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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:56 -0700 |
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diff --git a/821-h/821-h.htm b/821-h/821-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aee069d --- /dev/null +++ b/821-h/821-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,53950 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dombey and Son, by Charles Dickens</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + +p.pfirst {text-indent: 0} + + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dombey and Son, by Charles Dickens</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Dombey and Son</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Charles Dickens</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February, 1997 [eBook #821]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 9, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Neil McLachlan, Ted Davis and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOMBEY AND SON ***</div> + +<h1>Dombey and Son</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Charles Dickens</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0008m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0009m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. Dombey and Son</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the Head of the Home-Department</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of these Adventures</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. Paul’s Progress and Christening</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. Paul’s Second Deprivation</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. A Bird’s-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox’s Dwelling-place: also of the State of Miss Tox’s Affections</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. Paul’s Further Progress, Growth and Character</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman’s Disaster</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. Paul’s Introduction to a New Scene</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. Paul’s Education</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. Shipping Intelligence and Office Business</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home for the Holidays</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for Walter Gay</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. What the Waves were always saying</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. Father and Daughter</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. Walter goes away</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. Mr Dombey goes upon a Journey</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. New Faces</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. Florence solitary, and the Midshipman mysterious</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. The Study of a Loving Heart</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. Strange News of Uncle Sol</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. Shadows of the Past and Future</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. Deeper Shadows</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. Alterations</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. The interval before the Marriage</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. The Wedding</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. Contrasts</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. Another Mother and Daughter</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. The Happy Pair</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. Housewarming</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII. More Warnings than One</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII. Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER XXXIX. Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER XL. Domestic Relations</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap41">CHAPTER XLI. New Voices in the Waves</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap42">CHAPTER XLII. Confidential and Accidental</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap43">CHAPTER XLIII. The Watches of the Night</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap44">CHAPTER XLIV. A Separation</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap45">CHAPTER XLV. The Trusty Agent</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap46">CHAPTER XLVI. Recognizant and Reflective</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap47">CHAPTER XLVII. The Thunderbolt</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap48">CHAPTER XLVIII. The Flight of Florence</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap49">CHAPTER XLIX. The Midshipman makes a Discovery</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap50">CHAPTER L. Mr Toots’s Complaint</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap51">CHAPTER LI. Mr Dombey and the World</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap52">CHAPTER LII. Secret Intelligence</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap53">CHAPTER LIII. More Intelligence</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap54">CHAPTER LIV. The Fugitives</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap55">CHAPTER LV. Rob the Grinder loses his Place</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap56">CHAPTER LVI. Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap57">CHAPTER LVII. Another Wedding</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap58">CHAPTER LVIII. After a Lapse</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap59">CHAPTER LIX. Retribution</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap60">CHAPTER LX. Chiefly Matrimonial</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap61">CHAPTER LXI. Relenting</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap62">CHAPTER LXII. Final</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap63">PREFACE OF 1848</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap64">PREFACE OF 1867</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /> +Dombey and Son</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ombey +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. +</p> + +<p> +Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty +minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome well-made +man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing. Son was very +bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably fine 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 tree that was to come down in +good time—remorseless twins they are for striding through their human +forests, notching as they go—while the countenance of Son was crossed +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 scythe, as +a preparation of the surface for his deeper operations. +</p> + +<p> +Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the heavy +gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat, whereof the +buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the distant fire. Son, +with his little fists curled up and clenched, seemed, in his feeble way, to be +squaring at existence for having come upon him so unexpectedly. +</p> + +<p> +“The House will once again, Mrs Dombey,” said Mr Dombey, “be +not only in name but in fact Dombey and Son;” and he added, in a tone of +luxurious satisfaction, with his eyes half-closed as if he were reading the +name in a device of flowers, and inhaling their fragrance at the same time; +“Dom-bey and Son!” +</p> + +<p> +The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of endearment +to Mrs Dombey’s name (though not without some hesitation, as being a man +but little used to that form of address): and said, “Mrs Dombey, +my—my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady’s face as +she raised her eyes towards him. +</p> + +<p> +“He will be christened Paul, my—Mrs Dombey—of course.” +</p> + +<p> +She feebly echoed, “Of course,” or rather expressed it by the +motion of her lips, and closed her eyes again. +</p> + +<p> +“His father’s name, Mrs Dombey, and his grandfather’s! I wish +his grandfather were alive this day! There is some inconvenience in the +necessity of writing Junior,” said Mr Dombey, making a fictitious +autograph on his knee; “but it is merely of a private and personal +complexion. It doesn’t enter into the correspondence of the House. Its +signature remains the same.” And again he said “Dombey and +Son,” in exactly the same tone as before. +</p> + +<p> +Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr Dombey’s life. The earth +was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made to give +them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships; rainbows gave +them promise of fair weather; winds blew for or against their enterprises; +stars and planets circled in their orbits, to preserve inviolate a system of +which they 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 for anno Dombei—and Son. +</p> + +<p> +He had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life and death, +from Son to Dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the sole +representative of the Firm. Of those years he had been married, +ten—married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give him; whose +happiness was in the past, and who was content to bind her broken spirit to the +dutiful and meek endurance of the present. Such idle talk was little likely to +reach the ears of Mr Dombey, whom it nearly concerned; and probably no one in +the world would have 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 +<i>must</i>, in the nature of things, be gratifying and honourable to any woman +of common sense. That the hope of giving birth to a new partner in such a +House, 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 perpetuation of family Firms: with her +eyes fully open to these advantages. That Mrs Dombey had had daily practical +knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs Dombey had always sat at the +head of his table, and done the honours of his house in a remarkably lady-like +and becoming manner. That Mrs Dombey must have been happy. That she +couldn’t help it. +</p> + +<p> +Or, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he would have allowed. With +only one; but that one certainly involving much. With the drawback of hope +deferred. That hope deferred, which, (as the Scripture very correctly tells us, +Mr Dombey would have added in a patronising way; for his highest distinct idea +even of Scripture, if examined, would have been found to be; that as forming +part of a general whole, of which Dombey and Son formed another part, it was +therefore to be commended and upheld) maketh the heart sick. 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. +</p> + +<p> +—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! In 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +So he said, “Florence, you may go and look at your pretty brother, if you +like, I daresay. Don’t touch him!” +</p> + +<p> +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, and she +neither moved nor answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Her insensibility is as proof against a brother as against every thing +else,” said Mr Dombey to himself He seemed so confirmed in a previous +opinion by the discovery, as to be quite glad of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen the child; and the child had +run towards her; and, standing on tiptoe, the better to hide her face in her +embrace, had clung about her with a desperate affection very much at variance +with her years. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh Lord bless me!” said Mr Dombey, rising testily. “A very +ill-advised and feverish proceeding this, I am sure. Please to ring there for +Miss Florence’s nurse. Really the person should be more care-” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait! I—had better ask Doctor Peps if he’ll have the +goodness to step upstairs again perhaps. I’ll go down. I’ll go +down. I needn’t beg you,” he added, pausing for a moment at the +settee before the fire, “to take particular care of this young gentleman, +Mrs ——” +</p> + +<p> +“Blockitt, 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 suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +“Of this young gentleman, Mrs Blockitt.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence was born—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, ay,” said Mr Dombey, bending over the basket bedstead, and +slightly bending his brows at the same time. “Miss Florence was all very +well, but this is another matter. This young gentleman has to accomplish a +destiny. A destiny, little fellow!” As he thus apostrophised 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. +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of immense +reputation for assisting at the increase of great families, was walking up and +down the drawing-room with his hands behind him, to the unspeakable admiration +of the family Surgeon, who had regularly puffed the case for the last six +weeks, among all his patients, friends, and acquaintances, as one to which he +was in hourly expectation day and night of being summoned, in conjunction with +Doctor Parker Pep. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir,” said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, sonorous +voice, muffled for the occasion, like the knocker; “do you find that your +dear lady is at all roused by your visit?” +</p> + +<p> +“Stimulated as it were?” said the family practitioner faintly: +bowing at the same time to the Doctor, as much as to say, “Excuse my +putting in a word, but this is a valuable connexion.” +</p> + +<p> +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 upstairs again. +</p> + +<p> +“Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir,” said Doctor Parker +Peps, “that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess—I beg +your pardon; I confound names; I should say, in your amiable lady. That there +is a certain degree of languor, and a general absence of elasticity, which we +would rather—not—” +</p> + +<p> +“See,” interposed the family practitioner with another inclination +of the head. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” said Doctor Parker Peps, “which we would rather +not see. It would appear that the system of Lady Cankaby—excuse me: I +should say of Mrs Dombey: I confuse the names of cases—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said the Doctor, “quite so. It would appear, I +was observing, that the system of our patient has sustained a shock, from which +it can only hope to rally by a great and strong—” +</p> + +<p> +“And vigorous,” murmured the family practitioner. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” assented the Doctor—“and vigorous effort. +Mr Pilkins here, who from his position of medical adviser in this +family—no one better qualified to fill that position, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” murmured the family practitioner. “‘Praise from +Sir Hubert Stanley!’” +</p> + +<p> +“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 in 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 interesting friend the Countess of Dombey—I <i>beg</i> your +pardon; Mrs Dombey—should not be—” +</p> + +<p> +“Able,” said the family practitioner. +</p> + +<p> +“To make,” said Doctor Parker Peps. +</p> + +<p> +“That effort,” said the family practitioner. +</p> + +<p> +“Successfully,” said they both together. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” added Doctor Parker Peps, alone and very gravely, “a +crisis might arise, which we should both sincerely deplore.” +</p> + +<p> +With that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the ground. Then, on the +motion—made in dumb show—of Doctor Parker Peps, they went upstairs; +the family practitioner opening the room door for that distinguished +professional, and following him out, with most obsequious politeness. +</p> + +<p> +To record of Mr Dombey that he was not in his way affected by this +intelligence, would be to do him an injustice. He was not a man of whom it +could properly be said that he was ever startled, or shocked; but he certainly +had a sense within him, that if his wife should sicken and decay, he would be +very sorry, and that he 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 sincere regret. Though it would be a cool, +business-like, gentlemanly, self-possessed regret, no doubt. +</p> + +<p> +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 tightness of her bodice, who, running up to him +with a kind of screw in her face and carriage, expressive of suppressed +emotion, flung her arms around his neck, and said, in a choking voice, +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul! He’s quite a Dombey!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well!” returned her brother—for Mr Dombey was her +brother—“I think he is like the family. Don’t agitate +yourself, Louisa.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very foolish of me,” said Louisa, sitting down, and +taking out her pocket-handkerchief, “but he’s—he’s such +a perfect Dombey!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s so extraordinary,” said Louisa; smiling through her +tears, which indeed were not overpowering, “as to be perfectly +ridiculous. So completely our family. <i>I</i> never saw anything like it in my +life!” +</p> + +<p> +“But what is this about Fanny, herself?” said Mr Dombey. “How +is Fanny?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” returned Louisa, “it’s nothing +whatever. Take my word, it’s nothing whatever. There is exhaustion, +certainly, but nothing like what I underwent myself, either with George or +Frederick. An effort is necessary. That’s all. If dear Fanny were a +Dombey!—But I daresay 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 and 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey promptly supplied her with these refreshments from a tray on the +table. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not drink my love to you, Paul,” said Louisa: “I +shall drink to the little Dombey. Good gracious me!—it’s the most +astonishing thing I ever knew in all my days, he’s such a perfect +Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Quenching this expression of opinion in a short hysterical laugh which +terminated in tears, Louisa cast up her eyes, and emptied her glass. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it’s very weak and silly of me,” she repeated, +“to be so trembly and shaky from head to foot, and to allow my feelings +so completely to get the better of me, but I cannot help it. I thought I should +have fallen out of the staircase window as I came down from seeing dear Fanny, +and that tiddy ickle sing.” These last words originated in a sudden vivid +reminiscence of the baby. +</p> + +<p> +They were succeeded by a gentle tap at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Chick,” said a very bland female voice outside, “how are +you now, my dear friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” said Louisa in a low voice, as she rose from her +seat, “it’s Miss Tox. The kindest creature! I never could have got +here without her! Miss Tox, my brother Mr Dombey. Paul, my dear, my very +particular friend Miss Tox.” +</p> + +<p> +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 colours” originally, and to have, by little and little, +washed out. But for this she might have been described as the very pink of +general propitiation and politeness. From a long habit of listening admiringly +to 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 in involuntary admiration. Her eyes were liable to a +similar affection. She had the softest voice that ever was heard; and her nose, +stupendously aquiline, had a little knob in the very centre or key-stone of the +bridge, whence it tended downwards towards her face, as in an invincible +determination never to turn up at anything. +</p> + +<p> +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 her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were sometimes +perceived in her hair; and it was observed by the curious, 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 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” said Miss Tox, with a prodigious curtsey, “that +to have the honour 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick took Miss Tox’s hand in hers, rested the foot of her wine-glass +upon it, repressed a tear, and said in a low voice, “God bless +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Louisa then,” said Miss Tox, “my sweet friend, how +are you now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Better,” Mrs Chick returned. “Take some wine. You have been +almost as anxious as I have been, and must want it, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey of course officiated, and also refilled his sister’s glass, +which she (looking another way, and unconscious of his intention) held straight +and steady the while, and then regarded with great astonishment, saying, +“My dear Paul, what have you been doing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Tox, Paul,” pursued Mrs Chick, still retaining her hand, +“knowing how much I have been interested in the anticipation of the event +of today, and how trembly and shaky I have been from head to foot in +expectation of it, has been working at a little gift for Fanny, which I +promised to present. Miss Tox is ingenuity itself.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox. “Don’t say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is only a pincushion for the toilette table, Paul,” resumed his +sister; “one of those trifles which are insignificant to your sex in +general, as it’s very natural they should be—we have no business to +expect they should be otherwise—but to which we attach some +interest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Tox is very good,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“And I do say, and will say, and must say,” pursued his sister, +pressing the foot of the wine-glass on Miss Tox’s hand, at each of the +three clauses, “that Miss Tox has very prettily adapted the sentiment to +the occasion. I call ‘Welcome little Dombey’ Poetry, myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the device?” inquired her brother. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the device,” returned Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox +in a tone of low and earnest entreaty, “that nothing but the—I have +some difficulty in expressing myself—the dubiousness of the result would +have induced me to take so great a liberty: ‘Welcome, Master +Dombey,’ would have been much more congenial to my feelings, as I am sure +you know. But the uncertainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope, +excuse what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable familiarity.” Miss Tox +made a graceful bend as she spoke, in favour of Mr Dombey, which that gentleman +graciously acknowledged. Even the sort of recognition of Dombey and Son, +conveyed in the foregoing conversation, was so palatable to him, that his +sister, Mrs Chick—though he affected to consider her a weak good-natured +person—had perhaps more influence over him than anybody else. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” that lady broke out afresh, after silently +contemplating his features for a few moments, “I don’t know whether +to laugh or cry when I look at you, I declare, you do so remind me of that dear +baby upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” said Mrs Chick, with a sweet smile, “after this, I +forgive Fanny everything!” +</p> + +<p> +It was a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs Chick felt that it did her +good. Not that she had anything particular to forgive in her sister-in-law, nor +indeed anything at all, except her having married her brother—in itself a +species of audacity—and her having, in the course of events, given birth +to a girl instead of a boy: which, as Mrs Chick had frequently observed, was +not quite what she had expected of her, and was not a pleasant return for all +the attention and distinction she had met with. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room at this moment, the two ladies +were left alone together. Miss Tox immediately became spasmodic. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you would admire my brother. I told you so beforehand, my +dear,” said Louisa. Miss Tox’s hands and eyes expressed how much. +“And as to his property, my dear!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Miss Tox, with deep feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“Im-mense!” +</p> + +<p> +“But his deportment, my dear Louisa!” said Miss Tox. “His +presence! His dignity! No portrait that I have ever seen of anyone has been +half so replete with those qualities. Something so stately, you know: so +uncompromising: so very wide across the chest: so upright! A pecuniary Duke of +York, my love, and nothing short of it!” said Miss Tox. +“That’s what <i>I</i> should designate him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my dear Paul!” exclaimed his sister, as he returned, +“you look quite pale! There’s nothing the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that Fanny—” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, my dear Paul,” returned his sister rising, “don’t +believe it. Do not allow yourself to receive a turn unnecessarily. Remember of +what importance you are to society, and do not allow yourself to be worried by +what is so very inconsiderately told you by people who ought to know better. +Really I’m surprised at them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I know, Louisa,” said Mr Dombey, stiffly, “how to +bear myself before the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody better, my dear Paul. Nobody half so well. They would be ignorant +and base indeed who doubted it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ignorant and base indeed!” echoed Miss Tox softly. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” pursued Louisa, “if you have any reliance on my +experience, Paul, you may rest assured that there is nothing wanting but an +effort on Fanny’s part. And that effort,” she continued, taking off +her bonnet, and adjusting her cap and gloves, in a business-like manner, +“she must be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to make. Now, my +dear Paul, come upstairs with me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasping her little daughter to +her breast. The child clung close about her, with the same intensity as before, +and never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek from her mother’s +face, or looked on those who stood around, or spoke, or moved, or shed a tear. +</p> + +<p> +“Restless without the little girl,” the Doctor whispered Mr Dombey. +“We found it best to have her in again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can nothing be done?” asked Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor shook his head. “We can do no more.” +</p> + +<p> +The windows stood open, and the twilight was gathering without. +</p> + +<p> +The scent of the restoratives that had been tried was pungent in the room, but +had no fragrance in the dull and languid air the lady breathed. +</p> + +<p> +There was such a solemn stillness round the bed; and the two medical attendants +seemed to look on the impassive form with so much compassion and so little +hope, that Mrs Chick was for the moment diverted from her purpose. But +presently summoning courage, and what she called presence of mind, she sat down +by the bedside, and said in the low precise tone of one who endeavours to +awaken a sleeper: +</p> + +<p> +“Fanny! Fanny!” +</p> + +<p> +There was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of Mr Dombey’s watch +and Doctor Parker Peps’s watch, which seemed in the silence to be running +a race. +</p> + +<p> +“Fanny, my dear,” said Mrs Chick, with assumed lightness, +“here’s Mr Dombey come to see you. Won’t you speak to him? +They want to lay your little boy—the baby, Fanny, you know; you have +hardly seen him yet, I think—in bed; but they can’t till you rouse +yourself a little. Don’t you think it’s time you roused yourself a +little? Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +She bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same time looking round at +the bystanders, and holding up her finger. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” she repeated, “what was it you said, Fanny? I +didn’t hear you.” +</p> + +<p> +No word or sound in answer. Mr Dombey’s watch and Dr Parker Peps’s +watch seemed to be racing faster. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious. The watches seemed to +jostle, and to trip each other up. +</p> + +<p> +“Fanny!” said Louisa, glancing round, with a gathering alarm. +“Only look at me. Only open your eyes to show me that you hear and +understand me; will you? Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done!” +</p> + +<p> +The two medical attendants exchanged a look across the bed; and the Physician, +stooping down, whispered in the child’s ear. Not having understood the +purport of his whisper, the little creature turned her perfectly colourless +face and deep dark eyes towards him; but without loosening her hold in the +least. +</p> + +<p> +The whisper was repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama!” said the child. +</p> + +<p> +The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of +consciousness, even at that ebb. For a moment, the closed eye lids trembled, +and the nostril quivered, and the faintest shadow of a smile was seen. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama!” cried the child sobbing aloud. “Oh dear Mama! oh dear +Mama!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /> +In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will sometimes arise in +the best-regulated Families.</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> +shall never cease to congratulate myself,” said Mrs Chick,” on +having said, when I little thought what was in store for us,—really as if +I was inspired by something,—that I forgave poor dear Fanny everything. +Whatever happens, that must always be a comfort to me!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick made this impressive observation in the drawing-room, after having +descended thither from the inspection of the mantua-makers upstairs, who were +busy on the family mourning. She delivered it for the behoof of Mr Chick, who +was a stout bald gentleman, with a very large face, and his hands continually +in his pockets, and who had a tendency in his nature to whistle and hum tunes, +which, sensible of the indecorum of such sounds in a house of grief, he was at +some pains to repress at present. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you over-exert yourself, Loo,” said Mr Chick, +“or you’ll be laid up with spasms, I see. Right tol loor rul! Bless +my soul, I forgot! We’re here one day and gone the next!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick contented herself with a glance of reproof, and then proceeded with +the thread of her discourse. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” she said, “I hope this heart-rending occurrence +will be a warning to all of us, to accustom ourselves to rouse ourselves, and +to make efforts in time where they’re required of us. There’s a +moral in everything, if we would only avail ourselves of it. It will be our own +faults if we lose sight of this one.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Chick invaded the grave silence which ensued on this remark with the +singularly inappropriate air of “A cobbler there was;” and checking +himself, in some confusion, observed, that it was undoubtedly our own faults if +we didn’t improve such melancholy occasions as the present. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Merely habit, my dear,” pleaded Mr Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! Habit!” returned his wife. “If you’re a +rational being, don’t make such ridiculous excuses. Habit! If I was to +get a habit (as you call it) of walking on the ceiling, like the flies, I +should hear enough of it, I daresay.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Bow-wow-wow!” repeated Mrs Chick with an emphasis of blighting +contempt on the last syllable. “More like a professional singer with the +hydrophobia, than a man in your station of life!” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s the Baby, Loo?” asked Mr Chick: to change the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“What Baby do you mean?” answered Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“The poor bereaved little baby,” said Mr Chick. “I +don’t know of any other, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know of any other,” retorted Mrs Chick. +“More shame for you, I was going to say.