chuckles Mr. 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 extraor
dinary 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 Mid-
shipman's usual moderate provisions of pipes and glasses
is on the board. " Here's to her, and may she have ever
BO many more ! "
" Thankee, Captain Gills," says the delighted Mr.
Toots. " I echo the sentiment. If you'll 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 his heart is very loquacious.
" Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful
woman has given of her excellent sense, Captain Gills
DOMBEY AND SON. 333
and Mr. Sols," says Toots, " I think none is more re-
markable than the perfection with which she has under
stood my devotion to Miss Dombey."
Both his auditors assent.
'' Because, you know," says Mr. Toots, " / have never
changed my sentiments towards Miss Dotnbey. They
are the same as ever. She is the same bright vision to
me, at present, that she was before I made Walters's ac-
quaintance. When Mrs. Toots and myself first began to
talk of in short, of the tender passion, you know, Cap
tain Gills."
" Ay, ay, rny lad," says the captain, " as makes us all
blue round for which you'll overhaul the book " !
" I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills," said Mi
Toots, with great earnestness ; " when we first began
to mention such subjects, I explained that I was what
you may call a bligfited flower, you know."
The captain approves of this figure greatly ; and mur-
murs that no flower as blows, is like the rose.
" But Lord bless me," pursues Mr. Toots, " she was
as entirely conscious of the state of my feelings as I was
myself. There was nothing I could tell her. She was
the only person who could have stood between me and
the silent tomb, and she did it, in a manner to command
my everlasting admiration. She knows that there's no-
body in the world I look up to, as I do to Miss Dombey.
She knows that there's nothing on earth 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 perfec-
tion of sense. ' My dear you're right. / think so too." 1
" And so do I ! " says the captain.
" So do I," says Sol Gills.
44 Then," resumes Mr. Toots, after some contemplative
334 DOMBEY AND SON.
pulling at his pipe, during which his visage has ex
pressed the most contented reflection, " what an ob-
servant woman my wife is ! What sagacity she pos-
sesses ! What remarks she makes ! It was only last
night, when we were sitting in the enjoyment of con-
nubial bliss which, upon my word and honor, 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,' ob-
serves my wife, ' he is, released from sea-going, after
that first long voyage with his young bride ' as you
know he was, Mr. Sols."
" Quite true," <5ays 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 confidence at home ; showing
himself again worthy ; mounting up the ladder with the
greatest expedition ; beloved by everybody ; assisted by
bis 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'll never find
my wife wrong. ' Here he is,' says that most remark-
able woman, 'so situated, and what follows? What
follows ? ' observed Mrs. Toots. Now pray remark,
Captain Gills, and Mr. Sols, the depth of my wife's
oenetration. ' Why that, under the very eye of Mr.
Domb>;y, there is a foundation going on, upon which
* an Edifice ; ' that was Mrs. Toots's word," fays Mr
DOMBEY AND SOX. 335
Toots, -Miliingly, "'is gradually rising perhaps to equal,
perhaps exc.el, thai of which he was once the head, and
the small beginnings of which (a common i'ault, but a
bad one, Mrs. Toots said) escaped his memory. Thus,'
said rny wife, ' from his daughter, after all, another
Dornbey 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 iU
proper use affects him with a very uncomfortable sensa-
tion 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 otild pardner,
what did I tell Wal'r to overhaul on that there night
when he first took to business ? Was it this here quota-
tion, ' Turn again Whittington Lord Mayor of London,
and when you are old you t*ill never depart from it.'
Was it them words, Sol Gills ? "
"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, and composing his chest for a prodig-
ious 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
\'g time; and dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Autumn days are 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 hin, helps him in his play, attends upon hii -
33G DOMBEY AND SON.
watcher him, as if he were the 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 answei.
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 yon
can run abouU"
And so they range away again, busily, for the white-
haired gentleman likes best to see the child free and
stirring; and as they go about together, the story of the
bond between them goes about, and follows them.
But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of
the white-haired gentleman's affection for the girl. That
story never goes about. The child herself almost won-
ders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her
in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her
face. He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies
that she feels a 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 kis
. . 3
m<i .
He only answers " Little Florence ! Little Florence ! "
and smooths away the curls that shade her earnest eyes.
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