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Chick looked astonished. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining-room downstairs, one +mass of babies, no one in their senses would believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“One mass of babies!” repeated Mr Chick, staring with an alarmed +expression about him. +</p> + +<p> +“It would have occurred to most men,” said Mrs Chick, “that +poor dear Fanny being no more,—those words of mine will always be a balm +and comfort to me,” here she dried her eyes; “it becomes necessary +to provide a Nurse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Ah!” said Mr Chick. “Toor-ru!—such is life, I +mean. I hope you are suited, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I am not,” said Mrs Chick; “nor likely to be, so far +as I can see, and in the meantime the poor child seems likely to be starved to +death. Paul is so very particular—naturally so, of course, having set his +whole heart on this one boy—and there are so many objections to everybody +that offers, that I don’t see, myself, the least chance of an +arrangement. Meanwhile, of course, the child is—” +</p> + +<p> +“Going to the Devil,” said Mr Chick, thoughtfully, “to be +sure.” +</p> + +<p> +Admonished, however, that he had committed himself, by the indignation +expressed in Mrs Chick’s countenance at the idea of a Dombey going there; +and thinking to atone for his misconduct by a bright suggestion, he added: +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t something temporary be done with a teapot?” +</p> + +<p> +If he had meant to bring the subject prematurely to a close, he could not have +done it more effectually. After looking at him for some moments in silent +resignation, Mrs Chick said she trusted he hadn’t said it in aggravation, +because that would do very little honour to his heart. She trusted he +hadn’t said it seriously, because that would do very little honour to his +head. As in any case, he couldn’t, however sanguine his disposition, hope +to offer a remark that would be a greater outrage on human nature in general, +we would beg to leave the discussion at that point. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick then walked majestically to the window and peeped through the blind, +attracted by the sound of wheels. Mr Chick, finding that his destiny was, for +the time, against him, said no more, and walked off. But it was not always thus +with Mr Chick. He was often in the ascendant himself, and at those times +punished Louisa roundly. In their matrimonial bickerings they were, upon the +whole, a well-matched, fairly-balanced, give-and-take couple. It would have +been, generally speaking, very difficult to have betted on the winner. Often +when Mr Chick seemed beaten, he would suddenly make a start, turn the tables, +clatter them about the ears of Mrs Chick, and carry all before him. Being +liable himself to similar unlooked for checks from Mrs Chick, their little +contests usually possessed a character of uncertainty that was very animating. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox had arrived on the wheels just now alluded to, and came running into +the room in a breathless condition. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “is the vacancy still +unsupplied?” +</p> + +<p> +“You good soul, yes,” said Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my dear Louisa,” returned Miss Tox, “I hope and +believe—but in one moment, my dear, I’ll introduce the +party.” +</p> + +<p> +Running downstairs again as fast as she had run up, Miss Tox got the party out +of the hackney-coach, and soon returned with it under convoy. +</p> + +<p> +It then appeared that she had used the word, not in its legal or business +acceptation, when it merely expresses an individual, but as a noun of +multitude, or signifying many: for Miss Tox escorted a plump rosy-cheeked +wholesome apple-faced young woman, with an infant in her arms; a younger woman +not so plump, but apple-faced also, who led a plump and apple-faced child in +each hand; another plump and also apple-faced boy who walked by himself; and +finally, a plump and apple-faced man, who carried in his arms another plump and +apple-faced boy, whom he stood down on the floor, and admonished, in a husky +whisper, to “kitch hold of his brother Johnny.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0028m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “knowing your great anxiety, +and wishing to relieve it, I posted off myself to the Queen Charlotte’s +Royal Married Females,” which you had forgot, and put the question, Was +there anybody there that they thought would suit? No, they said there was not. +When they gave me that answer, I do assure you, my dear, I was almost driven to +despair on your account. But it did so happen, that one of the Royal Married +Females, hearing the inquiry, reminded the matron of another who had gone to +her own home, and who, she said, would in all likelihood be most satisfactory. +The moment I heard this, and had it corroborated by the matron—excellent +references and unimpeachable character—I got the address, my dear, and +posted off again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like the dear good Tox, you are!” said Louisa. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” returned Miss Tox. “Don’t say so. +Arriving at the house (the cleanest place, my dear! You might eat your dinner +off the floor), I found the whole family sitting at table; and feeling that no +account of them could be half so comfortable to you and Mr Dombey as the sight +of them all together, I brought them all away. This gentleman,” said Miss +Tox, pointing out the apple-faced man, “is the father. Will you have the +goodness to come a little forward, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +The apple-faced man having sheepishly complied with this request, stood +chuckling and grinning in a front row. +</p> + +<p> +“This is his wife, of course,” said Miss Tox, singling out the +young woman with the baby. “How do you do, Polly?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m pretty well, I thank you, Ma’am,” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +By way of bringing her out dexterously, Miss Tox had made the inquiry as in +condescension to an old acquaintance whom she hadn’t seen for a fortnight +or so. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad to hear it,” said Miss Tox. “The other young +woman is her unmarried sister who lives with them, and would take care of her +children. Her name’s Jemima. How do you do, Jemima?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m pretty well, I thank you, Ma’am,” returned Jemima. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very glad indeed to hear it,” said Miss Tox. “I +hope you’ll keep so. Five children. Youngest six weeks. The fine little +boy with the blister on his nose is the eldest. The blister, I believe,” +said Miss Tox, looking round upon the family, “is not constitutional, but +accidental?” +</p> + +<p> +The apple-faced man was understood to growl, “Flat iron.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Miss Tox, “did +you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Flat iron,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Stoker,” said the man. +</p> + +<p> +“A choker!” said Miss Tox, quite aghast. +</p> + +<p> +“Stoker,” said the man. “Steam ingine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh-h! Yes!” returned Miss Tox, looking thoughtfully at him, and +seeming still to have but a very imperfect understanding of his meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“And how do you like it, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Which, Mum?” said the man. +</p> + +<p> +“That,” replied Miss Tox. “Your trade.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Pretty well, Mum. The ashes sometimes gets in here;” touching +his chest: “and makes a man speak gruff, as at the present time. But it +is ashes, Mum, not crustiness.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox seemed to be so little enlightened by this reply, as to find a +difficulty in pursuing the subject. But Mrs Chick relieved her, by entering +into a close private examination of Polly, her children, her marriage +certificate, testimonials, and so forth. Polly coming out unscathed from this +ordeal, Mrs Chick withdrew with her report to her brother’s room, and as +an emphatic comment on it, and corroboration of it, carried the two rosiest +little Toodles with her. Toodle being the family name of the apple-faced +family. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey had remained in his own apartment since the death of his wife, +absorbed in visions of the youth, education, and destination of his baby son. +Something lay at the bottom of his cool heart, colder and heavier than its +ordinary load; but it was more a sense of the child’s loss than his own, +awakening within him an almost angry sorrow. That the life and progress on +which he built such hopes, should be endangered in the outset by so mean a +want; that Dombey and Son should be tottering for a nurse, was a sore +humiliation. And yet in his pride and jealousy, he viewed with so much +bitterness the thought of being dependent for the very first step towards the +accomplishment of his soul’s desire, on a hired serving-woman who would +be to the child, for the time, all that even his alliance could have made his +own wife, that in every new rejection of a candidate he felt a secret pleasure. +The time had now come, however, when he could no longer be divided between +these two sets of feelings. The less so, as there seemed to be no flaw in the +title of Polly Toodle after his sister had set it forth, with many +commendations on the indefatigable friendship of Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“These children look healthy,” said Mr Dombey. “But my God, +to think of their some day claiming a sort of relationship to Paul!” +</p> + +<p> +“But what relationship is there!” Louisa began— +</p> + +<p> +“Is there!” echoed Mr Dombey, who had not intended his sister to +participate in the thought he had unconsciously expressed. “Is there, did +you say, Louisa!” +</p> + +<p> +“Can there be, I mean—” +</p> + +<p> +“Why none,” said Mr Dombey, sternly. “The whole world knows +that, I presume. Grief has not made me idiotic, Louisa. Take them away, Louisa! +Let me see this woman and her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick bore off the tender pair of Toodles, and presently returned with that +tougher couple whose presence her brother had commanded. +</p> + +<p> +“My good woman,” said Mr Dombey, turning round in his easy chair, +as one piece, and not as a man with limbs and joints, “I understand you +are poor, and wish to earn money by nursing the little boy, my son, who has +been so prematurely deprived of what can never be replaced. I have no objection +to your adding to the comforts of your family by that means. So far as I can +tell, you seem to be a deserving object. But I must impose one or two +conditions on you, before you enter my house in that capacity. While you are +here, I must stipulate that you are always known as—say as +Richards—an ordinary name, and convenient. Have you any objection to be +known as Richards? You had better consult your husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Mr Dombey, after a pretty long pause. “What does +your husband say to your being called Richards?” +</p> + +<p> +As the husband did nothing but chuckle and grin, and continually draw his right +hand across his mouth, moistening the palm, Mrs Toodle, after nudging him twice +or thrice in vain, dropped a curtsey and replied “that perhaps if she was +to be called out of her name, it would be considered in the wages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, of course,” said Mr Dombey. “I desire to make it a +question of wages, altogether. Now, Richards, if you nurse my bereaved child, I +wish you to remember this always. You will receive a liberal stipend in return +for the discharge of certain duties, in the performance of which, I wish you to +see as little of your family as possible. When those duties cease to be +required and rendered, and the stipend ceases to be paid, there is an end of +all relations between us. Do you understand me?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Toodle seemed doubtful about it; and as to Toodle himself, he had evidently +no doubt whatever, that he was all abroad. +</p> + +<p> +“You have children of your own,” said Mr Dombey. “It is not +at all in this bargain that you need become attached to my child, or that my +child need become attached to you. I don’t expect or desire anything of +the kind. Quite the reverse. When you go away from here, you will have +concluded what is a mere matter of bargain and sale, hiring and letting: and +will stay away. The child will cease to remember you; and you will cease, if +you please, to remember the child.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Toodle, with a little more colour in her cheeks than she had had before, +said “she hoped she knew her place.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you do, Richards,” said Mr Dombey. “I have no doubt +you know it very well. Indeed it is so plain and obvious that it could hardly +be otherwise. Louisa, my dear, arrange with Richards about money, and let her +have it when and how she pleases. Mr what’s-your name, a word with you, +if you please!” +</p> + +<p> +Thus arrested on the threshold as he was following his wife out of the room, +Toodle returned and confronted Mr Dombey alone. He was a strong, loose, +round-shouldered, shuffling, shaggy fellow, on whom his clothes sat +negligently: with a good deal of hair and whisker, deepened in its natural +tint, perhaps by smoke and coal-dust: hard knotty hands: and a square forehead, +as coarse in grain as the bark of an oak. A thorough contrast in all respects, +to Mr Dombey, who was one of those close-shaved close-cut moneyed gentlemen who +are glossy and crisp like new bank-notes, and who seem to be artificially +braced and tightened as by the stimulating action of golden showerbaths. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a son, I believe?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Four on ’em, Sir. Four hims and a her. All alive!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it’s as much as you can afford to keep them!” said Mr +Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t hardly afford but one thing in the world less, +Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“To lose ’em, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you read?” asked Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, not partickk’ller, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Write?” +</p> + +<p> +“With chalk, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“With anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“I could make shift to chalk a little bit, I think, if I was put to +it,” said Toodle after some reflection. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet,” said Mr Dombey, “you are two or three and thirty, +I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thereabouts, I suppose, Sir,” answered Toodle, after more +reflection +</p> + +<p> +“Then why don’t you learn?” asked Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“So I’m a going to, Sir. One of my little boys is a going to learn +me, when he’s old enough, and been to school himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr Dombey, after looking at him attentively, and with +no great favour, as he stood gazing round the room (principally round the +ceiling) and still drawing his hand across and across his mouth. “You +heard what I said to your wife just now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Polly heerd it,” said Toodle, jerking his hat over his shoulder in +the direction of the door, with an air of perfect confidence in his better +half. “It’s all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I ask you if you heard it. You did, I suppose, and understood +it?” pursued Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“I heerd it,” said Toodle, “but I don’t know as I +understood it rightly Sir, “account of being no scholar, and the words +being—ask your pardon—rayther high. But Polly heerd it. It’s +all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you appear to leave everything to her,” said Mr Dombey, +frustrated in his intention of impressing his views still more distinctly on +the husband, as the stronger character, “I suppose it is of no use my +saying anything to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit,” said Toodle. “Polly heerd it. She’s awake, +Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t detain you any longer then,” returned Mr Dombey, +disappointed. “Where have you worked all your life?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mostly underground, Sir, “till I got married. I come to the level +then. I’m a going on one of these here railroads when they comes into +full play.” +</p> + +<p> +As he added in one of his hoarse whispers, “We means to bring up little +Biler to that line,” Mr Dombey inquired haughtily who little Biler was. +</p> + +<p> +“The eldest on ’em, Sir,” said Toodle, with a smile. +“It ain’t a common name. Sermuchser that when he was took to church +the gen’lm’n said, it wamm’t a chris’en one, and he +couldn’t give it. But we always calls him Biler just the same. For we +don’t mean no harm. Not we.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to say, Man,” inquired Mr Dombey; looking at him with +marked displeasure, “that you have called a child after a boiler?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Sir,” returned Toodle, with a tender consideration for his +mistake. “I should hope not! No, Sir. Arter a BILER Sir. The Steamingine +was a’most as good as a godfather to him, and so we called him Biler, +don’t you see!” +</p> + +<p> +As the last straw breaks the laden camel’s back, this piece of +information crushed the sinking spirits of Mr Dombey. He motioned his +child’s foster-father to the door, who departed by no means unwillingly: +and then turning the key, paced up and down the room in solitary wretchedness. +</p> + +<p> +It would be harsh, and perhaps not altogether true, to say of him that he felt +these rubs and gratings against his pride more keenly than he had felt his +wife’s death: but certainly they impressed that event upon him with new +force, and communicated to it added weight and bitterness. It was a rude shock +to his sense of property in his child, that these people—the mere dust of +the earth, as he thought them—should be necessary to him; and it was +natural that in proportion as he felt disturbed by it, he should deplore the +occurrence which had made them so. For all his starched, impenetrable dignity +and composure, he wiped blinding tears from his eyes as he paced up and down +his room; and often said, with an emotion of which he would not, for the world, +have had a witness, “Poor little fellow!” +</p> + +<p> +It may have been characteristic of Mr Dombey’s pride, that he pitied +himself through the child. Not poor me. Not poor widower, confiding by +constraint in the wife of an ignorant Hind who has been working “mostly +underground” all his life, and yet at whose door Death had never knocked, +and at whose poor table four sons daily sit—but poor little fellow! +</p> + +<p> +Those words being on his lips, it occurred to him—and it is an instance +of the strong attraction with which his hopes and fears and all his thoughts +were tending to one centre—that a great temptation was being placed in +this woman’s way. Her infant was a boy too. Now, would it be possible for +her to change them? +</p> + +<p> +Though he was soon satisfied that he had dismissed the idea as romantic and +unlikely—though possible, there was no denying—he could not help +pursuing it so far as to entertain within himself a picture of what his +condition would be, if he should discover such an imposture when he was grown +old. Whether a man so situated would be able to pluck away the result of so +many years of usage, confidence, and belief, from the impostor, and endow a +stranger with it? +</p> + +<p> +But it was idle speculating thus. It couldn’t happen. In a moment +afterwards he determined that it could, but that such women were constantly +observed, and had no opportunity given them for the accomplishment of such a +design, even when they were so wicked as to entertain it. In another moment, he +was remembering how few such cases seemed to have ever happened. In another +moment he was wondering whether they ever happened and were not found out. +</p> + +<p> +As his unusual emotion subsided, these misgivings gradually melted away, though +so much of their shadow remained behind, that he was constant in his resolution +to look closely after Richards himself, without appearing to do so. Being now +in an easier frame of mind, he regarded the woman’s station as rather an +advantageous circumstance than otherwise, by placing, in itself, a broad +distance between her and the child, and rendering their separation easy and +natural. Thence he passed to the contemplation of the future glories of Dombey +and Son, and dismissed the memory of his wife, for the time being, with a +tributary sigh or two. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile terms were ratified and agreed upon between Mrs Chick and Richards, +with the assistance of Miss Tox; and Richards being with much ceremony invested +with the Dombey baby, as if it were an Order, resigned her own, with many tears +and kisses, to Jemima. Glasses of wine were then produced, to sustain the +drooping spirits of the family; and Miss Tox, busying herself in dispensing +“tastes” to the younger branches, bred them up to their +father’s business with such surprising expedition, that she made chokers +of four of them in a quarter of a minute. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll take a glass yourself, Sir, won’t you?” said +Miss Tox, as Toodle appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Thankee, Mum,” said Toodle, “since you are +suppressing.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’re very glad to leave your dear good wife in such a +comfortable home, ain’t you, Sir?” said Miss Tox, nodding and +winking at him stealthily. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mum,” said Toodle. “Here’s wishing of her back +agin.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your little child will thrive charmingly with your sister Jemima, +Richards,” said Mrs Chick; “and you have only to make an +effort—this is a world of effort, you know, Richards—to be very +happy indeed. You have been already measured for your mourning, haven’t +you, Richards?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye—es, Ma’am,” sobbed Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Lor, you’ll be so smart,” said Miss Tox, “that your +husband won’t know you; will you, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should know her,” said Toodle, gruffly, “anyhows and +anywheres.” +</p> + +<p> +Toodle was evidently not to be bought over. +</p> + +<p> +“As to living, Richards, you know,” pursued Mrs Chick, “why, +the very best of everything will be at your disposal. You will order your +little dinner every day; and anything you take a fancy to, I’m sure will +be as readily provided as if you were a Lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes to be sure!” said Miss Tox, keeping up the ball with great +sympathy. “And as to porter!—quite unlimited, will it not, +Louisa?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly!” returned Mrs Chick in the same tone. “With a +little abstinence, you know, my dear, in point of vegetables.” +</p> + +<p> +“And pickles, perhaps,” suggested Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“With such exceptions,” said Louisa, “she’ll consult +her choice entirely, and be under no restraint at all, my love.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then, of course, you know,” said Miss Tox, “however fond +she is of her own dear little child—and I’m sure, Louisa, you +don’t blame her for being fond of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no!” cried Mrs Chick, benignantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Still,” resumed Miss Tox, “she naturally must be interested +in her young charge, and must consider it a privilege to see a little cherub +connected with the superior classes, gradually unfolding itself from day to day +at one common fountain—is it not so, Louisa?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most undoubtedly!” said Mrs Chick. “You see, my love, +she’s already quite contented and comfortable, and means to say goodbye +to her sister Jemima and her little pets, and her good honest husband, with a +light heart and a smile; don’t she, my dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes!” cried Miss Tox. “To be sure she does!” +</p> + +<p> +Notwithstanding which, however, poor Polly embraced them all round in great +distress, and coming to her spouse at last, could not make up her mind to part +from him, until he gently disengaged himself, at the close of the following +allegorical piece of consolation: +</p> + +<p> +“Polly, old “ooman, whatever you do, my darling, hold up your head +and fight low. That’s the only rule as I know on, that’ll carry +anyone through life. You always have held up your head and fought low, Polly. +Do it now, or Bricks is no longer so. God bless you, Polly! Me and J’mima +will do your duty by you; and with relating to your’n, hold up your head +and fight low, Polly, and you can’t go wrong!” +</p> + +<p> +Fortified by this golden secret, Polly finally ran away to avoid any more +particular leave-taking between herself and the children. But the stratagem +hardly succeeded as well as it deserved; for the smallest boy but one divining +her intent, immediately began swarming upstairs after her—if that word of +doubtful etymology be admissible—on his arms and legs; while the eldest +(known in the family by the name of Biler, in remembrance of the steam engine) +beat a demoniacal tattoo with his boots, expressive of grief; in which he was +joined by the rest of the family. +</p> + +<p> +A quantity of oranges and halfpence thrust indiscriminately on each young +Toodle, checked the first violence of their regret, and the family were +speedily transported to their own home, by means of the hackney-coach kept in +waiting for that purpose. The children, under the guardianship of Jemima, +blocked up the window, and dropped out oranges and halfpence all the way along. +Mr Toodle himself preferred to ride behind among the spikes, as being the mode +of conveyance to which he was best accustomed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /> +In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the Head of the +Home-Department</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +funeral of the deceased lady having been “performed” to the entire +satisfaction of the undertaker, as well as of the neighbourhood at large, which +is generally disposed to be captious on such a point, and is prone to take +offence at any omissions or short-comings in the ceremonies, the various +members of Mr Dombey’s household subsided into their several places in +the domestic system. That small world, like the great one out of doors, had the +capacity of easily forgetting its dead; and when the cook had said she was a +quiet-tempered lady, and the house-keeper had said it was the common lot, and +the butler had said who’d have thought it, and the housemaid had said she +couldn’t hardly believe it, and the footman had said it seemed exactly +like a dream, they had quite worn the subject out, and began to think their +mourning was wearing rusty too. +</p> + +<p> +On Richards, who was established upstairs in a state of honourable captivity, +the dawn of her new life seemed to break cold and grey. Mr Dombey’s house +was a large one, on the shady side of a tall, dark, dreadfully genteel street +in the region between Portland Place and Bryanstone Square. It was a corner +house, with great wide areas containing cellars frowned upon by barred windows, +and leered at by crooked-eyed doors leading to dustbins. It was a house of +dismal state, with a circular back to it, containing a whole suite of +drawing-rooms looking upon a gravelled yard, where two gaunt trees, with +blackened trunks and branches, rattled rather than rustled, their leaves were +so smoked-dried. The summer sun was never on the street, but in the morning +about breakfast-time, when it came with the water-carts and the old clothes +men, and the people with geraniums, and the umbrella-mender, and the man who +trilled the little bell of the Dutch clock as he went along. It was soon gone +again to return no more that day; and the bands of music and the straggling +Punch’s shows going after it, left it a prey to the most dismal of +organs, and white mice; with now and then a porcupine, to vary the +entertainments; until the butlers whose families were dining out, began to +stand at the house-doors in the twilight, and the lamp-lighter made his nightly +failure in attempting to brighten up the street with gas. +</p> + +<p> +It was as blank a house inside as outside. When the funeral was over, Mr Dombey +ordered the furniture to be covered up—perhaps to preserve it for the son +with whom his plans were all associated—and the rooms to be ungarnished, +saving such as he retained for himself on the ground floor. Accordingly, +mysterious shapes were made of tables and chairs, heaped together in the middle +of rooms, and covered over with great winding-sheets. Bell-handles, +window-blinds, and looking-glasses, being papered up in journals, daily and +weekly, obtruded fragmentary accounts of deaths and dreadful murders. Every +chandelier or lustre, muffled in holland, looked like a monstrous tear +depending from the ceiling’s eye. Odours, as from vaults and damp places, +came out of the chimneys. The dead and buried lady was awful in a picture-frame +of ghastly bandages. Every gust of wind that rose, brought eddying round the +corner from the neighbouring mews, some fragments of the straw that had been +strewn before the house when she was ill, mildewed remains of which were still +cleaving to the neighbourhood: and these, being always drawn by some invisible +attraction to the threshold of the dirty house to let immediately opposite, +addressed a dismal eloquence to Mr Dombey’s windows. +</p> + +<p> +The apartments which Mr Dombey reserved for his own inhabiting, were attainable +from the hall, and consisted of a sitting-room; a library, which was in fact a +dressing-room, so that the smell of hot-pressed paper, vellum, morocco, and +Russia leather, contended in it with the smell of divers pairs of boots; and a +kind of conservatory or little glass breakfast-room beyond, commanding a +prospect of the trees before mentioned, and, generally speaking, of a few +prowling cats. These three rooms opened upon one another. In the morning, when +Mr Dombey was at his breakfast in one or other of the two first-mentioned of +them, as well as in the afternoon when he came home to dinner, a bell was rung +for Richards to repair to this glass chamber, and there walk to and fro with +her young charge. From the glimpses she caught of Mr Dombey at these times, +sitting in the dark distance, looking out towards the infant from among the +dark heavy furniture—the house had been inhabited for years by his +father, and in many of its appointments was old-fashioned and grim—she +began to entertain ideas of him in his solitary state, as if he were a lone +prisoner in a cell, or a strange apparition that was not to be accosted or +understood. Mr Dombey came to be, in the course of a few days, invested in his +own person, to her simple thinking, with all the mystery and gloom of his +house. As she walked up and down the glass room, or sat hushing the baby +there—which she very often did for hours together, when the dusk was +closing in, too—she would sometimes try to pierce the gloom beyond, and +make out how he was looking and what he was doing. Sensible that she was +plainly to be seen by him, however, she never dared to pry in that direction +but very furtively and for a moment at a time. Consequently she made out +nothing, and Mr Dombey in his den remained a very shade. +</p> + +<p> +Little Paul Dombey’s foster-mother had led this life herself, and had +carried little Paul through it for some weeks; and had returned upstairs one +day from a melancholy saunter through the dreary rooms of state (she never went +out without Mrs Chick, who called on fine mornings, usually accompanied by Miss +Tox, to take her and Baby for an airing—or in other words, to march them +gravely up and down the pavement, like a walking funeral); when, as she was +sitting in her own room, the door was slowly and quietly opened, and a +dark-eyed little girl looked in. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that my brother?” asked the child, pointing to the Baby. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my pretty,” answered Richards. “Come and kiss +him.” +</p> + +<p> +But the child, instead of advancing, looked her earnestly in the face, and +said: +</p> + +<p> +“What have you done with my Mama?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord bless the little creeter!” cried Richards, “what a sad +question! I done? Nothing, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have they done with my Mama?” inquired the child, with +exactly the same look and manner. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not afraid of you,” said the child, drawing nearer. +“But I want to know what they have done with my Mama.” +</p> + +<p> +Her heart swelled so as she stood before the woman, looking into her eyes, that +she was fain to press her little hand upon her breast and hold it there. Yet +there was a purpose in the child that prevented both her slender figure and her +searching gaze from faltering. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling,” said Richards, “you wear that pretty black +frock in remembrance of your Mama.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can remember my Mama,” returned the child, with tears springing +to her eyes, “in any frock.” +</p> + +<p> +“But people put on black, to remember people when they’re +gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where gone?” asked the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Come and sit down by me,” said Richards, “and I’ll +tell you a story.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Once upon a time,” said Richards, “there was a lady—a +very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved her.” +</p> + +<p> +“A very good lady and her little daughter dearly loved her,” +repeated the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Who, when God thought it right that it should be so, was taken ill and +died.” +</p> + +<p> +The child shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“Died, never to be seen again by anyone on earth, and was buried in the +ground where the trees grow.” +</p> + +<p> +“The cold ground?” said the child, shuddering again. +</p> + +<p> +“No! The warm ground,” returned Polly, seizing her advantage, +“where the ugly little seeds turn into beautiful flowers, and into grass, +and corn, and I don’t know what all besides. Where good people turn into +bright angels, and fly away to Heaven!” +</p> + +<p> +The child, who had dropped her head, raised it again, and sat looking at her +intently. +</p> + +<p> +“So; let me see,” said Polly, not a little flurried between this +earnest scrutiny, her desire to comfort the child, her sudden success, and her +very slight confidence in her own powers. “So, when this lady died, +wherever they took her, or wherever they put her, she went to GOD! and she +prayed to Him, this lady did,” said Polly, affecting herself beyond +measure; being heartily in earnest, “to teach her little daughter to be +sure of that in her heart: and to know that she was happy there and loved her +still: and to hope and try—Oh, all her life—to meet her there one +day, never, never, never to part any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was my Mama!” exclaimed the child, springing up, and clasping +her round the neck. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh well, Miss Floy! And won’t your Pa be angry neither!” +cried a quick voice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown, womanly girl +of fourteen, with a little snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads. +“When it was “tickerlerly given out that you wasn’t to go and +worrit the wet nurse.” +</p> + +<p> +“She don’t worry me,” was the surprised rejoinder of Polly. +“I am very fond of children.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! but begging your pardon, Mrs Richards, that don’t matter, you +know,” returned the black-eyed girl, who was so desperately sharp and +biting that she seemed to make one’s eyes water. “I may be very +fond of pennywinkles, Mrs Richards, but it don’t follow that I’m to +have ’em for tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it don’t matter,” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank’ee, Mrs Richards, don’t it!” returned the +sharp girl. “Remembering, however, if you’ll be so good, that Miss +Floy’s under my charge, and Master Paul’s under +your’n.” +</p> + +<p> +“But still we needn’t quarrel,” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, Mrs Richards,” rejoined Spitfire. “Not at all, I +don’t wish it, we needn’t stand upon that footing, Miss Floy being +a permanency, Master Paul a temporary.” Spitfire made use of none but +comma pauses; shooting out whatever she had to say in one sentence, and in one +breath, if possible. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Florence has just come home, hasn’t she?” asked Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mrs Richards, just come, and here, Miss Floy, before you’ve +been in the house a quarter of an hour, you go a smearing your wet face against +the expensive mourning that Mrs Richards is a wearing for your Ma!” With +this remonstrance, young Spitfire, whose real name was Susan Nipper, detached +the child from her new friend by a wrench—as if she were a tooth. But she +seemed to do it, more in the excessively sharp exercise of her official +functions, than with any deliberate unkindness. +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll be quite happy, now she has come home again,” said +Polly, nodding to her with an encouraging smile upon her wholesome face, +“and will be so pleased to see her dear Papa tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lork, Mrs Richards!” cried Miss Nipper, taking up her words with a +jerk. “Don’t. See her dear Papa indeed! I should like to see her do +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t she then?” asked Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Lork, Mrs Richards, no, her Pa’s a deal too wrapped up in somebody +else, and before there was a somebody else to be wrapped up in she never was a +favourite, girls are thrown away in this house, Mrs Richards, I assure +you.” +</p> + +<p> +The child looked quickly from one nurse to the other, as if she understood and +felt what was said. +</p> + +<p> +“You surprise me!” cried Polly. “Hasn’t Mr Dombey seen +her since—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty dear!” said Richards; meaning, not Miss Nipper, but the +little Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! there’s a Tartar within a hundred miles of where we’re +now in conversation, I can tell you, Mrs Richards, present company always +excepted too,” said Susan Nipper; “wish you good morning, Mrs +Richards, now Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don’t go hanging +back like a naughty wicked child that judgments is no example to, +don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of being thus adjured, and in spite also of some hauling on the part +of Susan Nipper, tending towards the dislocation of her right shoulder, little +Florence broke away, and kissed her new friend, affectionately. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear! after it was given out so “tickerlerly, that Mrs Richards +wasn’t to be made free with!” exclaimed Susan. “Very well, +Miss Floy!” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless the sweet thing!” said Richards, “Good-bye, +dear!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye!” returned the child. “God bless you! I shall come +to see you again soon, and you’ll come to see me? Susan will let us. +Won’t you, Susan?” +</p> + +<p> +Spitfire seemed to be in the main a good-natured little body, although a +disciple of that school of trainers of the young idea which holds that +childhood, like money, must be shaken and rattled and jostled about a good deal +to keep it bright. For, being thus appealed to with some endearing gestures and +caresses, she folded her small arms and shook her head, and conveyed a +relenting expression into her very-wide-open black eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“It ain’t right of you to ask it, Miss Floy, for you know I +can’t refuse you, but Mrs Richards and me will see what can be done, if +Mrs Richards likes, I may wish, you see, to take a voyage to Chaney, Mrs +Richards, but I mayn’t know how to leave the London Docks.” +</p> + +<p> +Richards assented to the proposition. +</p> + +<p> +“This house ain’t so exactly ringing with merry-making,” said +Miss Nipper, “that one need be lonelier than one must be. Your Toxes and +your Chickses may draw out my two front double teeth, Mrs Richards, but +that’s no reason why I need offer ’em the whole set.” +</p> + +<p> +This proposition was also assented to by Richards, as an obvious one. +</p> + +<p> +“So I’m agreeable, I’m sure,” said Susan Nipper, +“to live friendly, Mrs Richards, while Master Paul continues a +permanency, if the means can be planned out without going openly against +orders, but goodness gracious Miss Floy, you haven’t got your things off +yet, you naughty child, you haven’t, come along!” +</p> + +<p> +With these words, Susan Nipper, in a transport of coercion, made a charge at +her young ward, and swept her out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +The child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle, so quiet, and +uncomplaining; was possessed of so much affection that no one seemed to care to +have, and so much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed to mind or think +about the wounding of, that Polly’s heart was sore when she was left +alone again. In the simple passage that had taken place between herself and the +motherless little girl, her own motherly heart had been touched no less than +the child’s; and she felt, as the child did, that there was something of +confidence and interest between them from that moment. +</p> + +<p> +Notwithstanding Mr Toodle’s great reliance on Polly, she was perhaps in +point of artificial accomplishments very little his superior. She had been +good-humouredly working and drudging for her life all her life, and was a sober +steady-going person, with matter-of-fact ideas about the butcher and baker, and +the division of pence into farthings. But she was a good plain sample of a +nature that is ever, in the mass, better, truer, higher, nobler, quicker to +feel, and much more constant to retain, all tenderness and pity, self-denial +and devotion, than the nature of men. And, perhaps, unlearned as she was, she +could have brought a dawning knowledge home to Mr Dombey at that early day, +which would not then have struck him in the end like lightning. +</p> + +<p> +But this is from the purpose. Polly only thought, at that time, of improving on +her successful propitiation of Miss Nipper, and devising some means of having +little Florence aide her, lawfully, and without rebellion. An opening happened +to present itself that very night. +</p> + +<p> +She had been rung down into the glass room as usual, and had walked about and +about it a long time, with the baby in her arms, when, to her great surprise +and dismay, Mr Dombey—whom she had seen at first leaning on his elbow at +the table, and afterwards walking up and down the middle room, drawing, each +time, a little nearer, she thought, to the open folding doors—came out, +suddenly, and stopped before her. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Richards.” +</p> + +<p> +Just the same austere, stiff gentleman, as he had appeared to her on that first +day. Such a hard-looking gentleman, that she involuntarily dropped her eyes and +her curtsey at the same time. +</p> + +<p> +“How is Master Paul, Richards?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite thriving, Sir, and well.” +</p> + +<p> +“He looks so,” said Mr Dombey, glancing with great interest at the +tiny face she uncovered for his observation, and yet affecting to be half +careless of it. “They give you everything you want, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, thank you, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +She suddenly appended such an obvious hesitation to this reply, however, that +Mr Dombey, who had turned away; stopped, and turned round again, inquiringly. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Sir, the child is very much disposed to take notice of +things,” said Richards, with another curtsey, “and—upstairs +is a little dull for him, perhaps, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I begged them to take you out for airings, constantly,” said Mr +Dombey. “Very well! You shall go out oftener. You’re quite right to +mention it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Sir,” faltered Polly, “but we go out +quite plenty Sir, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What would you have then?” asked Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed Sir, I don’t exactly know,” said Polly, +“unless—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe nothing is so good for making children lively and cheerful, +Sir, as seeing other children playing about ’em,” observed Polly, +taking courage. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I mentioned to you, Richards, when you came here,” said Mr +Dombey, with a frown, “that I wished you to see as little of your family +as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear yes, Sir, I wasn’t so much as thinking of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad of it,” said Mr Dombey hastily. “You can continue +your walk if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +With that, he disappeared into his inner room; and Polly had the satisfaction +of feeling that he had thoroughly misunderstood her object, and that she had +fallen into disgrace without the least advancement of her purpose. +</p> + +<p> +Next night, she found him walking about the conservatory when she came down. As +she stopped at the door, checked by this unusual sight, and uncertain whether +to advance or retreat, he called her in. His mind was too much set on Dombey +and Son, it soon appeared, to admit of his having forgotten her suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +“If you really think that sort of society is good for the child,” +he said sharply, as if there had been no interval since she proposed it, +“where’s Miss Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing could be better than Miss Florence, Sir,” said Polly +eagerly, “but I understood from her maid that they were not +to—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey rang the bell, and walked till it was answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Richards when she chooses, +and go out with her, and so forth. Tell them to let the children be together, +when Richards wishes it.” +</p> + +<p> +The iron was now hot, and Richards striking on it boldly—it was a good +cause and she bold in it, though instinctively afraid of Mr +Dombey—requested that Miss Florence might be sent down then and there, to +make friends with her little brother. +</p> + +<p> +She feigned to be dandling the child as the servant retired on this errand, but +she thought that she saw Mr Dombey’s colour changed; that the expression +of his face quite altered; that he turned, hurriedly, as if to gainsay what he +had said, or she had said, or both, and was only deterred by very shame. +</p> + +<p> +And she was right. The last time he had seen his slighted child, there had been +that in the sad embrace between her and her dying mother, which was at once a +revelation and a reproach to him. Let him be absorbed as he would in the Son on +whom he built such high hopes, he could not forget that closing scene. He could +not forget that he had had no part in it. That, at the bottom of its clear +depths of tenderness and truth lay those two figures clasped in each +other’s arms, while he stood on the bank above them, looking down a mere +spectator—not a sharer with them—quite shut out. +</p> + +<p> +Unable to exclude these things from his remembrance, or to keep his mind free +from such imperfect shapes of the meaning with which they were fraught, as were +able to make themselves visible to him through the mist of his pride, his +previous feeling of indifference towards little Florence changed into an +uneasiness of an extraordinary kind. Young as she was, and possessing in any +eyes but his (and perhaps in his too) even more than the usual amount of +childish simplicity and confidence, he almost felt as if she watched and +distrusted him. As if she held the clue to something secret in his breast, of +the nature of which he was hardly informed himself. As if she had an innate +knowledge of one jarring and discordant string within him, and her very breath +could sound it. +</p> + +<p> +His feeling about the child had been negative from her birth. He had never +conceived an aversion to her: it had not been worth his while or in his humour. +She had never been a positively disagreeable object to him. But now he was ill +at ease about her. She troubled his peace. He would have preferred to put her +idea aside altogether, if he had known how. Perhaps—who shall decide on +such mysteries!—he was afraid that he might come to hate her. +</p> + +<p> +When little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr Dombey stopped in his pacing +up and down and looked towards her. Had he looked with greater interest and +with a father’s eye, he might have read in her keen glance the impulses +and fears that made her waver; the passionate desire to run clinging to him, +crying, as she hid her face in his embrace, “Oh father, try to love me! +there’s no one else!” the dread of a repulse; the fear of being too +bold, and of offending him; the pitiable need in which she stood of some +assurance and encouragement; and how her overcharged young heart was wandering +to find some natural resting-place, for its sorrow and affection. +</p> + +<p> +But he saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irresolutely at the door and look +towards him; and he saw no more. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” he said, “come in: what is the child afraid +of?” +</p> + +<p> +She came in; and after glancing round her for a moment with an uncertain air, +stood pressing her small hands hard together, close within the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, Florence,” said her father, coldly. “Do you know +who I am?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Papa.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you nothing to say to me?” +</p> + +<p> +The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face, were +frozen by the expression it wore. She looked down again, and put out her +trembling hand. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There! Be a good girl,” he said, patting her on the head, and +regarding her as it were by stealth with a disturbed and doubtful look. +“Go to Richards! Go!” +</p> + +<p> +His little daughter hesitated for another instant as though she would have +clung about him still, or had some lingering hope that he might raise her in +his arms and kiss her. She looked up in his face once more. He thought how like +her expression was then, to what it had been when she looked round at the +Doctor—that night—and instinctively dropped her hand and turned +away. +</p> + +<p> +It was not difficult to perceive that Florence was at a great disadvantage in +her father’s presence. It was not only a constraint upon the +child’s mind, but even upon the natural grace and freedom of her actions. +As she sported and played about her baby brother that night, her manner was +seldom so winning and so pretty as it naturally was, and sometimes when in his +pacing to and fro, he came near her (she had, perhaps, for the moment, +forgotten him) it changed upon the instant and became forced and embarrassed. +</p> + +<p> +Still, Polly persevered with all the better heart for seeing this; and, judging +of Mr Dombey by herself, had great confidence in the mute appeal of poor little +Florence’s mourning dress. “It’s hard indeed,” thought +Polly, “if he takes only to one little motherless child, when he has +another, and that a girl, before his eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +So, Polly kept her before his eyes, as long as she could, and managed so well +with little Paul, as to make it very plain that he was all the livelier for his +sister’s company. When it was time to withdraw upstairs again, she would +have sent Florence into the inner room to say good-night to her father, but the +child was timid and drew back; and when she urged her again, said, spreading +her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out her own unworthiness, “Oh +no, no! He don’t want me. He don’t want me!” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0044m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Florence was afraid of interrupting, Sir, if she came in to say +good-night,” said Richards. +</p> + +<p> +“It doesn’t matter,” returned Mr Dombey. “You can let +her come and go without regarding me.” +</p> + +<p> +The child shrunk as she listened—and was gone, before her humble friend +looked round again. +</p> + +<p> +However, Polly triumphed not a little in the success of her well-intentioned +scheme, and in the address with which she had brought it to bear: whereof she +made a full disclosure to Spitfire when she was once more safely entrenched +upstairs. Miss Nipper received that proof of her confidence, as well as the +prospect of their free association for the future, rather coldly, and was +anything but enthusiastic in her demonstrations of joy. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you would have been pleased,” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, Mrs Richards, I’m very well pleased, thank you,” +returned Susan, who had suddenly become so very upright that she seemed to have +put an additional bone in her stays. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t show it,” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Being only a permanency I couldn’t be expected to show it like +a temporary,” said Susan Nipper. “Temporaries carries it all before +’em here, I find, but though there’s a excellent party-wall between +this house and the next, I mayn’t exactly like to go to it, Mrs Richards, +notwithstanding!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /> +In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of these +Adventures</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hough +the offices of Dombey and Son were within the liberties of the City of London, +and within hearing of Bow Bells, when their clashing voices were not drowned by +the uproar in the streets, yet were there hints of adventurous and romantic +story to be observed in some of the adjacent objects. Gog and Magog held their +state within ten minutes’ walk; the Royal Exchange was close at hand; the +Bank of England, with its vaults of gold and silver “down among the dead +men” underground, was their magnificent neighbour. Just round the corner +stood the rich East India House, teeming with suggestions of precious stuffs +and stones, tigers, elephants, howdahs, hookahs, umbrellas, palm trees, +palanquins, and gorgeous princes of a brown complexion sitting on carpets, with +their slippers very much turned up at the toes. Anywhere in the immediate +vicinity there might be seen pictures of ships speeding away full sail to all +parts of the world; outfitting warehouses ready to pack off anybody anywhere, +fully equipped in half an hour; and little timber midshipmen in obsolete naval +uniforms, eternally employed outside the shop doors of nautical +Instrument-makers in taking observations of the hackney carriages. +</p> + +<p> +Sole master and proprietor of one of these effigies—of that which might +be called, familiarly, the woodenest—of that which thrust itself out +above the pavement, right leg foremost, with a suavity the least endurable, and +had the shoe buckles and flapped waistcoat the least reconcileable to human +reason, and bore at its right eye the most offensively disproportionate piece +of machinery—sole master and proprietor of that Midshipman, and proud of +him too, an elderly gentleman in a Welsh wig had paid house-rent, taxes, rates, +and dues, for more years than many a full-grown midshipman of flesh and blood +has numbered in his life; and midshipmen who have attained a pretty green old +age, have not been wanting in the English Navy. +</p> + +<p> +The stock-in-trade of this old gentleman comprised chronometers, barometers, +telescopes, compasses, charts, maps, sextants, quadrants, and specimens of +every kind of instrument used in the working of a ship’s course, or the +keeping of a ship’s reckoning, or the prosecuting of a ship’s +discoveries. Objects in brass and glass were in his drawers and on his shelves, +which none but the initiated could have found the top of, or guessed the use +of, or having once examined, could have ever got back again into their mahogany +nests without assistance. Everything was jammed into the tightest cases, fitted +into the narrowest corners, fenced up behind the most impertinent cushions, and +screwed into the acutest angles, to prevent its philosophical composure from +being disturbed by the rolling of the sea. Such extraordinary precautions were +taken in every instance to save room, and keep the thing compact; and so much +practical navigation was fitted, and cushioned, and screwed into every box +(whether the box was a mere slab, as some were, or something between a cocked +hat and a star-fish, as others were, and those quite mild and modest boxes as +compared with others); that the shop itself, partaking of the general +infection, seemed almost to become a snug, sea-going, ship-shape concern, +wanting only good sea-room, in the event of an unexpected launch, to work its +way securely to any desert island in the world. +</p> + +<p> +Many minor incidents in the household life of the Ships’ Instrument-maker +who was proud of his little Midshipman, assisted and bore out this fancy. His +acquaintance lying chiefly among ship-chandlers and so forth, he had always +plenty of the veritable ships’ biscuit on his table. It was familiar with +dried meats and tongues, possessing an extraordinary flavour of rope yarn. +Pickles were produced upon it, in great wholesale jars, with “dealer in +all kinds of Ships’ Provisions” on the label; spirits were set +forth in case bottles with no throats. Old prints of ships with alphabetical +references to their various mysteries, hung in frames upon the walls; the +Tartar Frigate under weigh, was on the plates; outlandish shells, seaweeds, and +mosses, decorated the chimney-piece; the little wainscotted back parlour was +lighted by a sky-light, like a cabin. +</p> + +<p> +Here he lived too, in skipper-like state, all alone with his nephew Walter: a +boy of fourteen who looked quite enough like a midshipman, to carry out the +prevailing idea. But there it ended, for Solomon Gills himself (more generally +called old Sol) was far from having a maritime appearance. To say nothing of +his Welsh wig, which was as plain and stubborn a Welsh wig as ever was worn, +and in which he looked like anything but a Rover, he was a slow, quiet-spoken, +thoughtful old fellow, with eyes as red as if they had been small suns looking +at you through a fog; and a newly-awakened manner, such as he might have +acquired by having stared for three or four days successively through every +optical instrument in his shop, and suddenly came back to the world again, to +find it green. The only change ever known in his outward man, was from a +complete suit of coffee-colour cut very square, and ornamented with glaring +buttons, to the same suit of coffee-colour minus the inexpressibles, which were +then of a pale nankeen. He wore a very precise shirt-frill, and carried a pair +of first-rate spectacles on his forehead, and a tremendous chronometer in his +fob, rather than doubt which precious possession, he would have believed in a +conspiracy against it on part of all the clocks and watches in the City, and +even of the very Sun itself. Such as he was, such he had been in the shop and +parlour behind the little Midshipman, for years upon years; going regularly +aloft to bed every night in a howling garret remote from the lodgers, where, +when gentlemen of England who lived below at ease had little or no idea of the +state of the weather, it often blew great guns. +</p> + +<p> +It is half-past five o’clock, and an autumn afternoon, when the reader +and Solomon Gills become acquainted. Solomon Gills is in the act of seeing what +time it is by the unimpeachable chronometer. The usual daily clearance has been +making in the City for an hour or more; and the human tide is still rolling +westward. “The streets have thinned,” as Mr Gills says, “very +much.” It threatens to be wet tonight. All the weatherglasses in the +shop are in low spirits, and the rain already shines upon the cocked hat of the +wooden Midshipman. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Walter, I wonder!” said Solomon Gills, after he had +carefully put up the chronometer again. “Here’s dinner been ready, +half an hour, and no Walter!” +</p> + +<p> +Turning round upon his stool behind the counter, Mr Gills looked out among the +instruments in the window, to see if his nephew might be crossing the road. No. +He was not among the bobbing umbrellas, and he certainly was not the newspaper +boy in the oilskin cap who was slowly working his way along the piece of brass +outside, writing his name over Mr Gills’s name with his forefinger. +</p> + +<p> +“If I didn’t know he was too fond of me to make a run of it, and go +and enter himself aboard ship against my wishes, I should begin to be +fidgetty,” said Mr Gills, tapping two or three weather-glasses with his +knuckles. “I really should. All in the Downs, eh! Lots of moisture! Well! +it’s wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe,” said Mr Gills, blowing the dust off the glass top of a +compass-case, “that you don’t point more direct and due to the back +parlour than the boy’s inclination does after all. And the parlour +couldn’t bear straighter either. Due north. Not the twentieth part of a +point either way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa, Uncle Sol!” +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa, my boy!” cried the Instrument-maker, turning briskly +round. “What! you are here, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +A cheerful looking, merry boy, fresh with running home in the rain; fair-faced, +bright-eyed, and curly-haired. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Uncle, how have you got on without me all day? Is dinner ready? +I’m so hungry.” +</p> + +<p> +“As to getting on,” said Solomon good-naturedly, “it would be +odd if I couldn’t get on without a young dog like you a great deal better +than with you. As to dinner being ready, it’s been ready this half hour +and waiting for you. As to being hungry, I am!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come along then, Uncle!” cried the boy. “Hurrah for the +admiral!” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound the admiral!” returned Solomon Gills. “You mean the +Lord Mayor.” +</p> + +<p> +“No I don’t!” cried the boy. “Hurrah for the admiral! +Hurrah for the admiral! For-ward!” +</p> + +<p> +At this word of command, the Welsh wig and its wearer were borne without +resistance into the back parlour, as at the head of a boarding party of five +hundred men; and Uncle Sol and his nephew were speedily engaged on a fried sole +with a prospect of steak to follow. +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord Mayor, Wally,” said Solomon, “for ever! No more +admirals. The Lord Mayor’s your admiral.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, is he though!” said the boy, shaking his head. “Why, the +Sword Bearer’s better than him. He draws his sword sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains,” returned the +Uncle. “Listen to me, Wally, listen to me. Look on the +mantelshelf.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why who has cocked my silver mug up there, on a nail?” exclaimed +the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“I have,” said his Uncle. “No more mugs now. We must begin to +drink out of glasses today, Walter. We are men of business. We belong to the +City. We started in life this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Uncle,” said the boy, “I’ll drink out of +anything you like, so long as I can drink to you. Here’s to you, Uncle +Sol, and Hurrah for the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Mayor,” interrupted the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“For the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, Common Council, and Livery,” said +the boy. “Long life to ’em!” +</p> + +<p> +The uncle nodded his head with great satisfaction. “And now,” he +said, “let’s hear something about the Firm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! there’s not much to be told about the Firm, Uncle,” said +the boy, plying his knife and fork. “It’s a precious dark set of +offices, and in the room where I sit, there’s a high fender, and an iron +safe, and some cards about ships that are going to sail, and an almanack, and +some desks and stools, and an inkbottle, and some books, and some boxes, and a +lot of cobwebs, and in one of ’em, just over my head, a shrivelled-up +blue-bottle that looks as if it had hung there ever so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing else?” said the Uncle. +</p> + +<p> +“No, nothing else, except an old birdcage (I wonder how that ever came +there!) and a coal-scuttle.” +</p> + +<p> +“No bankers’ books, or cheque books, or bills, or such tokens of +wealth rolling in from day to day?” said old Sol, looking wistfully at +his nephew out of the fog that always seemed to hang about him, and laying an +unctuous emphasis upon the words. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has Mr Dombey been there today?” inquired the Uncle. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes! In and out all day.” +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t take any notice of you, I suppose?”. +</p> + +<p> +“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,’ said he. But I could take my oath he said +son, Uncle.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re mistaken I daresay. It’s no matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it’s no matter, but he needn’t have been so sharp, I +thought. There was no harm in it though he did say son. Then he told me that +you had spoken to him about me, and that he had found me employment in the +House accordingly, and that I was expected to be attentive and punctual, and +then he went away. I thought he didn’t seem to like me much.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean, I suppose,” observed the Instrument-maker, “that +you didn’t seem to like him much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Uncle,” returned the boy, laughing. “Perhaps so; I +never thought of that.” +</p> + +<p> +Solomon looked a little graver as he finished his dinner, and glanced from time +to time at the boy’s bright face. When dinner was done, and the cloth was +cleared away (the entertainment had been brought from a neighbouring +eating-house), he lighted a candle, and went down below into a little cellar, +while his nephew, standing on the mouldy staircase, dutifully held the light. +After a moment’s groping here and there, he presently returned with a +very ancient-looking bottle, covered with dust and dirt. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Uncle Sol!” said the boy, “what are you about? +that’s the wonderful Madeira!—there’s only one more +bottle!” +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Sol nodded his head, implying that he knew very well what he was about; +and having drawn the cork in solemn silence, filled two glasses and set the +bottle and a third clean glass on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall drink the other bottle, Wally,” he said, “when you +come to good fortune; when you are a thriving, respected, happy man; when the +start in life you have made today 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Some of the fog that hung about old Sol seemed to have got into his throat; for +he spoke huskily. His hand shook too, as he clinked his glass against his +nephew’s. But having once got the wine to his lips, he tossed it off like +a man, and smacked them afterwards. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Uncle,” said the boy, affecting to make light of it, while +the tears stood in his eyes, “for the honour you have done me, et cetera, +et cetera. I shall now beg to propose Mr Solomon Gills with three times three +and one cheer more. Hurrah! and you’ll return thanks, Uncle, when we +drink the last bottle together; won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +His Uncle sat looking at him for some time in silence. When their eyes at last +met, he began at once to pursue the theme that had occupied his thoughts, +aloud, as if he had been speaking all the time. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Walter,” he said, “in truth this business is merely +a habit with me. I am so accustomed to the habit that I could hardly live if I +relinquished it: but there’s nothing doing, nothing doing. When that +uniform was worn,” pointing out towards the little Midshipman, +“then indeed, fortunes were to be made, and were made. But competition, +competition—new invention, new invention—alteration, +alteration—the world’s gone past me. I hardly know where I am +myself, much less where my customers are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind ’em, Uncle!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Two, Uncle, don’t you recollect? There was the man who came to ask +for change for a sovereign—” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the one,” said Solomon. +</p> + +<p> +“Why Uncle! don’t you call the woman anybody, who came to ask the +way to Mile-End Turnpike?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it’s true,” said Solomon, “I forgot her. Two +persons.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, they didn’t buy anything,” cried the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“No. They didn’t buy anything,” said Solomon, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor want anything,” cried the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“No. If they had, they’d gone to another shop,” said Solomon, +in the same tone. +</p> + +<p> +“But there were two of ’em, Uncle,” cried the boy, as if that +were a great triumph. “You said only one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Wally,” resumed the old man, after a short pause: “not +being like the Savages who came on Robinson Crusoe’s Island, we +can’t live on a man who asks for change for a sovereign, and a woman who +inquires the way to Mile-End Turnpike. As I said just now, the world has gone +past me. I don’t blame it; but I no longer understand it. Tradesmen are +not the same as they used to be, apprentices are not the same, business is not +the same, business commodities are not the same. Seven-eighths of my stock is +old-fashioned. I am an old-fashioned man in an old-fashioned shop, in a street +that is not the same as I remember it. I have fallen behind the time, and am +too old to catch it again. Even the noise it makes a long way ahead, confuses +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Walter was going to speak, but his Uncle held up his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Therefore, Wally—therefore it is that I am anxious you should be +early in the busy world, and on the world’s track. I am only the ghost of +this business—its substance vanished long ago; and when I die, its ghost +will be laid. As it is clearly no inheritance for you then, I have thought it +best to use for your advantage, almost the only fragment of the old connexion +that stands by me, through long habit. Some people suppose me to be wealthy. I +wish for your sake they were right. But whatever I leave behind me, or whatever +I can give you, you in such a House as Dombey’s are in the road to use +well and make the most of. Be diligent, try to like it, my dear boy, work for a +steady independence, and be happy!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do everything I can, Uncle, to deserve your affection. Indeed +I will,” said the boy, earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it,” said Solomon. “I am sure of it,” and he +applied himself to a second glass of the old Madeira, with increased relish. +“As to the Sea,” he pursued, “that’s well enough in +fiction, Wally, but it won’t do in fact: it won’t do at all. +It’s natural enough that you should think about it, associating it with +all these familiar things; but it won’t do, it won’t do.” +</p> + +<p> +Solomon Gills rubbed his hands with an air of stealthy enjoyment, as he talked +of the sea, though; and looked on the seafaring objects about him with +inexpressible complacency. +</p> + +<p> +“Think of this wine for instance,” said old Sol, “which has +been to the East Indies and back, I’m not able to say how often, and has +been once round the world. Think of the pitch-dark nights, the roaring winds, +and rolling seas:” +</p> + +<p> +“The thunder, lightning, rain, hail, storm of all kinds,” said the +boy. +</p> + +<p> +“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:” +</p> + +<p> +“What a clambering aloft of men, vying with each other who shall lie out +first upon the yards to furl the icy sails, while the ship rolls and pitches, +like mad!” cried his nephew. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly so,” said Solomon: “has gone on, over the old cask +that held this wine. Why, when the Charming Sally went down in +the—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, to be sure!” cried old Sol, “quite right! Then, there +were five hundred casks of such wine aboard; and all hands (except the first +mate, first lieutenant, two seamen, and a lady, in a leaky boat) going to work +to stave the casks, got drunk and died drunk, singing ‘Rule +Britannia’, when she settled and went down, and ending with one awful +scream in chorus.” +</p> + +<p> +“But when the George the Second drove ashore, Uncle, on the coast of +Cornwall, in a dismal gale, two hours before daybreak, on the fourth of March, +“seventy-one, she had near two hundred horses aboard; and the horses +breaking loose down below, early in the gale, and tearing to and fro, and +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 best men, +losing heart and head, went overboard in despair, and only two were left alive, +at last, to tell the tale.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when,” said old Sol, “when the Polyphemus—” +</p> + +<p> +“Private West India Trader, burden three hundred and fifty tons, Captain, +John Brown of Deptford. Owners, Wiggs and Co.,” cried Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“The same,” said Sol; “when she took fire, four days’ +sail with a fair wind out of Jamaica Harbour, in the night—” +</p> + +<p> +“There were two brothers on board,” interposed his nephew, speaking +very fast and loud, “and there not being room for both of them in the +only boat that wasn’t swamped, neither of them 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!” +</p> + +<p> +The kindling eye and heightened colour of the boy, who had risen from his seat +in the earnestness of what he said and felt, seemed to remind old Sol of +something he had forgotten, or that his encircling mist had hitherto shut out. +Instead of proceeding with any more anecdotes, as he had evidently intended but +a moment before, he gave a short dry cough, and said, “Well! suppose we +change the subject.” +</p> + +<p> +The truth was, that the simple-minded Uncle in his 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. +</p> + +<p> +But an addition to the little party now made its appearance, 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 +wine-glass 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 his 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. +</p> + +<p> +His face, remarkable for a brown solidity, brightened as he shook hands with +Uncle and nephew; but he seemed to be of a laconic disposition, and merely +said: +</p> + +<p> +“How goes it?” +</p> + +<p> +“All well,” said Mr Gills, pushing the bottle towards him. +</p> + +<p> +He took it up, and having surveyed and smelt it, said with extraordinary +expression: +</p> + +<p> +“The?” +</p> + +<p> +“The,” returned the Instrument-maker. +</p> + +<p> +Upon that he whistled as he filled his glass, and seemed to think they were +making holiday indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“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! Honour! And Obey! Overhaul your catechism till you find that passage, and +when found turn the leaf down. Success, my boy!” +</p> + +<p> +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 forgotten ’em these forty year. +</p> + +<p> +“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 language as some do.” +</p> + +<p> +The reflection perhaps reminded him that he had better, like young +Norval’s 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:— +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose he could make a clock if he tried?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t wonder, Captain Cuttle,” returned the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“And it would go!” said Captain Cuttle, making a species of serpent +in the air with his hook. “Lord, how that clock would go!” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment or two he seemed quite lost in contemplating the pace of this +ideal timepiece, and sat looking at the boy as if his face were the dial. +</p> + +<p> +“But he’s chock-full of science,” he observed, waving his +hook towards the stock-in-trade. “Look’ye here! Here’s a +collection of ’em. Earth, air, or water. It’s all one. Only say +where you’ll have it. Up in a balloon? There you are. Down in a bell? +There you are. D’ye want to put the North Star in a pair of scales and +weigh it? He’ll do it for you.” +</p> + +<p> +It may be gathered from these remarks that Captain Cuttle’s reverence for +the stock of instruments was profound, and that his philosophy knew little or +no distinction between trading in it and inventing it. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said, with a sigh, “it’s a fine thing to +understand ’em. And yet it’s a fine thing not to understand +’em. I hardly know which is best. It’s so comfortable to sit here +and feel that you might be weighed, measured, magnified, electrified, +polarized, played the very devil with: and never know how.” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing short of the wonderful Madeira, combined with the occasion (which +rendered it desirable to improve and expand Walter’s mind), could have +ever loosened his tongue to the extent of giving utterance to this prodigious +oration. He seemed quite amazed himself at the manner in which it opened up to +view the sources of the taciturn delight he had had in eating Sunday dinners in +that parlour for ten years. Becoming a sadder and a wiser man, he mused and +held his peace. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” cried the subject of this admiration, returning. +“Before you have your glass of grog, Ned, we must finish the +bottle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stand by!” said Ned, filling his glass. “Give the boy some +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more, thank’e, Uncle!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said Sol, “a little more. We’ll finish the +bottle, to the House, Ned—Walter’s House. Why it may be his House +one of these days, in part. Who knows? Sir Richard Whittington married his +master’s daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are +old you will never depart from it,’” interposed the Captain. +“Wal”r! Overhaul the book, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“And although Mr Dombey hasn’t a daughter,” Sol began. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, he has, Uncle,” said the boy, reddening and laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Has he?” cried the old man. “Indeed I think he has +too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I know he has,” said the boy. “Some of ’em were +talking about it in the office today. And they do say, Uncle and Captain +Cuttle,” lowering his voice, “that he’s taken a dislike to +her, and that she’s left, unnoticed, among the servants, and that his +mind’s so set all the while upon having his son in the House, that +although he’s only a baby now, he is going to have balances struck +oftener than formerly, and the books kept closer than they used to be, and has +even been seen (when he thought he wasn’t) walking in the Docks, looking +at his ships and property and all that, as if he was exulting like, over what +he and his son will possess together. That’s what they say. Of course, I +don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“He knows all about her already, you see,” said the +instrument-maker. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Uncle,” cried the boy, still reddening and laughing, +boy-like. “How can I help hearing what they tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“The son’s a little in our way at present, I’m afraid, +Ned,” said the old man, humouring the joke. +</p> + +<p> +“Very much,” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless, we’ll drink him,” pursued Sol. “So, +here’s to Dombey and Son.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well, Uncle,” said the boy, merrily. “Since you +have introduced the mention of her, and have connected me with her and have +said that I know all about her, I shall make bold to amend the toast. So +here’s to Dombey—and Son—and Daughter!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /> +Paul’s Progress and Christening</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ittle +Paul, suffering no contamination from the blood of the Toodles, grew stouter +and stronger every day. Every day, too, he was more and more ardently cherished +by Miss Tox, whose devotion was so far appreciated by Mr Dombey that he began +to regard her as a woman of great natural good sense, whose feelings did her +credit and deserved encouragement. He was so lavish of this condescension, that +he not only bowed to her, in a particular manner, on several occasions, but +even entrusted such stately recognitions of her to his sister as “pray +tell your friend, Louisa, that she is very good,” or “mention to +Miss Tox, Louisa, that I am obliged to her;” specialities which made a +deep impression on the lady thus distinguished. +</p> + +<p> +Whether Miss Tox conceived that having been selected by the Fates to welcome +the little Dombey before he was born, in Kirby, Beard and Kirby’s Best +Mixed Pins, it therefore naturally devolved upon her to greet him with all +other forms of welcome in all other early stages of his existence—or +whether her overflowing goodness induced her to volunteer into the domestic +militia as a substitute in some sort for his deceased Mama—or whether she +was conscious of any other motives—are questions which in this stage of +the Firm’s history herself only could have solved. Nor have they much +bearing on the fact (of which there is no doubt), that Miss Tox’s +constancy and zeal were a heavy discouragement to Richards, who lost flesh +hourly under her patronage, and was in some danger of being superintended to +death. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox was often in the habit of assuring Mrs Chick, that nothing could +exceed her interest in all connected with the development of that sweet child; +and an observer of Miss Tox’s proceedings might have inferred so much +without declaratory confirmation. She would preside over the innocent repasts +of the young heir, with ineffable satisfaction, almost with an air of joint +proprietorship with Richards in the entertainment. At the little ceremonies of +the bath and toilette, she assisted with enthusiasm. The administration of +infantine doses of physic awakened all the active sympathy of her character; +and being on one occasion secreted in a cupboard (whither she had fled in +modesty), when Mr Dombey was introduced into the nursery by his sister, to +behold his son, in the course of preparation for bed, taking a short walk +uphill over Richards’s gown, in a short and airy linen jacket, Miss Tox +was so transported beyond the ignorant present as to be unable to refrain from +crying out, “Is he not beautiful Mr Dombey! Is he not a Cupid, +Sir!” and then almost sinking behind the closet door with confusion and +blushes. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Let it be no detraction from the merits of Miss Tox, to hint that in Mr +Dombey’s eyes, as in some others that occasionally see the light, they +only achieved that mighty piece of knowledge, the understanding of their own +position, who showed a fitting reverence for his. It was not so much their +merit that they knew themselves, as that they knew him, and bowed low before +him. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” returned his sister, “you do Miss Tox but +justice, as a man of your penetration was sure, I knew, to do. I believe if +there are three words in the English language for which she has a respect +amounting almost to veneration, those words are, Dombey and Son.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr Dombey, “I believe it. It does Miss Tox +credit.” +</p> + +<p> +“And as to anything in the shape of a token, my dear Paul,” pursued +his sister, “all I can say is that anything you give Miss Tox will be +hoarded and prized, I am sure, like a relic. But there is a way, my dear Paul, +of showing your sense of Miss Tox’s friendliness in a still more +flattering and acceptable manner, if you should be so inclined.” +</p> + +<p> +“How is that?” asked Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Godfathers, of course,” continued Mrs Chick, “are important +in point of connexion and influence.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know why they should be, to my son,” said Mr Dombey, +coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Very true, my dear Paul,” retorted Mrs Chick, with an +extraordinary show of animation, to cover the suddenness of her conversion; +“and spoken like yourself. I might have expected nothing else from you. I +might have known that such would have been your opinion. Perhaps;” here +Mrs Chick faltered again, as not quite comfortably feeling her way; +“perhaps that is a reason why you might have the less objection to +allowing Miss Tox to be godmother to the dear thing, if it were only as deputy +and proxy for someone else. That it would be received as a great honour and +distinction, Paul, I need not say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Louisa,” said Mr Dombey, after a short pause, “it is not to +be supposed—” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” cried Mrs Chick, hastening to anticipate a +refusal, “I never thought it was.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey looked at her impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t flurry me, my dear Paul,” said his sister; “for +that destroys me. I am far from strong. I have not been quite myself, since +poor dear Fanny departed.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey glanced at the pocket-handkerchief which his sister applied to her +eyes, and resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“It is not be supposed, I say—” +</p> + +<p> +“And I say,” murmured Mrs Chick, “that I never thought it +was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heaven, Louisa!” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my dear Paul,” she remonstrated with tearful dignity, “I +must really be allowed to speak. I am not so clever, or so reasoning, or so +eloquent, or so anything, as you are. I know that very well. So much the worse +for me. But if they were the last words I had to utter—and last words +should be very solemn to you and me, Paul, after poor dear Fanny—I would +still say I never thought it was. And what is more,” added Mrs Chick with +increased dignity, as if she had withheld her crushing argument until now, +“I never did think it was.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey walked to the window and back again. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not to be supposed, Louisa,” he said (Mrs Chick had nailed +her colours to the mast, and repeated “I know it isn’t,” but +he took no notice of it), “but that there are many persons who, supposing +that I recognised any claim at all in such a case, have a claim upon me +superior to Miss Tox’s. But I do not. I recognise no such thing. Paul and +myself will be able, when the time comes, to hold our own—the House, in +other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain its own, and hand down +its own of itself, and without any such common-place aids. The kind of foreign +help which people usually seek for their children, I can afford to despise; +being above it, I hope. So that Paul’s infancy and childhood pass away +well, and I see him becoming qualified without waste of time for the career on +which he is destined to enter, I am satisfied. He will make what powerful +friends he pleases in after-life, when he is actively maintaining—and +extending, if that is possible—the dignity and credit of the Firm. Until +then, I am enough for him, perhaps, and all in all. I have no wish that people +should step in between us. I would much rather show my sense of the obliging +conduct of a deserving person like your friend. Therefore let it be so; and +your husband and myself will do well enough for the other sponsors, I +daresay.” +</p> + +<p> +In the course of these remarks, delivered with great majesty and grandeur, Mr +Dombey had truly revealed the secret feelings of his breast. An indescribable +distrust of anybody stepping in between himself and his son; a haughty dread of +having any rival or partner in the boy’s respect and deference; a sharp +misgiving, recently acquired, that he was not infallible in his power of +bending and binding human wills; as sharp a jealousy of any second check or +cross; these were, at that time the master keys of his soul. In all his life, +he had never made a friend. His cold and distant nature had neither sought one, +nor found one. And now, when that nature concentrated its whole force so +strongly on a partial scheme of parental interest and ambition, it seemed as if +its icy current, instead of being released by this influence, and running clear +and free, had thawed for but an instant to admit its burden, and then frozen +with it into one unyielding block. +</p> + +<p> +Elevated thus to the godmothership of little Paul, in virtue of her +insignificance, Miss Tox was from that hour chosen and appointed to office; and +Mr Dombey further signified his pleasure that the ceremony, already long +delayed, should take place without further postponement. His sister, who had +been far from anticipating so signal a success, withdrew as soon as she could, +to communicate it to her best of friends; and Mr Dombey was left alone in his +library. He had already laid his hand upon the bellrope to convey his usual +summons to Richards, when his eye fell upon a writing-desk, belonging to his +deceased wife, which had been taken, among other things, from a cabinet in her +chamber. It was not the first time that his eye had lighted on it He carried +the key in his pocket; and he brought it to his table and opened it +now—having previously locked the room door—with a well-accustomed +hand. +</p> + +<p> +From beneath a leaf of torn and cancelled scraps of paper, he took one letter +that remained entire. Involuntarily holding his breath as he opened this +document, and “bating in the stealthy action something of his arrogant +demeanour, he sat down, resting his head upon one hand, and read it through. +</p> + +<p> +He read it slowly and attentively, and with a nice particularity to every +syllable. Otherwise than as his great deliberation seemed unnatural, and +perhaps the result of an effort equally great, he allowed no sign of emotion to +escape him. When he had read it through, he folded and refolded it slowly +several times, and tore it carefully into fragments. Checking his hand in the +act of throwing these away, he put them in his pocket, as if unwilling to trust +them even to the chances of being re-united and deciphered; and instead of +ringing, as usual, for little Paul, he sat solitary, all the evening, in his +cheerless room. +</p> + +<p> +There was anything but solitude in the nursery; for there, Mrs Chick and Miss +Tox were enjoying a social evening, so much to the disgust of Miss Susan +Nipper, that that young lady embraced every opportunity of making wry faces +behind the door. Her feelings were so much excited on the occasion, that she +found it indispensable to afford them this relief, even without having the +comfort of any audience or sympathy whatever. As the knight-errants of old +relieved their minds by carving their mistress’s names in deserts, and +wildernesses, and other savage places where there was no probability of there +ever being anybody to read them, so did Miss Susan Nipper curl her snub nose +into drawers and wardrobes, put away winks of disparagement in cupboards, shed +derisive squints into stone pitchers, and contradict and call names out in the +passage. +</p> + +<p> +The two interlopers, however, blissfully unconscious of the young lady’s +sentiments, saw little Paul safe through all the stages of undressing, airy +exercise, supper and bed; and then sat down to tea before the fire. The two +children now lay, through the good offices of Polly, in one room; and it was +not until the ladies were established at their tea-table that, happening to +look towards the little beds, they thought of Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“How sound she sleeps!” said Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you know, my dear, she takes a great deal of exercise in the course +of the day,” returned Mrs Chick, “playing about little Paul so +much.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is a curious child,” said Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” retorted Mrs Chick, in a low voice: “Her Mama, all +over!” +</p> + +<p> +“In-deed!” said Miss Tox. “Ah dear me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Florence will never, never, never be a Dombey,” said Mrs Chick, +“not if she lives to be a thousand years old.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox elevated her eyebrows, and was again full of commiseration. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox looked as if she saw no way out of such a cogent argument as that, at +all. +</p> + +<p> +“And the child, you see,” said Mrs Chick, in deep confidence, +“has poor dear Fanny’s nature. She’ll never make an effort in +after-life, I’ll venture to say. Never! She’ll never wind and twine +herself about her Papa’s heart like—” +</p> + +<p> +“Like the ivy?” suggested Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Like the ivy,” Mrs Chick assented. “Never! She’ll +never glide and nestle into the bosom of her Papa’s affections +like—the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Startled fawn?” suggested Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Like the startled fawn,” said Mrs Chick. “Never! Poor Fanny! +Yet, how I loved her!” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not distress yourself, my dear,” said Miss Tox, in a +soothing voice. “Now really! You have too much feeling.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have all our faults,” said Mrs Chick, weeping and shaking her +head. “I daresay we have. I never was blind to hers. I never said I was. +Far from it. Yet how I loved her!” +</p> + +<p> +What a satisfaction it was to Mrs Chick—a common-place piece of folly +enough, compared with whom her sister-in-law had been a very angel of womanly +intelligence and gentleness—to patronise and be tender to the memory of +that lady: in exact pursuance of her conduct to her in her lifetime: and to +thoroughly believe herself, and take herself in, and make herself uncommonly +comfortable on the strength of her toleration! What a mighty pleasant virtue +toleration should be when we are right, to be so very pleasant when we are +wrong, and quite unable to demonstrate how we come to be invested with the +privilege of exercising it! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! dear nurse!” said the child, looking earnestly up in her face, +“let me lie by my brother!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my pet?” said Richards. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I think he loves me,” cried the child wildly. “Let me +lie by him. Pray do!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick interposed with some motherly words about going to sleep like a dear, +but Florence repeated her supplication, with a frightened look, and in a voice +broken by sobs and tears. +</p> + +<p> +“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 tonight, for I believe he’s +fond of me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor little thing,” said Miss Tox; “she has been dreaming, I +daresay.” +</p> + +<p> +Dreaming, perhaps, of loving tones for ever silent, of loving eyes for ever +closed, of loving arms again wound round her, and relaxing in that dream within +the dam which no tongue can relate. Seeking, perhaps—in dreams—some +natural comfort for a heart, deeply and sorely wounded, though so young a +child’s: and finding it, perhaps, in dreams, if not in waking, cold, +substantial truth. This trivial incident had so interrupted the current of +conversation, that it was difficult of resumption; and Mrs Chick moreover had +been so affected by the contemplation of her own tolerant nature, that she was +not in spirits. The two friends accordingly soon made an end of their tea, and +a servant was despatched to fetch a hackney cabriolet for Miss Tox. Miss Tox +had great experience in hackney cabs, and her starting in one was generally a +work of time, as she was systematic in the preparatory arrangements. +</p> + +<p> +“Have the goodness, if you please, Towlinson,” said Miss Tox, +“first of all, to carry out a pen and ink and take his number +legibly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss,” said Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss,” said Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll trouble you also, if you please, Towlinson,” said Miss +Tox, “with this card and this shilling. He’s to drive to the card, +and is to understand that he will not on any account have more than the +shilling.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Miss,” said Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +“And—I’m sorry to give you so much trouble, Towlinson,” +said Miss Tox, looking at him pensively. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Miss,” said Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Miss,” said Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +“And now good-night to my sweet, sweet, sweet, godson,” said Miss +Tox, with a soft shower of kisses at each repetition of the adjective; +“and Louisa, my dear friend, promise me to take a little something warm +before you go to bed, and not to distress yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +It was with extreme difficulty that Nipper, the black-eyed, who looked on +steadfastly, contained herself at this crisis, and until the subsequent +departure of Mrs Chick. But the nursery being at length free of visitors, she +made herself some recompense for her late restraint. +</p> + +<p> +“You might keep me in a strait-waistcoat for six weeks,” said +Nipper, “and when I got it off I’d only be more aggravated, who +ever heard the like of them two Griffins, Mrs Richards?” +</p> + +<p> +“And then to talk of having been dreaming, poor dear!” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh you beauties!” cried Susan Nipper, affecting to salute the door +by which the ladies had departed. “Never be a Dombey won’t she? +It’s to be hoped she won’t, we don’t want any more such, +one’s enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t wake the children, Susan dear,” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very much beholden to you, Mrs Richards,” said Susan, +who was not by any means discriminating in her wrath, “and really feel it +as a honour to receive your commands, being a black slave and a mulotter. Mrs +Richards, if there’s any other orders, you can give me, pray mention +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense; orders,” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! bless your heart, Mrs Richards,” cried Susan, +“temporaries always orders permanencies here, didn’t you know that, +why wherever was you born, Mrs Richards? But wherever you was born, Mrs +Richards,” pursued Spitfire, shaking her head resolutely, “and +whenever, and however (which is best known to yourself), you may bear in mind, +please, that it’s one thing to give orders, and quite another thing to +take ’em. A person may tell a person to dive off a bridge head foremost +into five-and-forty feet of water, Mrs Richards, but a person may be very far +from diving.” +</p> + +<p> +“There now,” said Polly, “you’re angry because +you’re a good little thing, and fond of Miss Florence; and yet you turn +round on me, because there’s nobody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very easy for some to keep their tempers, and be soft-spoken, +Mrs Richards,” returned Susan, slightly mollified, “when their +child’s made as much of as a prince, and is petted and patted till it +wishes its friends further, but when a sweet young pretty innocent, that never +ought to have a cross word spoken to or of it, is rundown, the case is very +different indeed. My goodness gracious me, Miss Floy, you naughty, sinful +child, if you don’t shut your eyes this minute, I’ll call in them +hobgoblins that lives in the cock-loft to come and eat you up alive!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Though little Paul was said, in nursery phrase, “to take a deal of notice +for his age,” he took as little notice of all this as of the preparations +for his christening on the next day but one; which nevertheless went on about +him, as to his personal apparel, and that of his sister and the two nurses, +with great activity. Neither did he, on the arrival of the appointed morning, +show any sense of its importance; being, on the contrary, unusually inclined to +sleep, and unusually inclined to take it ill in his attendants that they +dressed him to go out. +</p> + +<p> +It happened to be an iron-grey autumnal day, with a shrewd east wind +blowing—a day in keeping with the proceedings. Mr Dombey represented in +himself the wind, the shade, and the autumn of the christening. He stood in his +library to receive the company, as hard and cold as the weather; and when he +looked out through the glass room, at the trees in the little garden, their +brown and yellow leaves came fluttering down, as if he blighted them. +</p> + +<p> +Ugh! They were black, cold rooms; and seemed to be in mourning, like the +inmates of the house. The books precisely matched as to size, and drawn up in +line, like soldiers, looked in their cold, hard, slippery uniforms, as if they +had but one idea among them, and that was a freezer. The bookcase, glazed and +locked, repudiated all familiarities. Mr Pitt, in bronze, on the top, with no +trace of his celestial origin about him, guarded the unattainable treasure like +an enchanted Moor. A dusty urn at each high corner, dug up from an ancient +tomb, preached desolation and decay, as from two pulpits; and the +chimney-glass, reflecting Mr Dombey and his portrait at one blow, seemed +fraught with melancholy meditations. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” Mrs Chick murmured, as she embraced him, “the +beginning, I hope, of many joyful days!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Louisa,” said Mr Dombey, grimly. “How do you do, +Mr John?” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Sir?” said Chick. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, Louisa,” said Mr Dombey, slightly turning his head in his +cravat, as if it were a socket, “you would have preferred a fire?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my dear Paul, no,” said Mrs Chick, who had much ado to keep +her teeth from chattering; “not for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr John,” said Mr Dombey, “you are not sensible of any +chill?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr John, who had already got both his hands in his pockets over the wrists, and +was on the very threshold of that same canine chorus which had given Mrs Chick +so much offence on a former occasion, protested that he was perfectly +comfortable. +</p> + +<p> +He added in a low voice, “With my tiddle tol toor rul”—when +he was providentially stopped by Towlinson, who announced: +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Tox!” +</p> + +<p> +And enter that fair enslaver, with a blue nose and indescribably frosty face, +referable to her being very thinly clad in a maze of fluttering odds and ends, +to do honour to the ceremony. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Miss Tox?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox, in the midst of her spreading gauzes, went down altogether like an +opera-glass shutting-up; she curtseyed so low, in acknowledgment of Mr +Dombey’s advancing a step or two to meet her. +</p> + +<p> +“I can never forget this occasion, Sir,” said Miss Tox, softly. +“’Tis impossible. My dear Louisa, I can hardly believe the evidence +of my senses.” +</p> + +<p> +If Miss Tox could believe the evidence of one of her senses, it was a very cold +day. That was quite clear. She took an early opportunity of promoting the +circulation in the tip of her nose by secretly chafing it with her pocket +handkerchief, lest, by its very low temperature, it should disagreeably +astonish the baby when she came to kiss it. +</p> + +<p> +The baby soon appeared, carried in great glory by Richards; while Florence, in +custody of that active young constable, Susan Nipper, brought up the rear. +Though the whole nursery party were dressed by this time in lighter mourning +than at first, there was enough in the appearance of the bereaved children to +make the day no brighter. The baby too—it might have been Miss +Tox’s nose—began to cry. Thereby, as it happened, preventing Mr +Chick from the awkward fulfilment of a very honest purpose he had; which was, +to make much of Florence. For this gentleman, insensible to the superior claims +of a perfect Dombey (perhaps on account of having the honour to be united to a +Dombey himself, and being familiar with excellence), really liked her, and +showed that he liked her, and was about to show it in his own way now, when +Paul cried, and his helpmate stopped him short— +</p> + +<p> +“Now Florence, child!” said her aunt, briskly, “what are you +doing, love? Show yourself to him. Engage his attention, my dear!” +</p> + +<p> +The atmosphere became or might have become colder and colder, when Mr Dombey +stood frigidly watching his little daughter, who, clapping her hands, and +standing on tip-toe before the throne of his son and heir, lured him to bend +down from his high estate, and look at her. Some honest act of Richards’s +may have aided the effect, but he did look down, and held his peace. As his +sister hid behind her nurse, he followed her with his eyes; and when she peeped +out with a merry cry to him, he sprang up and crowed lustily—laughing +outright when she ran in upon him; and seeming to fondle her curls with his +tiny hands, while she smothered him with kisses. +</p> + +<p> +Was Mr Dombey pleased to see this? He testified no pleasure by the relaxation +of a nerve; but outward tokens of any kind of feeling were unusual with him. If +any sunbeam stole into the room to light the children at their play, it never +reached his face. He looked on so fixedly and coldly, that the warm light +vanished even from the laughing eyes of little Florence, when, at last, they +happened to meet his. +</p> + +<p> +It was a dull, grey, autumn day indeed, and in a minute’s pause and +silence that took place, the leaves fell sorrowfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr John,” said Mr Dombey, referring to his watch, and assuming his +hat and gloves. “Take my sister, if you please: my arm today is Miss +Tox’s. You had better go first with Master Paul, Richards. Be very +careful.” +</p> + +<p> +In Mr Dombey’s carriage, Dombey and Son, Miss Tox, Mrs Chick, Richards, +and Florence. In a little carriage following it, Susan Nipper and the owner Mr +Chick. Susan looking out of window, without intermission, as a relief from the +embarrassment of confronting the large face of that gentleman, and thinking +whenever anything rattled that he was putting up in paper an appropriate +pecuniary compliment for herself. +</p> + +<p> +Once upon the road to church, Mr Dombey clapped his hands for the amusement of +his son. At which instance of parental enthusiasm Miss Tox was enchanted. But +exclusive of this incident, the chief difference between the christening party +and a party in a mourning coach consisted in the colours of the carriage and +horses. +</p> + +<p> +Arrived at the church steps, they were received by a portentous beadle. Mr +Dombey dismounting first to help the ladies out, and standing near him at the +church door, looked like another beadle. A beadle less gorgeous but more +dreadful; the beadle of private life; the beadle of our business and our +bosoms. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox’s hand trembled as she slipped it through Mr Dombey’s arm, +and felt herself escorted up the steps, preceded by a cocked hat and a +Babylonian collar. It seemed for a moment like that other solemn institution, +“Wilt thou have this man, Lucretia?” “Yes, I will.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please to bring the child in quick out of the air there,” +whispered the beadle, holding open the inner door of the church. +</p> + +<p> +Little Paul might have asked with Hamlet “into my grave?” so chill +and earthy was the place. The tall, shrouded pulpit and reading desk; the +dreary perspective of empty pews stretching away under the galleries, and empty +benches mounting to the roof and lost in the shadow of the great grim organ; +the dusty matting and cold stone slabs; the grisly free seats in the aisles; +and the damp corner by the bell-rope, where the black trestles used for +funerals were stowed away, along with some shovels and baskets, and a coil or +two of deadly-looking rope; the strange, unusual, uncomfortable smell, and the +cadaverous light; were all in unison. It was a cold and dismal scene. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0066m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“There’s a wedding just on, Sir,” said the beadle, “but +it’ll be over directly, if you’ll walk into the westry here.” +</p> + +<p> +Before he turned again to lead the way, he gave Mr Dombey a bow and a half +smile of recognition, importing that he (the beadle) remembered to have had the +pleasure of attending on him when he buried his wife, and hoped he had enjoyed +himself since. +</p> + +<p> +The very wedding looked dismal as they passed in front of the altar. The bride +was too old and the bridegroom too young, and a superannuated beau with one eye +and an eyeglass stuck in its blank companion, was giving away the lady, while +the friends were shivering. In the vestry the fire was smoking; and an +over-aged and over-worked and under-paid attorney’s clerk, “making +a search,” was running his forefinger down the parchment pages of an +immense register (one of a long series of similar volumes) gorged with burials. +Over the fireplace was a ground-plan of the vaults underneath the church; and +Mr Chick, skimming the literary portion of it aloud, by way of enlivening the +company, read the reference to Mrs Dombey’s tomb in full, before he could +stop himself. +</p> + +<p> +After another cold interval, a wheezy little pew-opener afflicted with an +asthma, appropriate to the churchyard, if not to the church, summoned them to +the font—a rigid marble basin which seemed to have been playing a +churchyard game at cup and ball with its matter of fact pedestal, and to have +been just that moment caught on the top of it. Here they waited some little +time while the marriage party enrolled themselves; and meanwhile the wheezy +little pew-opener—partly in consequence of her infirmity, and partly that +the marriage party might not forget her—went about the building coughing +like a grampus. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the clerk (the only cheerful-looking object there, and he was an +undertaker) came up with a jug of warm water, and said something, as he poured +it into the font, about taking the chill off; which millions of gallons boiling +hot could not have done for the occasion. Then the clergyman, an amiable and +mild-looking young curate, but obviously afraid of the baby, appeared like the +principal character in a ghost-story, “a tall figure all in white;” +at sight of whom Paul rent the air with his cries, and never left off again +till he was taken out black in the face. +</p> + +<p> +Even when that event had happened, to the great relief of everybody, he was +heard under the portico, during the rest of the ceremony, now fainter, now +louder, now hushed, now bursting forth again with an irrepressible sense of his +wrongs. This so distracted the attention of the two ladies, that Mrs Chick was +constantly deploying into the centre aisle, to send out messages by the +pew-opener, while Miss Tox kept her Prayer-book open at the Gunpowder Plot, and +occasionally read responses from that service. +</p> + +<p> +During the whole of these proceedings, Mr Dombey remained as impassive and +gentlemanly as ever, and perhaps assisted in making it so cold, that the young +curate smoked at the mouth as he read. The only time that he unbent his visage +in the least, was when the clergyman, in delivering (very unaffectedly and +simply) the closing exhortation, relative to the future examination of the +child by the sponsors, happened to rest his eye on Mr Chick; and then Mr Dombey +might have been seen to express by a majestic look, that he would like to catch +him at it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When it was all over, he again gave his arm to Miss Tox, and conducted her to +the vestry, where he informed the clergyman how much pleasure it would have +given him to have solicited the honour of his company at dinner, but for the +unfortunate state of his household affairs. The register signed, and the fees +paid, and the pew-opener (whose cough was very bad again) remembered, and the +beadle gratified, and the sexton (who was accidentally on the doorsteps, +looking with great interest at the weather) not forgotten, they got into the +carriage again, and drove home in the same bleak fellowship. +</p> + +<p> +There they found Mr Pitt turning up his nose at a cold collation, set forth in +a cold pomp of glass and silver, and looking more like a dead dinner lying in +state than a social refreshment. On their arrival Miss Tox produced a mug for +her godson, and Mr Chick a knife and fork and spoon in a case. Mr Dombey also +produced a bracelet for Miss Tox; and, on the receipt of this token, Miss Tox +was tenderly affected. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr John,” said Mr Dombey, “will you take the bottom of the +table, if you please? What have you got there, Mr John?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“This,” returned Mr Dombey, “is some cold preparation of +calf’s head, I think. I see cold +fowls—ham—patties—salad—lobster. Miss Tox will do me +the honour of taking some wine? Champagne to Miss Tox.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a toothache in everything. The wine was so bitter cold that it forced +a little scream from Miss Tox, which she had great difficulty in turning into a +“Hem!” The veal had come from such an airy pantry, that the first +taste of it had struck a sensation as of cold lead to Mr Chick’s +extremities. Mr Dombey alone remained unmoved. He might have been hung up for +sale at a Russian fair as a specimen of a frozen gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir,” said Mr Chick, making a desperate plunge, after a long +silence, and filling a glass of sherry; “I shall drink this, if +you’ll allow me, Sir, to little Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless him!” murmured Miss Tox, taking a sip of wine. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear little Dombey!” murmured Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr John,” said Mr Dombey, with severe gravity, “my son would +feel and express himself obliged to you, I have no doubt, if he could +appreciate the favour you have done him. He will prove, in time to come, I +trust, equal to any responsibility that the obliging disposition of his +relations and friends, in private, or the onerous nature of our position, in +public, may impose upon him.” +</p> + +<p> +The tone in which this was said admitting of nothing more, Mr Chick relapsed +into low spirits and silence. Not so Miss Tox, who, having listened to Mr +Dombey with even a more emphatic attention than usual, and with a more +expressive tendency of her head to one side, now leant across the table, and +said to Mrs Chick softly: +</p> + +<p> +“Louisa!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“Onerous nature of our position in public may—I have forgotten the +exact term.” +</p> + +<p> +“Expose him to,” said Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, my dear,” returned Miss Tox, “I think not. It was +more rounded and flowing. Obliging disposition of relations and friends in +private, or onerous nature of position in public—may—impose upon +him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Impose upon him, to be sure,” said Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox struck her delicate hands together lightly, in triumph; and added, +casting up her eyes, “eloquence indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, in the meanwhile, had issued orders for the attendance of Richards, +who now entered curtseying, but without the baby; Paul being asleep after the +fatigues of the morning. Mr Dombey, having delivered a glass of wine to this +vassal, addressed her in the following words: Miss Tox previously settling her +head on one side, and making other little arrangements for engraving them on +her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“During the six months or so, Richards, which have seen you an inmate of +this house, you have done your duty. Desiring to connect some little service to +you with this occasion, I considered how I could best effect that object, and I +also advised with my sister, Mrs—” +</p> + +<p> +“Chick,” interposed the gentleman of that name. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hush if you please!” said Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“I was about to say to you, Richards,” resumed Mr Dombey, with an +appalling glance at Mr John, “that I was further assisted in my decision, +by the recollection of a conversation I held with your husband in this room, on +the occasion of your being hired, when he disclosed to me the melancholy fact +that your family, himself at the head, were sunk and steeped in +ignorance.” +</p> + +<p> +Richards quailed under the magnificence of the reproof. +</p> + +<p> +“I am far from being friendly,” pursued Mr Dombey, “to what +is called by persons of levelling sentiments, general education. But it is +necessary that the inferior classes should continue to be taught to know their +position, and to conduct themselves properly. So far I approve of schools. +Having the power of nominating a child on the foundation of an ancient +establishment, called (from a worshipful company) the Charitable Grinders; +where not only is a wholesome education bestowed upon the scholars, but where a +dress and badge is likewise provided for them; I have (first communicating, +through Mrs Chick, with your family) nominated your eldest son to an existing +vacancy; and he has this day, I am informed, assumed the habit. The number of +her son, I believe,” said Mr Dombey, turning to his sister and speaking +of the child as if he were a hackney-coach, is one hundred and forty-seven. +Louisa, you can tell her.” +</p> + +<p> +“One hundred and forty-seven,” said Mrs Chick “The dress, +Richards, is a nice, warm, blue baize tailed coat and cap, turned up with +orange coloured binding; red worsted stockings; and very strong leather +small-clothes. One might wear the articles one’s self,” said Mrs +Chick, with enthusiasm, “and be grateful.” +</p> + +<p> +“There, Richards!” said Miss Tox. “Now, indeed, you may be +proud. The Charitable Grinders!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad to see you have so much feeling, Richards,” said +Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Richards deferred to these compliments by curtseying and murmuring her thanks; +but finding it quite impossible to recover her spirits from the disorder into +which they had been thrown by the image of her son in his precocious nether +garments, she gradually approached the door and was heartily relieved to escape +by it. +</p> + +<p> +Such temporary indications of a partial thaw that had appeared with her, +vanished with her; and the frost set in again, as cold and hard as ever. Mr +Chick was twice heard to hum a tune at the bottom of the table, but on both +occasions it was a fragment of the Dead March in Saul. The party seemed to get +colder and colder, and to be gradually resolving itself into a congealed and +solid state, like the collation round which it was assembled. At length Mrs +Chick looked at Miss Tox, and Miss Tox returned the look, and they both rose +and said it was really time to go. Mr Dombey receiving this announcement with +perfect equanimity, they took leave of that gentleman, and presently departed +under the protection of Mr Chick; who, when they had turned their backs upon +the house and left its master in his usual solitary state, put his hands in his +pockets, threw himself back in the carriage, and whistled “With a hey ho +chevy!” all through; conveying into his face as he did so, an expression +of such gloomy and terrible defiance, that Mrs Chick dared not protest, or in +any way molest him. +</p> + +<p> +Richards, though she had little Paul on her lap, could not forget her own +first-born. She felt it was ungrateful; but the influence of the day fell even +on the Charitable Grinders, and she could hardly help regarding his pewter +badge, number one hundred and forty-seven, as, somehow, a part of its formality +and sternness. She spoke, too, in the nursery, of his “blessed +legs,” and was again troubled by his spectre in uniform. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what I wouldn’t give,” said Polly, +“to see the poor little dear before he gets used to ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then, I tell you what, Mrs Richards,” retorted Nipper, who +had been admitted to her confidence, “see him and make your mind +easy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey wouldn’t like it,” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, wouldn’t he, Mrs Richards!” retorted Nipper, +“he’d like it very much, I think when he was asked.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t ask him, I suppose, at all?” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mrs Richards, quite contrairy,” returned Susan, “and +them two inspectors Tox and Chick, not intending to be on duty tomorrow, as I +heard ’em say, me and Miss Floy will go along with you tomorrow morning, +and welcome, Mrs Richards, if you like, for we may as well walk there as up and +down a street, and better too.” +</p> + +<p> +Polly rejected the idea pretty stoutly at first; but by little and little she +began to entertain it, as she entertained more and more distinctly the +forbidden pictures of her children, and her own home. At length, arguing that +there could be no great harm in calling for a moment at the door, she yielded +to the Nipper proposition. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter with the child?” asked Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s cold, I think,” said Polly, walking with him to and +fro, and hushing him. +</p> + +<p> +It was a bleak autumnal afternoon indeed; and as she walked, and hushed, and, +glancing through the dreary windows, pressed the little fellow closer to her +breast, the withered leaves came showering down. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /> +Paul’s Second Deprivation</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>olly +was beset by so many misgivings in the morning, that but for the incessant +promptings of her black-eyed companion, she would have abandoned all thoughts +of the expedition, and formally petitioned for leave to see number one hundred +and forty-seven, under the awful shadow of Mr Dombey’s roof. But Susan +who was personally disposed in favour of the excursion, and who (like Tony +Lumpkin), if she could bear the disappointments of other people with tolerable +fortitude, could not abide to disappoint herself, threw so many ingenious +doubts in the way of this second thought, and stimulated the original intention +with so many ingenious arguments, that almost as soon as Mr Dombey’s +stately back was turned, and that gentleman was pursuing his daily road towards +the City, his unconscious son was on his way to Staggs’s Gardens. +</p> + +<p> +This euphonious locality was situated in a suburb, known by the inhabitants of +Staggs’s Gardens by the name of Camberling Town; a designation which the +Strangers’ Map of London, as printed (with a view to pleasant and +commodious reference) on pocket handkerchiefs, condenses, with some show of +reason, into Camden Town. Hither the two nurses bent their steps, accompanied +by their charges; Richards carrying Paul, of course, and Susan leading little +Florence by the hand, and giving her such jerks and pokes from time to time, as +she considered it wholesome to administer. +</p> + +<p> +The first shock of a great earthquake had, just at that period, rent the whole +neighbourhood to its centre. Traces of its course were visible on every side. +Houses were knocked down; streets broken through and stopped; deep pits and +trenches dug in the ground; enormous heaps of earth and clay thrown up; +buildings that were undermined and shaking, propped by great beams of wood. +Here, a chaos of carts, overthrown and jumbled together, lay topsy-turvy at the +bottom of a steep unnatural hill; there, confused treasures of iron soaked and +rusted in something that had accidentally become a pond. Everywhere were +bridges that led nowhere; thoroughfares that were wholly impassable; Babel +towers of chimneys, wanting half their height; temporary wooden houses and +enclosures, in the most unlikely situations; carcases of ragged tenements, and +fragments of unfinished walls and arches, and piles of scaffolding, and +wildernesses of bricks, and giant forms of cranes, and tripods straddling above +nothing. There were a hundred thousand shapes and substances of incompleteness, +wildly mingled out of their places, upside down, burrowing in the earth, +aspiring in the air, mouldering in the water, and unintelligible as any dream. +Hot springs and fiery eruptions, the usual attendants upon earthquakes, lent +their contributions of confusion to the scene. Boiling water hissed and heaved +within dilapidated walls; whence, also, the glare and roar of flames came +issuing forth; and mounds of ashes blocked up rights of way, and wholly changed +the law and custom of the neighbourhood. +</p> + +<p> +In short, the yet unfinished and unopened Railroad was in progress; and, from +the very core of all this dire disorder, trailed smoothly away, upon its mighty +course of civilisation and improvement. +</p> + +<p> +But as yet, the neighbourhood was shy to own the Railroad. One or two bold +speculators had projected streets; and one had built a little, but had stopped +among the mud and ashes to consider farther of it. A bran-new Tavern, redolent +of fresh mortar and size, and fronting nothing at all, had taken for its sign +The Railway Arms; but that might be rash enterprise—and then it hoped to +sell drink to the workmen. So, the Excavators’ House of Call had sprung +up from a beer-shop; and the old-established Ham and Beef Shop had become the +Railway Eating House, with a roast leg of pork daily, through interested +motives of a similar immediate and popular description. Lodging-house keepers +were favourable in like manner; and for the like reasons were not to be +trusted. The general belief was very slow. There were frowzy fields, and +cow-houses, and dunghills, and dustheaps, and ditches, and gardens, and +summer-houses, and carpet-beating grounds, at the very door of the Railway. +Little tumuli of oyster shells in the oyster season, and of lobster shells in +the lobster season, and of broken crockery and faded cabbage leaves in all +seasons, encroached upon its high places. Posts, and rails, and old cautions to +trespassers, and backs of mean houses, and patches of wretched vegetation, +stared it out of countenance. Nothing was the better for it, or thought of +being so. If the miserable waste ground lying near it could have laughed, it +would have laughed it to scorn, like many of the miserable neighbours. +</p> + +<p> +Staggs’s Gardens was uncommonly incredulous. It was a little row of +houses, with little squalid patches of ground before them, fenced off with old +doors, barrel staves, scraps of tarpaulin, and dead bushes; with bottomless tin +kettles and exhausted iron fenders, thrust into the gaps. Here, the +Staggs’s Gardeners trained scarlet beans, kept fowls and rabbits, erected +rotten summer-houses (one was an old boat), dried clothes, and smoked pipes. +Some were of opinion that Staggs’s Gardens derived its name from a +deceased capitalist, one Mr Staggs, who had built it for his delectation. +Others, who had a natural taste for the country, held that it dated from those +rural times when the antlered herd, under the familiar denomination of +Staggses, had resorted to its shady precincts. Be this as it may, +Staggs’s Gardens was regarded by its population as a sacred grove not to +be withered by Railroads; and so confident were they generally of its long +outliving any such ridiculous inventions, that the master chimney-sweeper at +the corner, who was understood to take the lead in the local politics of the +Gardens, had publicly declared that on the occasion of the Railroad opening, if +ever it did open, two of his boys should ascend the flues of his dwelling, with +instructions to hail the failure with derisive cheers from the chimney-pots. +</p> + +<p> +To this unhallowed spot, the very name of which had hitherto been carefully +concealed from Mr Dombey by his sister, was little Paul now borne by Fate and +Richards +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my house, Susan,” said Polly, pointing it out. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it, indeed, Mrs Richards?” said Susan, condescendingly. +</p> + +<p> +“And there’s my sister Jemima at the door, I do declare” +cried Polly, “with my own sweet precious baby in her arms!” +</p> + +<p> +The sight added such an extensive pair of wings to Polly’s impatience, +that she set off down the Gardens at a run, and bouncing on Jemima, changed +babies with her in a twinkling; to the unutterable astonishment of that young +damsel, on whom the heir of the Dombeys seemed to have fallen from the clouds. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +That they did, if one might judge from the noise they made, and the way in +which they dashed at Polly and dragged her to a low chair in the chimney +corner, where her own honest apple face became immediately the centre of a +bunch of smaller pippins, all laying their rosy cheeks close to it, and all +evidently the growth of the same tree. As to Polly, she was full as noisy and +vehement as the children; and it was not until she was quite out of breath, and +her hair was hanging all about her flushed face, and her new christening attire +was very much dishevelled, that any pause took place in the confusion. Even +then, the smallest Toodle but one remained in her lap, holding on tight with +both arms round her neck; while the smallest Toodle but two mounted on the back +of the chair, and made desperate efforts, with one leg in the air, to kiss her +round the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Look! there’s a pretty little lady come to see you,” said +Polly; “and see how quiet she is! what a beautiful little lady, +ain’t she?” +</p> + +<p> +This reference to Florence, who had been standing by the door not unobservant +of what passed, directed the attention of the younger branches towards her; and +had likewise the happy effect of leading to the formal recognition of Miss +Nipper, who was not quite free from a misgiving that she had been already +slighted. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh do come in and sit down a minute, Susan, please,” said Polly. +“This is my sister Jemima, this is. Jemima, I don’t know what I +should ever do with myself, if it wasn’t for Susan Nipper; I +shouldn’t be here now but for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh do sit down, Miss Nipper, if you please,” quoth Jemima. +</p> + +<p> +Susan took the extreme corner of a chair, with a stately and ceremonious +aspect. +</p> + +<p> +“I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life; now really I never +was, Miss Nipper,” said Jemima. +</p> + +<p> +Susan relaxing, took a little more of the chair, and smiled graciously. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The black-eyed was so softened by this deferential behaviour, that she caught +up little Miss Toodle who was running past, and took her to Banbury Cross +immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“But where’s my pretty boy?” said Polly. “My poor +fellow? I came all this way to see him in his new clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah what a pity!” cried Jemima. “He’ll break his heart, +when he hears his mother has been here. He’s at school, Polly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone already!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. He went for the first time yesterday, for fear he should lose any +learning. But it’s half-holiday, Polly: if you could only stop till he +comes home—you and Miss Nipper, leastways,” said Jemima, mindful in +good time of the dignity of the black-eyed. +</p> + +<p> +“And how does he look, Jemima, bless him!” faltered Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, really he don’t look so bad as you’d suppose,” +returned Jemima. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Polly, with emotion, “I knew his legs must be too +short.” +</p> + +<p> +“His legs is short,” returned Jemima; “especially behind; but +they’ll get longer, Polly, every day.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a slow, prospective kind of consolation; but the cheerfulness and good +nature with which it was administered, gave it a value it did not intrinsically +possess. After a moment’s silence, Polly asked, in a more sprightly +manner: +</p> + +<p> +“And where’s Father, Jemima dear?”—for by that +patriarchal appellation, Mr Toodle was generally known in the family. +</p> + +<p> +“There again!” said Jemima. “What a pity! Father took his +dinner with him this morning, and isn’t coming home till night. But +he’s always talking of you, Polly, and telling the children about you; +and is the peaceablest, patientest, best-temperedest soul in the world, as he +always was and will be!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thankee, Jemima,” cried the simple Polly; delighted by the speech, +and disappointed by the absence. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh you needn’t thank me, Polly,” said her sister, giving her +a sounding kiss upon the cheek, and then dancing little Paul cheerfully. +“I say the same of you sometimes, and think it too.” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of the double disappointment, it was impossible to regard in the light +of a failure a visit which was greeted with such a reception; so the sisters +talked hopefully about family matters, and about Biler, and about all his +brothers and sisters: while the black-eyed, having performed several journeys +to Banbury Cross and back, took sharp note of the furniture, the Dutch clock, +the cupboard, the castle on the mantel-piece with red and green windows in it, +susceptible of illumination by a candle-end within; and the pair of small black +velvet kittens, each with a lady’s reticule in its mouth; regarded by the +Staggs’s Gardeners as prodigies of imitative art. The conversation soon +becoming general lest the black-eyed should go off at score and turn sarcastic, +that young lady related to Jemima a summary of everything she knew concerning +Mr Dombey, his prospects, family, pursuits, and character. Also an exact +inventory of her personal wardrobe, and some account of her principal relations +and friends. Having relieved her mind of these disclosures, she partook of +shrimps and porter, and evinced a disposition to swear eternal friendship. +</p> + +<p> +Little Florence herself was not behind-hand in improving the occasion; for, +being conducted forth by the young Toodles to inspect some toad-stools and +other curiosities of the Gardens, she entered with them, heart and soul, on the +formation of a temporary breakwater across a small green pool that had +collected in a corner. She was still busily engaged in that labour, when sought +and found by Susan; who, such was her sense of duty, even under the humanizing +influence of shrimps, delivered a moral address to her (punctuated with thumps) +on her degenerate nature, while washing her face and hands; and predicted that +she would bring the grey hairs of her family in general, with sorrow to the +grave. After some delay, occasioned by a pretty long confidential interview +above stairs on pecuniary subjects, between Polly and Jemima, an interchange of +babies was again effected—for Polly had all this time retained her own +child, and Jemima little Paul—and the visitors took leave. +</p> + +<p> +But first the young Toodles, victims of a pious fraud, were deluded into +repairing in a body to a chandler’s shop in the neighbourhood, for the +ostensible purpose of spending a penny; and when the coast was quite clear, +Polly fled: Jemima calling after her that if they could only go round towards +the City Road on their way back, they would be sure to meet little Biler coming +from school. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not, Mrs Richards?” returned Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s getting on towards our dinner time you know,” said +Polly. +</p> + +<p> +But lunch had rendered her companion more than indifferent to this grave +consideration, so she allowed no weight to it, and they resolved to go “a +little round.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, it happened that poor Biler’s life had been, since yesterday +morning, rendered weary by the costume of the Charitable Grinders. The youth of +the streets could not endure it. No young vagabond could be brought to bear its +contemplation for a moment, without throwing himself upon the unoffending +wearer, and doing him a mischief. His social existence had been more like that +of an early Christian, than an innocent child of the nineteenth century. He had +been stoned in the streets. He had been overthrown into gutters; bespattered +with mud; violently flattened against posts. Entire strangers to his person had +lifted his yellow cap off his head, and cast it to the winds. His legs had not +only undergone verbal criticisms and revilings, but had been handled and +pinched. That very morning, he had received a perfectly unsolicited black eye +on his way to the Grinders’ establishment, and had been punished for it +by the master: a superannuated old Grinder of savage disposition, who had been +appointed schoolmaster because he didn’t know anything, and wasn’t +fit for anything, and for whose cruel cane all chubby little boys had a perfect +fascination. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it fell out that Biler, on his way home, sought unfrequented paths; and +slunk along by narrow passages and back streets, to avoid his tormentors. Being +compelled to emerge into the main road, his ill fortune brought him at last +where a small party of boys, headed by a ferocious young butcher, were lying in +wait for any means of pleasurable excitement that might happen. These, finding +a Charitable Grinder in the midst of them—unaccountably delivered over, +as it were, into their hands—set up a general yell and rushed upon him. +</p> + +<p> +But it so fell out likewise, that, at the same time, Polly, looking hopelessly +along the road before her, after a good hour’s walk, had said it was no +use going any further, when suddenly she saw this sight. She no sooner saw it +than, uttering a hasty exclamation, and giving Master Dombey to the black-eyed, +she started to the rescue of her unhappy little son. +</p> + +<p> +Surprises, like misfortunes, rarely come alone. The astonished Susan Nipper and +her two young charges were rescued by the bystanders from under the very wheels +of a passing carriage before they knew what had happened; and at that moment +(it was market day) a thundering alarm of “Mad Bull!” was raised. +</p> + +<p> +With a wild confusion before her, of people running up and down, and shouting, +and wheels running over them, and boys fighting, and mad bulls coming up, and +the nurse in the midst of all these dangers being torn to pieces, Florence +screamed and ran. She ran till she was exhausted, urging Susan to do the same; +and then, stopping and wringing her hands as she remembered they had left the +other nurse behind, found, with a sensation of terror not to be described, that +she was quite alone. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0079m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“Susan! Susan!” cried Florence, clapping her hands in the very +ecstasy of her alarm. “Oh, where are they? where are they?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are they?” said an old woman, coming hobbling across as fast +as she could from the opposite side of the way. “Why did you run away +from ’em?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was frightened,” answered Florence. “I didn’t know +what I did. I thought they were with me. Where are they?” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman took her by the wrist, and said, “I’ll show +you.” +</p> + +<p> +She was a very ugly old woman, with red rims round her eyes, and a mouth that +mumbled and chattered of itself when she was not speaking. She was miserably +dressed, and carried some skins over her arm. She seemed to have followed +Florence some little way at all events, for she had lost her breath; and this +made her uglier still, as she stood trying to regain it: working her shrivelled +yellow face and throat into all sorts of contortions. +</p> + +<p> +Florence was afraid of her, and looked, hesitating, up the street, of which she +had almost reached the bottom. It was a solitary place—more a back road +than a street—and there was no one in it but her-self and the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t be frightened now,” said the old woman, still +holding her tight. “Come along with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I don’t know you. What’s your name?” asked +Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Brown,” said the old woman. “Good Mrs Brown.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are they near here?” asked Florence, beginning to be led away. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan ain’t far off,” said Good Mrs Brown; “and the +others are close to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is anybody hurt?” cried Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit of it,” said Good Mrs Brown. +</p> + +<p> +The child shed tears of delight on hearing this, and accompanied the old woman +willingly; though she could not help glancing at her face as they went +along—particularly at that industrious mouth—and wondering whether +Bad Mrs Brown, if there were such a person, was at all like her. +</p> + +<p> +They had not gone far, but had gone by some very uncomfortable places, such as +brick-fields and tile-yards, when the old woman turned down a dirty lane, where +the mud lay in deep black ruts in the middle of the road. She stopped before a +shabby little house, as closely shut up as a house that was full of cracks and +crevices could be. Opening the door with a key she took out of her bonnet, she +pushed the child before her into a back room, where there was a great heap of +rags of different colours lying on the floor; a heap of bones, and a heap of +sifted dust or cinders; but there was no furniture at all, and the walls and +ceiling were quite black. +</p> + +<p> +The child became so terrified the she was stricken speechless, and looked as +though about to swoon. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence obeyed her, holding out her folded hands, in mute supplication. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not a going to keep you, even, above an hour,” said Mrs +Brown. “D’ye understand what I say?” +</p> + +<p> +The child answered with great difficulty, “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said Good Mrs Brown, taking her own seat on the bones, +“don’t vex me. If you don’t, I tell you I won’t hurt +you. But if you do, I’ll kill you. I could have you killed at any +time—even if you was in your own bed at home. Now let’s know who +you are, and what you are, and all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So your name’s Dombey, eh?” said Mrs Brown. +</p> + +<p> +“I want that pretty frock, Miss Dombey,” said Good Mrs Brown, +“and that little bonnet, and a petticoat or two, and anything else you +can spare. Come! Take ’em off.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence obeyed, as fast as her trembling hands would allow; keeping, all the +while, a frightened eye on Mrs Brown. When she had divested herself of all the +articles of apparel mentioned by that lady, Mrs B. examined them at leisure, +and seemed tolerably well satisfied with their quality and value. +</p> + +<p> +“Humph!” she said, running her eyes over the child’s slight +figure, “I don’t see anything else—except the shoes. I must +have the shoes, Miss Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor little Florence took them off with equal alacrity, only too glad to have +any more means of conciliation about her. The old woman then produced some +wretched substitutes from the bottom of the heap of rags, which she turned up +for that purpose; together with a girl’s cloak, quite worn out and very +old; and the crushed remains of a bonnet that had probably been picked up from +some ditch or dunghill. In this dainty raiment, she instructed Florence to +dress herself; and as such preparation seemed a prelude to her release, the +child complied with increased readiness, if possible. +</p> + +<p> +In hurriedly putting on the bonnet, if that may be called a bonnet which was +more like a pad to carry loads on, she caught it in her hair which grew +luxuriantly, and could not immediately disentangle it. Good Mrs Brown whipped +out a large pair of scissors, and fell into an unaccountable state of +excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Why couldn’t you let me be!” said Mrs Brown, “when I +was contented? You little fool!” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon. I don’t know what I have done,” panted +Florence. “I couldn’t help it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t help it!” cried Mrs Brown. “How do you expect +I can help it? Why, Lord!” said the old woman, ruffling her curls with a +furious pleasure, “anybody but me would have had ’em off, first of +all.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence was so relieved to find that it was only her hair and not her head +which Mrs Brown coveted, that she offered no resistance or entreaty, and merely +raised her mild eyes towards the face of that good soul. +</p> + +<p> +“If I hadn’t once had a gal of my own—beyond seas +now—that was proud of her hair,” said Mrs Brown, “I’d +have had every lock of it. She’s far away, she’s far away! Oho! +Oho!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Brown’s was not a melodious cry, but, accompanied with a wild tossing +up of her lean arms, it was full of passionate grief, and thrilled to the heart +of Florence, whom it frightened more than ever. It had its part, perhaps, in +saving her curls; for Mrs Brown, after hovering about her with the scissors for +some moments, like a new kind of butterfly, bade her hide them under the bonnet +and let no trace of them escape to tempt her. Having accomplished this victory +over herself, Mrs Brown resumed her seat on the bones, and smoked a very short +black pipe, mowing and mumbling all the time, as if she were eating the stem. +</p> + +<p> +When the pipe was smoked out, she gave the child a rabbit-skin to carry, that +she might appear the more like her ordinary companion, and told her that she +was now going to lead her to a public street whence she could inquire her way +to her friends. But she cautioned her, with threats of summary and deadly +vengeance in case of disobedience, not to talk to strangers, nor to repair to +her own home (which may have been too near for Mrs Brown’s convenience), +but to her father’s office in the City; also to wait at the street corner +where she would be left, until the clock struck three. These directions Mrs +Brown enforced with assurances that there would be potent eyes and ears in her +employment cognizant of all she did; and these directions Florence promised +faithfully and earnestly to observe. +</p> + +<p> +At length, Mrs Brown, issuing forth, conducted her changed and ragged little +friend through a labyrinth of narrow streets and lanes and alleys, which +emerged, after a long time, upon a stable yard, with a gateway at the end, +whence the roar of a great thoroughfare made itself audible. Pointing out this +gateway, and informing Florence that when the clocks struck three she was to go +to the left, Mrs Brown, after making a parting grasp at her hair which seemed +involuntary and quite beyond her own control, told her she knew what to do, and +bade her go and do it: remembering that she was watched. +</p> + +<p> +With a lighter heart, but still sore afraid, Florence felt herself released, +and tripped off to the corner. When she reached it, she looked back and saw the +head of Good Mrs Brown peeping out of the low wooden passage, where she had +issued her parting injunctions; likewise the fist of Good Mrs Brown shaking +towards her. But though she often looked back afterwards—every minute, at +least, in her nervous recollection of the old woman—she could not see her +again. +</p> + +<p> +Florence remained there, looking at the bustle in the street, and more and more +bewildered by it; and in the meanwhile the clocks appeared to have made up +their minds never to strike three any more. At last the steeples rang out three +o’clock; there was one close by, so she couldn’t be mistaken; +and—after often looking over her shoulder, and often going a little way, +and as often coming back again, lest the all-powerful spies of Mrs Brown should +take offence—she hurried off, as fast as she could in her slipshod shoes, +holding the rabbit-skin tight in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +All she knew of her father’s offices was that they belonged to Dombey and +Son, and that that was a great power belonging to the City. So she could only +ask the way to Dombey and Son’s in the City; and as she generally made +inquiry of children—being afraid to ask grown people—she got very +little satisfaction indeed. But by dint of asking her way to the City after a +while, and dropping the rest of her inquiry for the present, she really did +advance, by slow degrees, towards the heart of that great region which is +governed by the terrible Lord Mayor. +</p> + +<p> +Tired of walking, repulsed and pushed about, stunned by the noise and +confusion, anxious for her brother and the nurses, terrified by what she had +undergone, and the prospect of encountering her angry father in such an altered +state; perplexed and frightened alike by what had passed, and what was passing, +and what was yet before her; Florence went upon her weary way with tearful +eyes, and once or twice could not help stopping to ease her bursting heart by +crying bitterly. But few people noticed her at those times, in the garb she +wore: or if they did, believed that she was tutored to excite compassion, and +passed on. Florence, too, called to her aid all the firmness and self-reliance +of a character that her sad experience had prematurely formed and tried: and +keeping the end she had in view steadily before her, steadily pursued it. +</p> + +<p> +It was full two hours later in the afternoon than when she had started on this +strange adventure, when, escaping from the clash and clangour of a narrow +street full of carts and waggons, she peeped into a kind of wharf or +landing-place upon the river-side, where there were a great many packages, +casks, and boxes, strewn about; a large pair of wooden scales; and a little +wooden house on wheels, outside of which, looking at the neighbouring masts and +boats, a stout man stood whistling, with his pen behind his ear, and his hands +in his pockets, as if his day’s work were nearly done. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then!” said this man, happening to turn round. “We +haven’t got anything for you, little girl. Be off!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, is this the City?” asked the trembling daughter of +the Dombeys. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! It’s the City. You know that well enough, I daresay. Be off! +We haven’t got anything for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want anything, thank you,” was the timid answer. +“Except to know the way to Dombey and Son’s.” +</p> + +<p> +The man who had been strolling carelessly towards her, seemed surprised by this +reply, and looking attentively in her face, rejoined: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what can you want with Dombey and Son’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“To know the way there, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Joe!” he called to another man—a labourer—as he picked +it up and put it on again. +</p> + +<p> +“Joe it is!” said Joe. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s that young spark of Dombey’s who’s been +watching the shipment of them goods?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just gone, by tt’other gate,” said Joe. +</p> + +<p> +“Call him back a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +Joe ran up an archway, bawling as he went, and very soon returned with a +blithe-looking boy. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re Dombey’s jockey, ain’t you?” said the +first man. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m in Dombey’s House, Mr Clark,” returned the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Look’ye here, then,” said Mr Clark. +</p> + +<p> +Obedient to the indication of Mr Clark’s hand, the boy approached towards +Florence, wondering, as well he might, what he had to do with her. But she, who +had heard what passed, and who, besides the relief of so suddenly considering +herself safe at her journey’s end, felt reassured beyond all measure by +his lively youthful face and manner, ran eagerly up to him, leaving one of the +slipshod shoes upon the ground and caught his hand in both of hers. +</p> + +<p> +“I am lost, if you please!” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Lost!” cried the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I was lost this morning, a long way from here—and I have had +my clothes taken away, since—and I am not dressed in my own now—and +my name is Florence Dombey, my little brother’s only sister—and, oh +dear, dear, take care of me, if you please!” sobbed Florence, giving full +vent to the childish feelings she had so long suppressed, and bursting into +tears. At the same time her miserable bonnet falling off, her hair came +tumbling down about her face: moving to speechless admiration and +commiseration, young Walter, nephew of Solomon Gills, Ships’ +Instrument-maker in general. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Clark stood rapt in amazement: observing under his breath, I never saw such +a start on this wharf before. Walter picked up the shoe, and put it on the +little foot as the Prince in the story might have fitted Cinderella’s +slipper on. He hung the rabbit-skin over his left arm; gave the right to +Florence; and felt, not to say like Richard Whittington—that is a tame +comparison—but like Saint George of England, with the dragon lying dead +before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t cry, Miss Dombey,” said Walter, in a transport of +enthusiasm. “What a wonderful thing for me that I am here! You are as +safe now as if you were guarded by a whole boat’s crew of picked men from +a man-of-war. Oh, don’t cry.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t cry any more,” said Florence. “I am only +crying for joy.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no,” said Florence, checking him in the act of impetuously +pulling off his own. “These do better. These do very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was growing dark and foggy, and beginning to rain too; but they cared +nothing for this: being both wholly absorbed in the late adventures of +Florence, which she related with the innocent good faith and confidence of her +years, while Walter listened as if, far from the mud and grease of Thames +Street, they were rambling alone among the broad leaves and tall trees of some +desert island in the tropics—as he very likely fancied, for the time, +they were. +</p> + +<p> +“Have we far to go?” asked Florence at last, lilting up her eyes to +her companion’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! By-the-bye,” said Walter, stopping, “let me see; where +are we? Oh! I know. But the offices are shut up now, Miss Dombey. There’s +nobody there. Mr Dombey has gone home long ago. I suppose we must go home too? +or, stay. Suppose I take you to my Uncle’s, where I live—it’s +very near here—and go to your house in a coach to tell them you are safe, +and bring you back some clothes. Won’t that be best?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so,” answered Florence. “Don’t you? What do +you think?” +</p> + +<p> +As they stood deliberating in the street, a man passed them, who glanced +quickly at Walter as he went by, as if he recognised him; but seeming to +correct that first impression, he passed on without stopping. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I think it’s Mr Carker,” said Walter. “Carker in +our House. Not Carker our Manager, Miss Dombey—the other Carker; the +Junior—Halloa! Mr Carker!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that Walter Gay?” said the other, stopping and returning. +“I couldn’t believe it, with such a strange companion.” +</p> + +<p> +As he stood near a lamp, listening with surprise to Walter’s hurried +explanation, he presented a remarkable contrast to the two youthful figures +arm-in-arm before him. He was not old, but his hair was white; his body was +bent, or bowed as if by the weight of some great trouble: and there were deep +lines in his worn and melancholy face. The fire of his eyes, the expression of +his features, the very voice in which he spoke, were all subdued and quenched, +as if the spirit within him lay in ashes. He was respectably, though very +plainly dressed, in black; but his clothes, moulded to the general character of +his figure, seemed to shrink and abase themselves upon him, and to join in the +sorrowful solicitation which the whole man from head to foot expressed, to be +left unnoticed, and alone in his humility. +</p> + +<p> +And yet his interest in youth and hopefulness was not extinguished with the +other embers of his soul, for he watched the boy’s earnest countenance as +he spoke with unusual sympathy, though with an inexplicable show of trouble and +compassion, which escaped into his looks, however hard he strove to hold it +prisoner. When Walter, in conclusion, put to him the question he had put to +Florence, he still stood glancing at him with the same expression, as if he had +read some fate upon his face, mournfully at variance with its present +brightness. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you advise, Mr Carker?” said Walter, smiling. “You +always give me good advice, you know, when you do speak to me. That’s not +often, though.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think your own idea is the best,” he answered: looking from +Florence to Walter, and back again. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Carker,” said Walter, brightening with a generous thought, +“Come! Here’s a chance for you. Go you to Mr Dombey’s, and be +the messenger of good news. It may do you some good, Sir. I’ll remain at +home. You shall go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I!” returned the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Why not, Mr Carker?” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Miss Dombey,” said Walter, looking after him as they turned +away also, “we’ll go to my Uncle’s as quick as we can. Did +you ever hear Mr Dombey speak of Mr Carker the Junior, Miss Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” returned the child, mildly, “I don’t often hear +Papa speak.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! true! more shame for him,” thought Walter. After a +minute’s pause, during which he had been looking down upon the gentle +patient little face moving on at his side, he said, “The strangest man, +Mr Carker the Junior is, Miss Florence, that ever you heard of. If you could +understand what an extraordinary interest he takes in me, and yet how he shuns +me and avoids me; and what a low place he holds in our office, and how he is +never advanced, and never complains, though year after year he sees young men +passed over his head, and though his brother (younger than he is), is our head +Manager, you would be as much puzzled about him as I am.” +</p> + +<p> +As Florence could hardly be expected to understand much about it, Walter +bestirred himself with his accustomed boyish animation and restlessness to +change the subject; and one of the unfortunate shoes coming off again +opportunely, proposed to carry Florence to his uncle’s in his arms. +Florence, though very tired, laughingly declined the proposal, lest he should +let her fall; and as they were already near the wooden Midshipman, and as +Walter went on to cite various precedents, from shipwrecks and other moving +accidents, where younger boys than he had triumphantly rescued and carried off +older girls than Florence, they were still in full conversation about it when +they arrived at the Instrument-maker’s door. +</p> + +<p> +“Holloa, Uncle Sol!” cried Walter, bursting into the shop, and +speaking incoherently and out of breath, from that time forth, for the rest of +the evening. “Here’s a wonderful adventure! Here’s Mr +Dombey’s daughter lost in the streets, and robbed of her clothes by an +old witch of a woman—found by me—brought home to our parlour to +rest—look here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heaven!” said Uncle Sol, starting back against his favourite +compass-case. “It can’t be! Well, I—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, nor anybody else,” said Walter, anticipating the rest. +“Nobody would, nobody could, you know. Here! just help me lift the little +sofa near the fire, will you, Uncle Sol—take care of the plates—cut +some dinner for her, will you, Uncle—throw those shoes under the grate. +Miss Florence—put your feet on the fender to dry—how damp they +are—here’s an adventure, Uncle, eh?—God bless my soul, how +hot I am!” +</p> + +<p> +Solomon Gills was quite as hot, by sympathy, and in excessive bewilderment. He +patted Florence’s head, pressed her to eat, pressed her to drink, rubbed +the soles of her feet with his pocket-handkerchief heated at the fire, followed +his locomotive nephew with his eyes, and ears, and had no clear perception of +anything except that he was being constantly knocked against and tumbled over +by that excited young gentleman, as he darted about the room attempting to +accomplish twenty things at once, and doing nothing at all. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, wait a minute, Uncle,” he continued, catching up a candle, +“till I run upstairs, and get another jacket on, and then I’ll be +off. I say, Uncle, isn’t this an adventure?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear boy,” said Solomon, who, with his spectacles on his +forehead and the great chronometer in his pocket, was incessantly oscillating +between Florence on the sofa, and his nephew in all parts of the parlour, +“it’s the most extraordinary—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but do, Uncle, please—do, Miss Florence—dinner, you +know, Uncle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, yes,” cried Solomon, cutting instantly into a leg of +mutton, as if he were catering for a giant. “I’ll take care of her, +Wally! I understand. Pretty dear! Famished, of course. You go and get ready. +Lord bless me! Sir Richard Whittington thrice Lord Mayor of London.” +</p> + +<p> +Walter was not very long in mounting to his lofty garret and descending from +it, but in the meantime Florence, overcome by fatigue, had sunk into a doze +before the fire. The short interval of quiet, though only a few minutes in +duration, enabled Solomon Gills so far to collect his wits as to make some +little arrangements for her comfort, and to darken the room, and to screen her +from the blaze. Thus, when the boy returned, she was sleeping peacefully. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s capital!” he whispered, giving Solomon such a hug +that it squeezed a new expression into his face. “Now I’m off. +I’ll just take a crust of bread with me, for I’m very +hungry—and don’t wake her, Uncle Sol.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Solomon. “Pretty child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty, indeed!” cried Walter. “I never saw such a face, +Uncle Sol. Now I’m off.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” said Solomon, greatly relieved. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Uncle Sol,” cried Walter, putting his face in at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Here he is again,” said Solomon. +</p> + +<p> +“How does she look now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite happy,” said Solomon. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s famous! now I’m off.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you are,” said Solomon to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Uncle Sol,” cried Walter, reappearing at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Here he is again!” said Solomon. +</p> + +<p> +“We met Mr Carker the Junior in the street, queerer than ever. He bade me +good-bye, but came behind us here—there’s an odd thing!—for +when we reached the shop door, I looked round, and saw him going quietly away, +like a servant who had seen me home, or a faithful dog. How does she look now, +Uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty much the same as before, Wally,” replied Uncle Sol. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right. Now I am off!” +</p> + +<p> +And this time he really was: and Solomon Gills, with no appetite for dinner, +sat on the opposite side of the fire, watching Florence in her slumber, +building a great many airy castles of the most fantastic architecture; and +looking, in the dim shade, and in the close vicinity of all the instruments, +like a magician disguised in a Welsh wig and a suit of coffee colour, who held +the child in an enchanted sleep. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime, Walter proceeded towards Mr Dombey’s house at a pace +seldom achieved by a hack horse from the stand; and yet with his head out of +window every two or three minutes, in impatient remonstrance with the driver. +Arriving at his journey’s end, he leaped out, and breathlessly announcing +his errand to the servant, followed him straight into the library, we there was +a great confusion of tongues, and where Mr Dombey, his sister, and Miss Tox, +Richards, and Nipper, were all congregated together. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Walter, rushing up to him, +“but I’m happy to say it’s all right, Sir. Miss +Dombey’s found!” +</p> + +<p> +The boy with his open face, and flowing hair, and sparkling eyes, panting with +pleasure and excitement, was wonderfully opposed to Mr Dombey, as he sat +confronting him in his library chair. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you, Louisa, that she would certainly be found,” said Mr +Dombey, looking slightly over his shoulder at that lady, who wept in company +with Miss Tox. “Let the servants know that no further steps are +necessary. This boy who brings the information, is young Gay, from the office. +How was my daughter found, Sir? I know how she was lost.” Here he looked +majestically at Richards. “But how was she found? Who found her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I believe I found Miss Dombey, Sir,” said Walter modestly, +“at least I don’t know that I can claim the merit of having exactly +found her, Sir, but I was the fortunate instrument of—” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Sir,” interrupted Mr Dombey, regarding the +boy’s evident pride and pleasure in his share of the transaction with an +instinctive dislike, “by not having exactly found my daughter, and by +being a fortunate instrument? Be plain and coherent, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You hear this, girl?” said Mr Dombey sternly to the black-eyed. +“Take what is necessary, and return immediately with this young man to +fetch Miss Florence home. Gay, you will be rewarded to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! thank you, Sir,” said Walter. “You are very kind. +I’m sure I was not thinking of any reward, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey’s glance followed Walter Gay with sharp disfavour, as he left +the room under the pilotage of Mrs Chick; and it may be that his mind’s +eye followed him with no greater relish, as he rode back to his Uncle’s +with Miss Susan Nipper. +</p> + +<p> +There they found that Florence, much refreshed by sleep, had dined, and greatly +improved the acquaintance of Solomon Gills, with whom she was on terms of +perfect confidence and ease. The black-eyed (who had cried so much that she +might now be called the red-eyed, and who was very silent and depressed) caught +her in her arms without a word of contradiction or reproach, and made a very +hysterical meeting of it. Then converting the parlour, for the nonce, into a +private tiring room, she dressed her, with great care, in proper clothes; and +presently led her forth, as like a Dombey as her natural disqualifications +admitted of her being made. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night!” said Florence, running up to Solomon. “You have +been very good to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Sol was quite delighted, and kissed her like her grand-father. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Walter! Good-bye!” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye!” said Walter, giving both his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll never forget you,” pursued Florence. “No! indeed +I never will. Good-bye, Walter!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Walter?” “Good-night, Walter!” +“Good-bye, Walter!” “Shake hands once more, Walter!” +This was still Florence’s cry, after she was shut up with her little +maid, in the coach. And when the coach at length moved off, Walter on the +door-step gaily returned the waving of her handkerchief, while the wooden +Midshipman behind him seemed, like himself, intent upon that coach alone, +excluding all the other passing coaches from his observation. +</p> + +<p> +In good time Mr Dombey’s mansion was gained again, and again there was a +noise of tongues in the library. Again, too, the coach was ordered to +wait—“for Mrs Richards,” one of Susan’s fellow-servants +ominously whispered, as she passed with Florence. +</p> + +<p> +The entrance of the lost child made a slight sensation, but not much. Mr +Dombey, who had never found her, kissed her once upon the forehead, and +cautioned her not to run away again, or wander anywhere with treacherous +attendants. Mrs Chick stopped in her lamentations on the corruption of human +nature, even when beckoned to the paths of virtue by a Charitable Grinder; and +received her with a welcome something short of the reception due to none but +perfect Dombeys. Miss Tox regulated her feelings by the models before her. +Richards, the culprit Richards, alone poured out her heart in broken words of +welcome, and bowed herself over the little wandering head as if she really +loved it. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Richards!” said Mrs Chick, with a sigh. “It would have +been much more satisfactory to those who wish to think well of their fellow +creatures, and much more becoming in you, if you had shown some proper feeling, +in time, for the little child that is now going to be prematurely deprived of +its natural nourishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Cut off,” said Miss Tox, in a plaintive whisper, “from one +common fountain!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +For the matter of that—but Mrs Chick didn’t know it—he had +been pretty well blighted by the dress already; and as to the education, even +its retributive effect might be produced in time, for it was a storm of sobs +and blows. +</p> + +<p> +“Louisa!” said Mr Dombey. “It is not necessary to prolong +these observations. The woman is discharged and paid. You leave this house, +Richards, for taking my son—my son,” said Mr Dombey, emphatically +repeating these two words, “into haunts and into society which are not to +be thought of without a shudder. As to the accident which befel Miss Florence +this morning, I regard that as, in one great sense, a happy and fortunate +circumstance; inasmuch as, but for that occurrence, I never could have +known—and from your own lips too—of what you had been guilty. I +think, Louisa, the other nurse, the young person,” here Miss Nipper +sobbed aloud, “being so much younger, and necessarily influenced by +Paul’s nurse, may remain. Have the goodness to direct that this +woman’s coach is paid to”—Mr Dombey stopped and +winced—“to Staggs’s Gardens.” +</p> + +<p> +Polly moved towards the door, with Florence holding to her dress, and crying to +her in the most pathetic manner not to go away. It was a dagger in the haughty +father’s heart, an arrow in his brain, to see how the flesh and blood he +could not disown clung to this obscure stranger, and he sitting by. Not that he +cared to whom his daughter turned, or from whom turned away. The swift sharp +agony struck through him, as he thought of what his son might do. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /> +A Bird’s-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox’s Dwelling-place: also of the +State of Miss Tox’s Affections</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>iss +Tox inhabited a dark little house that had been squeezed, at some remote period +of English History, into a fashionable neighbourhood at the west end of the +town, where it stood in the shade like a poor relation of the great street +round the corner, coldly looked down upon by mighty mansions. It was not +exactly in a court, and it was not exactly in a yard; but it was in the dullest +of No-Thoroughfares, rendered anxious and haggard by distant double knocks. The +name of this retirement, where grass grew between the chinks in the stone +pavement, was Princess’s Place; and in Princess’s Place was +Princess’s Chapel, with a tinkling bell, where sometimes as many as +five-and-twenty people attended service on a Sunday. The Princess’s Arms +was also there, and much resorted to by splendid footmen. A sedan chair was +kept inside the railing before the Princess’s Arms, but it had never come +out within the memory of man; and on fine mornings, the top of every rail +(there were eight-and-forty, as Miss Tox had often counted) was decorated with +a pewter-pot. +</p> + +<p> +There was another private house besides Miss Tox’s in Princess’s +Place: not to mention an immense Pair of gates, with an immense pair of +lion-headed knockers on them, which were never opened by any chance, and were +supposed to constitute a disused entrance to somebody’s stables. Indeed, +there was a smack of stabling in the air of Princess’s Place; and Miss +Tox’s bedroom (which was at the back) commanded a vista of Mews, where +hostlers, at whatever sort of work engaged, were continually accompanying +themselves with effervescent noises; and where the most domestic and +confidential garments of coachmen and their wives and families, usually hung, +like Macbeth’s banners, on the outward walls. +</p> + +<p> +At this other private house in Princess’s Place, tenanted by a retired +butler who had married a housekeeper, apartments were let Furnished, to a +single gentleman: to wit, a wooden-featured, blue-faced Major, with his eyes +starting out of his head, in whom Miss Tox recognised, as she herself expressed +it, “something so truly military;” and between whom and herself, an +occasional interchange of newspapers and pamphlets, and such Platonic +dalliance, was effected through the medium of a dark servant of the +Major’s who Miss Tox was quite content to classify as a +“native,” without connecting him with any geographical idea +whatever. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps there never was a smaller entry and staircase, than the entry and +staircase of Miss Tox’s house. Perhaps, taken altogether, from top to +bottom, it was the most inconvenient little house in England, and the +crookedest; but then, Miss Tox said, what a situation! There was very little +daylight to be got there in the winter: no sun at the best of times: air was +out of the question, and traffic was walled out. Still Miss Tox said, think of +the situation! So said the blue-faced Major, whose eyes were starting out of +his head: who gloried in Princess’s Place: and who delighted to turn the +conversation at his club, whenever he could, to something connected with some +of the great people in the great street round the corner, that he might have +the satisfaction of saying they were his neighbours. +</p> + +<p> +In short, with Miss Tox and the blue-faced Major, it was enough for +Princess’s Place—as with a very small fragment of society, it is +enough for many a little hanger-on of another sort—to be well connected, +and to have genteel blood in its veins. It might be poor, mean, shabby, stupid, +dull. No matter. The great street round the corner trailed off into +Princess’s Place; and that which of High Holborn would have become a +choleric word, spoken of Princess’s Place became flat blasphemy. +</p> + +<p> +The dingy tenement inhabited by Miss Tox was her own; having been devised and +bequeathed to her by the deceased owner of the fishy eye in the locket, of whom +a miniature portrait, with a powdered head and a pigtail, balanced the +kettle-holder on opposite sides of the parlour fireplace. The greater part of +the furniture was of the powdered-head and pig-tail period: comprising a +plate-warmer, always languishing and sprawling its four attenuated bow legs in +somebody’s way; and an obsolete harpsichord, illuminated round the +maker’s name with a painted garland of sweet peas. In any part of the +house, visitors were usually cognizant of a prevailing mustiness; and in warm +weather Miss Tox had been seen apparently writing in sundry chinks and crevices +of the wainscoat with the wrong end of a pen dipped in spirits of +turpentine. +</p> + +<p> +Although Major Bagstock had arrived at what is called in polite literature, the +grand meridian of life, and was proceeding on his journey downhill with hardly +any throat, and a very rigid pair of jaw-bones, and long-flapped elephantine +ears, and his eyes and complexion in the state of artificial excitement already +mentioned, he was mightily proud of awakening an interest in Miss Tox, and +tickled his vanity with the fiction that she was a splendid woman who had her +eye on him. This he had several times hinted at the club: in connexion with +little jocularities, of which old Joe Bagstock, old Joey Bagstock, old J. +Bagstock, old Josh Bagstock, or so forth, was the perpetual theme: it being, as +it were, the Major’s stronghold and donjon-keep of light humour, to be on +the most familiar terms with his own name. +</p> + +<p> +“Joey B., Sir,” the Major would say, with a flourish of his +walking-stick, “is worth a dozen of you. If you had a few more of the +Bagstock breed among you, Sir, you’d be none the worse for it. Old Joe, +Sir, needn’t look far for a 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 +and started convulsively. +</p> + +<p> +Notwithstanding his very liberal laudation of himself, however, the Major was +selfish. It may be doubted whether there ever was a more entirely selfish +person at heart; or at stomach is perhaps a better expression, seeing that he +was more decidedly endowed with that latter organ than with the former. He had +no idea of being overlooked or slighted by anybody; least of all, had he the +remotest comprehension of being overlooked and slighted by Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Ma’am,” said the Major, meeting Miss Tox in +Princess’s Place, some weeks after the changes chronicled in the last +chapter. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Sir,” said Miss Tox; very coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Joe Bagstock, Ma’am,” observed the Major, with his usual +gallantry, “has not had the happiness of bowing to you at your window, +for a considerable period. Joe has been hardly used, Ma’am. His sun has +been behind a cloud.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox inclined her head; but very coldly indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“Joe’s luminary has been out of town, Ma’am, perhaps,” +inquired the Major. +</p> + +<p> +“I? out of town? oh no, I have not been out of town,” said Miss +Tox. “I have been much engaged lately. My time is nearly all devoted to +some very intimate friends. I am afraid I have none to spare, even now. Good +morning, Sir!” +</p> + +<p> +As Miss Tox, with her most fascinating step and carriage, disappeared from +Princess’s Place, the Major stood looking after her with a bluer face +than ever: muttering and growling some not at all complimentary remarks. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, damme, Sir,” said the Major, rolling his lobster eyes round +and round Princess’s Place, and apostrophizing its fragrant air, +“six months ago, the woman loved the ground Josh Bagstock walked on. +What’s the meaning of it?” +</p> + +<p> +The Major decided, after some consideration, that it meant mantraps; that it +meant plotting and snaring; that Miss Tox was digging pitfalls. “But you +won’t catch Joe, Ma’am,” said the Major. “He’s +tough, Ma’am, tough, is J.B. Tough, and de-vilish sly!” over which +reflection he chuckled for the rest of the day. +</p> + +<p> +But still, when that day and many other days were gone and past, it seemed that +Miss Tox took no heed whatever of the Major, and thought nothing at all about +him. She had been wont, once upon a time, to look out at one of her little dark +windows by accident, and blushingly return the Major’s greeting; but now, +she never gave the Major a chance, and cared nothing at all whether he looked +over the way or not. Other changes had come to pass too. The Major, standing in +the shade of his own apartment, could make out that an air of greater smartness +had recently come over Miss Tox’s house; that a new cage with gilded +wires had been provided for the ancient little canary bird; that divers +ornaments, cut out of coloured card-boards and paper, seemed to decorate the +chimney-piece and tables; that a plant or two had suddenly sprung up in the +windows; that Miss Tox occasionally practised on the harpsichord, whose garland +of sweet peas was always displayed ostentatiously, crowned with the Copenhagen +and Bird Waltzes in a Music Book of Miss Tox’s own copying. +</p> + +<p> +Over and above all this, Miss Tox had long been dressed with uncommon care and +elegance in slight mourning. But this helped the Major out of his difficulty; +and he determined within himself that she had come into a small legacy, and +grown proud. +</p> + +<p> +It was on the very next day after he had eased his mind by arriving at this +decision, that the Major, sitting at his breakfast, saw an apparition so +tremendous and wonderful in Miss Tox’s little drawing-room, that he +remained for some time rooted to his chair; then, rushing into the next room, +returned with a double-barrelled opera-glass, through which he surveyed it +intently for some minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a Baby, Sir,” said the Major, shutting up the glass +again, “for fifty thousand pounds!” +</p> + +<p> +The Major couldn’t forget it. He could do nothing but whistle, and stare +to that extent, that his eyes, compared with what they now became, had been in +former times quite cavernous and sunken. Day after day, two, three, four times +a week, this Baby reappeared. The Major continued to stare and whistle. To all +other intents and purposes he was alone in Princess’s Place. Miss Tox had +ceased to mind what he did. He might have been black as well as blue, and it +would have been of no consequence to her. +</p> + +<p> +The perseverance with which she walked out of Princess’s Place to fetch +this baby and its nurse, and walked back with them, and walked home with them +again, and continually mounted guard over them; and the perseverance with which +she nursed it herself, and fed it, and played with it, and froze its young +blood with airs upon the harpsichord, was extraordinary. At about this same +period too, she was seized with a passion for looking at a certain bracelet; +also with a passion for looking at the moon, of which she would take long +observations from her chamber window. But whatever she looked at; sun, moon, +stars, or bracelet; she looked no more at the Major. And the Major whistled, +and stared, and wondered, and dodged about his room, and could make nothing of +it. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll quite win my brother Paul’s heart, and that’s +the truth, my dear,” said Mrs Chick, one day. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox turned pale. +</p> + +<p> +“He grows more like Paul every day,” said Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox returned no other reply than by taking the little Paul in her arms, +and making his cockade perfectly flat and limp with her caresses. +</p> + +<p> +“His mother, my dear,” said Miss Tox, “whose acquaintance I +was to have made through you, does he at all resemble her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” returned Louisa +</p> + +<p> +“She was—she was pretty, I believe?” faltered Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, poor dear Fanny was interesting,” said Mrs Chick, after some +judicial consideration. “Certainly interesting. She had not that air of +commanding superiority which one would somehow expect, almost as a matter of +course, to find in my brother’s wife; nor had she that strength and +vigour of mind which such a man requires.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox heaved a deep sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“But she was pleasing:” said Mrs Chick: “extremely so. And +she meant!—oh, dear, how well poor Fanny meant!” +</p> + +<p> +“You Angel!” cried Miss Tox to little Paul. “You Picture of +your own Papa!” +</p> + +<p> +If the Major could have known how many hopes and ventures, what a multitude of +plans and speculations, rested on that baby head; and could have seen them +hovering, in all their heterogeneous confusion and disorder, round the puckered +cap of the unconscious little Paul; he might have stared indeed. Then would he +have recognised, among the crowd, some few ambitious motes and beams belonging +to Miss Tox; then would he perhaps have understood the nature of that +lady’s faltering investment in the Dombey Firm. +</p> + +<p> +If the child himself could have awakened in the night, and seen, gathered about +his cradle-curtains, faint reflections of the dreams that other people had of +him, they might have scared him, with good reason. But he slumbered on, alike +unconscious of the kind intentions of Miss Tox, the wonder of the Major, the +early sorrows of his sister, and the stern visions of his father; and innocent +that any spot of earth contained a Dombey or a Son. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /> +Paul’s Further Progress, Growth and Character</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">B</span>eneath the watching and attentive eyes of Time—so far +another Major—Paul’s slumbers gradually changed. More and more +light broke in upon them; distincter and distincter dreams disturbed them; an +accumulating crowd of objects and impressions swarmed about his rest; and so he +passed from babyhood to childhood, and became a talking, walking, wondering +Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +On the downfall and banishment of Richards, the nursery may be said to have +been put into commission: as a Public Department is sometimes, when no +individual Atlas can be found to support it The Commissioners were, of course, +Mrs Chick and Miss Tox: who devoted themselves to their duties with such +astonishing ardour that Major Bagstock had every day some new reminder of his +being forsaken, while Mr Chick, bereft of domestic supervision, cast himself +upon the gay world, dined at clubs and coffee-houses, smelt of smoke on three +different occasions, went to the play by himself, and in short, loosened (as +Mrs Chick once told him) every social bond, and moral obligation. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, in spite of his early promise, all this vigilance and care could not make +little Paul a thriving boy. Naturally delicate, perhaps, he pined and wasted +after the dismissal of his nurse, and, for a long time, seemed but to wait his +opportunity of gliding through their hands, and seeking his lost mother. This +dangerous ground in his steeple-chase towards manhood passed, he still found it +very rough riding, and was grievously beset by all the obstacles in his course. +Every tooth was a break-neck fence, and every pimple in the measles a stone +wall to him. He was down in every fit of the hooping-cough, and rolled upon and +crushed by a whole field of small diseases, that came trooping on each +other’s heels to prevent his getting up again. Some bird of prey got into +his throat instead of the thrush; and the very chickens turning +ferocious—if they have anything to do with that infant malady to which +they lend their name—worried him like tiger-cats. +</p> + +<p> +The chill of Paul’s christening had struck home, perhaps to some +sensitive part of his nature, which could not recover itself in the cold shade +of his father; but he was an unfortunate child from that day. Mrs Wickam often +said she never see a dear so put upon. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Wickam was a waiter’s wife—which would seem equivalent to being +any other man’s widow—whose application for an engagement in Mr +Dombey’s service had been favourably considered, on account of the +apparent impossibility of her having any followers, or anyone to follow; and +who, from within a day or two of Paul’s sharp weaning, had been engaged +as his nurse. Mrs Wickam was a meek woman, of a fair complexion, with her +eyebrows always elevated, and her head always drooping; who was always ready to +pity herself, or to be pitied, or to pity anybody else; and who had a +surprising natural gift of viewing all subjects in an utterly forlorn and +pitiable light, and bringing dreadful precedents to bear upon them, and +deriving the greatest consolation from the exercise of that talent. +</p> + +<p> +It is hardly necessary to observe, that no touch of this quality ever reached +the magnificent knowledge of Mr Dombey. It would have been remarkable, indeed, +if any had; when no one in the house—not even Mrs Chick or Miss +Tox—dared ever whisper to him that there had, on any one occasion, been +the least reason for uneasiness in reference to little Paul. He had settled, +within himself, that the child must necessarily pass through a certain routine +of minor maladies, and that the sooner he did so the better. If he could have +bought him off, or provided a substitute, as in the case of an unlucky drawing +for the militia, he would have been glad to do so, on liberal terms. But as +this was not feasible, he merely wondered, in his haughty manner, now and then, +what Nature meant by it; and comforted himself with the reflection that there +was another milestone passed upon the road, and that the great end of the +journey lay so much the nearer. For the feeling uppermost in his mind, now and +constantly intensifying, and increasing in it as Paul grew older, was +impatience. Impatience for the time to come, when his visions of their united +consequence and grandeur would be triumphantly realized. +</p> + +<p> +Some philosophers tell us that selfishness is at the root of our best loves and +affections. Mr Dombey’s young child was, from the beginning, so +distinctly important to him as a part of his own greatness, or (which is the +same thing) of the greatness of Dombey and Son, that there is no doubt his +parental affection might have been easily traced, like many a goodly +superstructure of fair fame, to a very low foundation. But he loved his son +with all the love he had. If there were a warm place in his frosty heart, his +son occupied it; if its very hard surface could receive the impression of any +image, the image of that son was there; though not so much as an infant, or as +a boy, but as a grown man—the “Son” of the Firm. Therefore he +was impatient to advance into the future, and to hurry over the intervening +passages of his history. Therefore he had little or no anxiety about them, in +spite of his love; feeling as if the boy had a charmed life, and must become +the man with whom he held such constant communication in his thoughts, and for +whom he planned and projected, as for an existing reality, every day. +</p> + +<p> +Thus Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was a pretty little fellow; +though there was something wan and wistful in his small face, that gave +occasion to many significant shakes of Mrs Wickam’s head, and many +long-drawn inspirations of Mrs Wickam’s breath. His temper gave abundant +promise of being imperious in after-life; and he had as hopeful an apprehension +of his own importance, and the rightful subservience of all other things and +persons to it, as heart could desire. He was childish and sportive enough at +times, and not of a sullen disposition; but he had a strange, old-fashioned, +thoughtful way, at other times, of sitting brooding in his miniature arm-chair, +when he looked (and talked) like one of those terrible little Beings in the +Fairy tales, who, at a hundred and fifty or two hundred years of age, +fantastically represent the children for whom they have been substituted. He +would frequently be stricken with this precocious mood upstairs in the nursery; +and would sometimes lapse into it suddenly, exclaiming that he was tired: even +while playing with Florence, or driving Miss Tox in single harness. But at no +time did he fall into it so surely, as when, his little chair being carried +down into his father’s room, he sat there with him after dinner, by the +fire. They were the strangest pair at such a time that ever firelight shone +upon. Mr Dombey so erect and solemn, gazing at the glare; his little image, +with an old, old face, peering into the red perspective with the fixed and rapt +attention of a sage. Mr Dombey entertaining complicated worldly schemes and +plans; the little image entertaining Heaven knows what wild fancies, +half-formed thoughts, and wandering speculations. Mr Dombey stiff with starch +and arrogance; the little image by inheritance, and in unconscious imitation. +The two so very much alike, and yet so monstrously contrasted. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Papa! what’s money?” +</p> + +<p> +The abrupt question had such immediate reference to the subject of Mr +Dombey’s thoughts, that Mr Dombey was quite disconcerted. +</p> + +<p> +“What is money, Paul?” he answered. “Money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the child, laying his hands upon the elbows of his +little chair, and turning the old face up towards Mr Dombey’s; +“what is money?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey was in a difficulty. He would have liked to give him some explanation +involving the terms circulating-medium, currency, depreciation of currency, +paper, bullion, rates of exchange, value of precious metals in the market, and +so forth; but looking down at the little chair, and seeing what a long way down +it was, he answered: “Gold, and silver, and copper. Guineas, shillings, +half-pence. You know what they are?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, I know what they are,” said Paul. “I don’t +mean that, Papa. I mean what’s money after all?” +</p> + +<p> +Heaven and Earth, how old his face was as he turned it up again towards his +father’s! +</p> + +<p> +“What is money after all!” said Mr Dombey, backing his chair a +little, that he might the better gaze in sheer amazement at the presumptuous +atom that propounded such an inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean, Papa, what can it do?” returned Paul, folding his arms +(they were hardly long enough to fold), and looking at the fire, and up at him, +and at the fire, and up at him again. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey drew his chair back to its former place, and patted him on the head. +“You’ll know better by-and-by, my man,” he said. +“Money, Paul, can do anything.” He took hold of the little hand, +and beat it softly against one of his own, as he said so. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Anything, Papa?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Anything—almost,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything means everything, don’t it, Papa?” asked his son: +not observing, or possibly not understanding, the qualification. +</p> + +<p> +“It includes it: yes,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t money save me my Mama?” returned the child. +“It isn’t cruel, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Cruel!” said Mr Dombey, settling his neckcloth, and seeming to +resent the idea. “No. A good thing can’t be cruel.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it’s a good thing, and can do anything,” said the little +fellow, thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, “I wonder why it +didn’t save me my Mama.” +</p> + +<p> +He didn’t ask the question of his father this time. Perhaps he had seen, +with a child’s quickness, that it had already made his father +uncomfortable. But he repeated the thought aloud, as if it were quite an old +one to him, and had troubled him very much; and sat with his chin resting on +his hand, still cogitating and looking for an explanation in the fire. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say his alarm (for it was +the very first occasion on which the child had ever broached the subject of his +mother to him, though he had had him sitting by his side, in this same manner, +evening after evening), expounded to him how that money, though a very potent +spirit, never to be disparaged on any account whatever, could not keep people +alive whose time was come to die; and how that we must all die, unfortunately, +even in the City, though we were never so rich. But how that money caused us to +be honoured, feared, respected, courted, and admired, and made us powerful and +glorious in the eyes of all men; and how that it could, very often, even keep +off death, for a long time together. How, for example, it had secured to his +Mama the services of Mr Pilkins, by which 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 instilled into the mind of his son, who listened attentively, and seemed +to understand the greater part of what was said to him. +</p> + +<p> +“It can’t make me strong and quite well, either, Papa; can +it?” asked Paul, after a short silence; rubbing his tiny hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you are strong and quite well,” returned Mr Dombey. +“Are you not?” +</p> + +<p> +Oh! the age of the face that was turned up again, with an expression, half of +melancholy, half of slyness, on it! +</p> + +<p> +“You are as strong and well as such little people usually are? Eh?” +said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Florence is older than I am, but I’m not as strong and well as +Florence, “I know,” returned the child; “and I believe that +when Florence was as little as me, she could play a great deal longer at a time +without tiring herself. I am so tired sometimes,” said little Paul, +warming his hands, and looking in between the bars of the grate, as if some +ghostly puppet-show were performing there, “and my bones ache so (Wickam +says it’s my bones), that I don’t know what to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! But that’s at night,” said Mr Dombey, drawing his own +chair closer to his son’s, and laying his hand gently on his back; +“little people should be tired at night, for then they sleep well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s not at night, Papa,” returned the child, +“it’s in the day; and I lie down in Florence’s lap, and she +sings to me. At night I dream about such cu-ri-ous things!” +</p> + +<p> +And he went on, warming his hands again, and thinking about them, like an old +man or a young goblin. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey was so astonished, and so uncomfortable, and so perfectly at a loss +how to pursue the conversation, that he could only sit looking at his son by +the light of the fire, with his hand resting on his back, as if it were +detained there by some magnetic attraction. Once he advanced his other hand, +and turned the contemplative face towards his own for a moment. But it sought +the fire again as soon as he released it; and remained, addressed towards the +flickering blaze, until the nurse appeared, to summon him to bed. +</p> + +<p> +“I want Florence to come for me,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come with your poor Nurse Wickam, Master Paul?” +inquired that attendant, with great pathos. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I won’t,” replied Paul, composing himself in his +arm-chair again, like the master of the house. +</p> + +<p> +Invoking a blessing upon his innocence, Mrs Wickam withdrew, and presently +Florence appeared in her stead. The child immediately started up with sudden +readiness and animation, and raised towards his father in bidding him +good-night, a countenance so much brighter, so much younger, and so much more +child-like altogether, that Mr Dombey, while he felt greatly reassured by the +change, was quite amazed at it. +</p> + +<p> +After they had left the room together, he thought he heard a soft voice +singing; and remembering that Paul had said his sister sung to him, he had the +curiosity to open the door and listen, and look after them. She was toiling up +the great, wide, vacant staircase, with him in her arms; his head was lying on +her shoulder, one of his arms thrown negligently round her neck. So they went, +toiling up; she singing all the way, and Paul sometimes crooning out a feeble +accompaniment. Mr Dombey looked after them until they reached the top of the +staircase—not without halting to rest by the way—and passed out of +his sight; and then he still stood gazing upwards, until the dull rays of the +moon, glimmering in a melancholy manner through the dim skylight, sent him back +to his room. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick and Miss Tox were convoked in council at dinner next day; and when +the cloth was removed, Mr Dombey opened the proceedings by requiring to be +informed, without any gloss or reservation, whether there was anything the +matter with Paul, and what Mr Pilkins said about him. +</p> + +<p> +“For the child is hardly,” said Mr Dombey, “as stout as I +could wish.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” returned Mrs Chick, “with your usual happy +discrimination, which I am weak enough to envy you, every time I am in your +company; and so I think is Miss Tox.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh my dear!” said Miss Tox, softly, “how could it be +otherwise? Presumptuous as it is to aspire to such a level; still, if the bird +of night may—but I’ll not trouble Mr Dombey with the sentiment. It +merely relates to the Bulbul.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey bent his head in stately recognition of the Bulbuls as an +old-established body. +</p> + +<p> +“With your usual happy discrimination, my dear Paul,” resumed Mrs +Chick, “you have hit the point at once. Our darling is altogether as +stout as we could wish. The fact is, that his mind is too much for him. His +soul is a great deal too large for his frame. I am sure the way in which that +dear child talks!” said Mrs Chick, shaking her head; “no one would +believe. His expressions, Lucretia, only yesterday upon the subject of +Funerals!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid,” said Mr Dombey, interrupting her testily, +“that some of those persons upstairs suggest improper subjects to the +child. He was speaking to me last night about his—about his Bones,” +said Mr Dombey, laying an irritated stress upon the word. “What on earth +has anybody to do with the—with the—Bones of my son? He is not a +living skeleton, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very far from it,” said Mrs Chick, with unspeakable expression. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” returned her brother. “Funerals again! who talks +to the child of funerals? We are not undertakers, or mutes, or grave-diggers, I +believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very far from it,” interposed Mrs Chick, with the same profound +expression as before. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” said Mrs Chick, after a moment’s silence, +“it is of no use inquiring. I do not think, I will tell you candidly that +Wickam is a person of very cheerful spirit, or what one would call +a—” +</p> + +<p> +“A daughter of Momus,” Miss Tox softly suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly so,” said Mrs Chick; “but she is exceedingly +attentive and useful, and not at all presumptuous; indeed I never saw a more +biddable woman. I would say that for her, if I was put upon my trial before a +Court of Justice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! you are not put upon your trial before a Court of Justice, at +present, Louisa,” returned Mr Dombey, chafing, “and therefore it +don’t matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” said Mrs Chick, in a warning voice, “I must +be spoken to kindly, or there is an end of me,” at the same time a +premonitory redness developed itself in Mrs Chick’s eyelids which was an +invariable sign of rain, unless the weather changed directly. +</p> + +<p> +“I was inquiring, Louisa,” observed Mr Dombey, in an altered voice, +and after a decent interval, “about Paul’s health and actual +state.” +</p> + +<p> +“If the dear child,” said Mrs Chick, in the tone of one who was +summing up what had been previously quite agreed upon, instead of saying it all +for the first time, “is a little weakened by that last attack, and is not +in quite such vigorous health as we could wish; and if he has some temporary +weakness in his system, and does occasionally seem about to lose, for the +moment, the use of his—” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick was afraid to say limbs, after Mr Dombey’s recent objection to +bones, and therefore waited for a suggestion from Miss Tox, who, true to her +office, hazarded “members.” +</p> + +<p> +“Members!” repeated Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“I think the medical gentleman mentioned legs this morning, my dear +Louisa, did he not?” said Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, of course he did, my love,” retorted Mrs Chick, mildly +reproachful. “How can you ask me? You heard him. I say, if our dear Paul +should lose, for the moment, the use of his legs, these are casualties common +to many children at his time of life, and not to be prevented by any care or +caution. The sooner you understand that, Paul, and admit that, the better. If +you have any doubt as to the amount of care, and caution, and affection, and +self-sacrifice, that has been bestowed upon little Paul, I should wish to refer +the question to your medical attendant, or to any of your dependants in this +house. Call Towlinson,” said Mrs Chick, “I believe he has no +prejudice in our favour; quite the contrary. I should wish to hear what +accusation Towlinson can make!” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you must know, Louisa,” observed Mr Dombey, “that I +don’t question your natural devotion to, and regard for, the future head +of my house.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear it, Paul,” said Mrs Chick; “but really you +are very odd, and sometimes talk very strangely, though without meaning it, I +know. If your dear boy’s soul is too much for his body, Paul, you should +remember whose fault that is—who he takes after, I mean—and make +the best of it. He’s as like his Papa as he can be. People have noticed +it in the streets. The very beadle, I am informed, observed it, so long ago as +at his christening. He’s a very respectable man, with children of his +own. He ought to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Pilkins saw Paul this morning, I believe?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he did,” returned his sister. “Miss Tox and myself were +present. Miss Tox and myself are always present. We make a point of it. Mr +Pilkins has seen him for some days past, and a very clever man I believe him to +be. He says it is nothing to speak of; which I can confirm, if that is any +consolation; but he recommended, today, sea-air. Very wisely, Paul, I feel +convinced.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sea-air,” repeated Mr Dombey, looking at his sister. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing to be made uneasy by, in that,” said Mrs Chick. +“My George and Frederick were both ordered sea-air, when they were about +his age; and I have been ordered it myself a great many times. I quite agree +with you, Paul, that perhaps topics may be incautiously mentioned upstairs +before him, which it would be as well for his little mind not to expatiate +upon; but I really don’t see how that is to be helped, in the case of a +child of his quickness. If he were a common child, there would be nothing in +it. I must say I think, with Miss Tox, that a short absence from this house, +the air of Brighton, and the bodily and mental training of so judicious a +person as Mrs Pipchin for instance—” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is Mrs Pipchin, Louisa?” asked Mr Dombey; aghast at this +familiar introduction of a name he had never heard before. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Pipchin, my dear Paul,” returned his sister, “is an +elderly lady—Miss Tox knows her whole history—who has for some time +devoted all the energies of her mind, with the greatest success, to the study +and treatment of infancy, and who has been extremely well connected. Her +husband broke his heart in—how did you say her husband broke his heart, +my dear? I forget the precise circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +“In pumping water out of the Peruvian Mines,” replied Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Not being a Pumper himself, of course,” said Mrs Chick, glancing +at her brother; and it really did seem necessary to offer the explanation, for +Miss Tox had spoken of him as if he had died at the handle; “but having +invested money in the speculation, which failed. I believe that Mrs +Pipchin’s management of children is quite astonishing. I have heard it +commended in private circles ever since I was—dear me—how +high!” Mrs Chick’s eye wandered about the bookcase near the bust of +Mr Pitt, which was about ten feet from the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I should say of Mrs Pipchin, my dear Sir,” observed Miss +Tox, with an ingenuous blush, “having been so pointedly referred to, that +the encomium which has been passed upon her by your sweet sister is well +merited. Many ladies and gentleman, now grown up to be interesting members of +society, have been indebted to her care. The humble individual who addresses +you was once under her charge. I believe juvenile nobility itself is no +stranger to her establishment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I understand that this respectable matron keeps an establishment, +Miss Tox?” the Mr Dombey, condescendingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I really don’t know,” rejoined that lady, +“whether I am justified in calling it so. It is not a Preparatory School +by any means. Should I express my meaning,” said Miss Tox, with peculiar +sweetness, “if I designated it an infantine Boarding-House of a very +select description?” +</p> + +<p> +“On an exceedingly limited and particular scale,” suggested Mrs +Chick, with a glance at her brother. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Exclusion itself!” said Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +There was something in this. Mrs Pipchin’s husband having broken his +heart of the Peruvian mines was good. It had a rich sound. Besides, Mr Dombey +was in a state almost amounting to consternation at the idea of Paul remaining +where he was one hour after his removal had been recommended by the medical +practitioner. It was a stoppage and delay upon the road the child must +traverse, slowly at the best, before the goal was reached. Their recommendation +of Mrs Pipchin had great weight with him; for he knew that they were jealous of +any interference with their charge, and he never for a moment took it into +account that they might be solicitous to divide a responsibility, of which he +had, as shown just now, his own established views. Broke his heart of the +Peruvian mines, mused Mr Dombey. Well! a very respectable way of doing It. +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing we should decide, on to-morrow’s inquiries, to send Paul +down to Brighton to this lady, who would go with him?” inquired Mr +Dombey, after some reflection. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you could send the child anywhere at present without +Florence, my dear Paul,” returned his sister, hesitating. +“It’s quite an infatuation with him. He’s very young, you +know, and has his fancies.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey turned his head away, and going slowly to the bookcase, and unlocking +it, brought back a book to read. +</p> + +<p> +“Anybody else, Louisa?” he said, without looking up, and turning +over the leaves. +</p> + +<p> +“Wickam, of course. Wickam would be quite sufficient, I should +say,” returned his sister. “Paul being in such hands as Mrs +Pipchin’s, you could hardly send anybody who would be a further check +upon her. You would go down yourself once a week at least, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said Mr Dombey; and sat looking at one page for an +hour afterwards, without reading one word. +</p> + +<p> +This celebrated Mrs Pipchin was a marvellous ill-favoured, ill-conditioned old +lady, of a stooping figure, with a mottled face, like bad marble, a hook nose, +and a hard grey eye, that looked as if it might have been hammered at on an +anvil without sustaining any injury. Forty years at least had elapsed since the +Peruvian mines had been the death of Mr Pipchin; but his relict still wore +black bombazeen, of such a lustreless, deep, dead, sombre shade, that gas +itself couldn’t light her up after dark, and her presence was a quencher +to any number of candles. She was generally spoken of as “a great +manager” of children; and the secret of her management was, to give them +everything that they didn’t like, and nothing that they did—which +was found to sweeten their dispositions very much. She was such a bitter old +lady, that one was tempted to believe there had been some mistake in the +application of the Peruvian machinery, and that all her waters of gladness and +milk of human kindness, had been pumped out dry, instead of the mines. +</p> + +<p> +The Castle of this ogress and child-queller was in a steep by-street at +Brighton; where the soil was more than usually chalky, flinty, and sterile, and +the houses were more than usually brittle and thin; where the small +front-gardens had the unaccountable property of producing nothing but +marigolds, whatever was sown in them; and where snails were constantly +discovered holding on to the street doors, and other public places they were +not expected to ornament, with the tenacity of cupping-glasses. In the winter +time the air couldn’t be got out of the Castle, and in the summer time it +couldn’t be got in. There was such a continual reverberation of wind in +it, that it sounded like a great shell, which the inhabitants were obliged to +hold to their ears night and day, whether they liked it or no. It was not, +naturally, a fresh-smelling house; and in the window of the front parlour, +which was never opened, Mrs Pipchin kept a collection of plants in pots, which +imparted an earthy flavour of their own to the establishment. However choice +examples of their kind, too, these plants were of a kind peculiarly adapted to +the embowerment of Mrs Pipchin. There were half-a-dozen specimens of the +cactus, writhing round bits of lath, like hairy serpents; another specimen +shooting out broad claws, like a green lobster; several creeping vegetables, +possessed of sticky and adhesive leaves; and one uncomfortable flower-pot +hanging to the ceiling, which appeared to have boiled over, and tickling people +underneath with its long green ends, reminded them of spiders—in which +Mrs Pipchin’s dwelling was uncommonly prolific, though perhaps it +challenged competition still more proudly, in the season, in point of earwigs. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin’s scale of charges being high, however, to all who could +afford to pay, and Mrs Pipchin very seldom sweetening the equable acidity of +her nature in favour of anybody, she was held to be an old “lady of +remarkable firmness, who was quite scientific in her knowledge of the childish +character.” On this reputation, and on the broken heart of Mr Pipchin, +she had contrived, taking one year with another, to eke out a tolerable +sufficient living since her husband’s demise. Within three days after Mrs +Chick’s first allusion to her, this excellent old lady had the +satisfaction of anticipating a handsome addition to her current receipts, from +the pocket of Mr Dombey; and of receiving Florence and her little brother Paul, +as inmates of the Castle. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick and Miss Tox, who had brought them down on the previous night (which +they all passed at an Hotel), had just driven away from the door, on their +journey home again; and Mrs Pipchin, with her back to the fire, stood, +reviewing the new-comers, like an old soldier. Mrs Pipchin’s middle-aged +niece, her good-natured and devoted slave, but possessing a gaunt and +iron-bound aspect, and much afflicted with boils on her nose, was divesting +Master Bitherstone of the clean collar he had worn on parade. Miss Pankey, the +only other little boarder at present, had that moment been walked off to the +Castle Dungeon (an empty apartment at the back, devoted to correctional +purposes), for having sniffed thrice, in the presence of visitors. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir,” said Mrs Pipchin to Paul, “how do you think you +shall like me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I shall like you at all,” replied Paul. +“I want to go away. This isn’t my house.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. It’s mine,” retorted Mrs Pipchin. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a very nasty one,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a worse place in it than this though,” said Mrs +Pipchin, “where we shut up our bad boys.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has he ever been in it?” asked Paul: pointing out Master +Bitherstone. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin nodded assent; and Paul had enough to do, for the rest of that day, +in surveying Master Bitherstone from head to foot, and watching all the +workings of his countenance, with the interest attaching to a boy of mysterious +and terrible experiences. +</p> + +<p> +At one o’clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the farinaceous and +vegetable kind, when Miss Pankey (a mild little blue-eyed morsel of a child, +who was shampoo’d every morning, and seemed in danger of being rubbed +away, altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress herself, and +instructed that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever went to Heaven. When +this great truth had been thoroughly impressed upon her, she was regaled with +rice; and subsequently repeated the form of grace established in the Castle, in +which there was a special clause, thanking Mrs Pipchin for a good dinner. Mrs +Pipchin’s niece, Berinthia, took cold pork. Mrs Pipchin, whose +constitution required warm nourishment, made a special repast of mutton-chops, +which were brought in hot and hot, between two plates, and smelt very nice. +</p> + +<p> +As it rained after dinner, and they couldn’t go out walking on the beach, +and Mrs Pipchin’s constitution required rest after chops, they went away +with Berry (otherwise Berinthia) to the Dungeon; an empty room looking out upon +a chalk wall and a water-butt, and made ghastly by a ragged fireplace without +any stove in it. Enlivened by company, however, this was the best place after +all; for Berry played with them there, and seemed to enjoy a game at romps as +much as they did; until Mrs Pipchin knocking angrily at the wall, like the Cock +Lane Ghost revived, they left off, and Berry told them stories in a whisper +until twilight. +</p> + +<p> +For tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread and butter, with a little +black tea-pot for Mrs Pipchin and Berry, and buttered toast unlimited for Mrs +Pipchin, which was brought in, hot and hot, like the chops. Though Mrs Pipchin +got very greasy, outside, over this dish, it didn’t seem to lubricate her +internally, at all; for she was as fierce as ever, and the hard grey eye knew +no softening. +</p> + +<p> +After tea, Berry brought out a little work-box, with the Royal Pavilion on the +lid, and fell to working busily; while Mrs Pipchin, having put on her +spectacles and opened a great volume bound in green baize, began to nod. And +whenever Mrs Pipchin caught herself falling forward into the fire, and woke up, +she filliped Master Bitherstone on the nose for nodding too. +</p> + +<p> +At last it was the children’s bedtime, and after prayers they went to +bed. As little Miss Pankey was afraid of sleeping alone in the dark, Mrs +Pipchin always made a point of driving her upstairs herself, like a sheep; and +it was cheerful to hear Miss Pankey moaning long afterwards, in the least +eligible chamber, and Mrs Pipchin now and then going in to shake her. At about +half-past nine o’clock the odour of a warm sweet-bread (Mrs +Pipchin’s constitution wouldn’t go to sleep without sweet-bread) +diversified the prevailing fragrance of the house, which Mrs Wickam said was +“a smell of building;” and slumber fell upon the Castle shortly +after. +</p> + +<p> +The breakfast next morning was like the tea over night, except that Mrs Pipchin +took her roll instead of toast, and seemed a little more irate when it was +over. Master Bitherstone read aloud to the rest a pedigree from Genesis +(judiciously selected by Mrs Pipchin), getting over the names with the ease and +clearness of a person tumbling up the treadmill. That done, Miss Pankey was +borne away to be shampoo’d; and Master Bitherstone to have something else +done to him with salt water, from which he always returned very blue and +dejected. Paul and Florence went out in the meantime on the beach with +Wickam—who was constantly in tears—and at about noon Mrs Pipchin +presided over some Early Readings. It being a part of Mrs Pipchin’s +system not to encourage a child’s mind to develop and expand itself like +a young flower, but to open it by force like an oyster, the moral of these +lessons was usually of a violent and stunning character: the hero—a +naughty boy—seldom, in the mildest catastrophe, being finished off +anything less than a lion, or a bear. +</p> + +<p> +Such was life at Mrs Pipchin’s. On Saturday Mr Dombey came down; and +Florence and Paul would go to his Hotel, and have tea. They passed the whole of +Sunday with him, and generally rode out before dinner; and on these occasions +Mr Dombey seemed to grow, like Falstaff’s assailants, and instead of +being one man in buckram, to become a dozen. Sunday evening was the most +melancholy evening in the week; for Mrs Pipchin always made a point of being +particularly cross on Sunday nights. Miss Pankey was generally brought back +from an aunt’s at Rottingdean, in deep distress; and Master Bitherstone, +whose relatives were all in India, and who was required to sit, between the +services, in an erect position with his head against the parlour wall, neither +moving hand nor foot, suffered so acutely in his young spirits that he once +asked Florence, on a Sunday night, if she could give him any idea of the way +back to Bengal. +</p> + +<p> +But it was generally said that Mrs Pipchin was a woman of system with children; +and no doubt she was. Certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, after +sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof. It was generally said, +too, that it was highly creditable of Mrs Pipchin to have devoted herself to +this way of life, and to have made such a sacrifice of her feelings, and such a +resolute stand against her troubles, when Mr Pipchin broke his heart in the +Peruvian mines. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0109m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“You,” said Paul, without the least reserve. +</p> + +<p> +“And what are you thinking about me?” asked Mrs Pipchin. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m thinking how old you must be,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t say such things as that, young gentleman,” +returned the dame. “That’ll never do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” asked Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Because it’s not polite,” said Mrs Pipchin, snappishly. +</p> + +<p> +“Not polite?” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not polite,” said Paul, innocently, “to eat all +the mutton chops and toast”, Wickam says. +</p> + +<p> +“Wickam,” retorted Mrs Pipchin, colouring, “is a wicked, +impudent, bold-faced hussy.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” inquired Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Never you mind, Sir,” retorted Mrs Pipchin. “Remember the +story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking +questions.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t believe it, Sir?” repeated Mrs Pipchin, amazed. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little +Infidel?” said Mrs Pipchin. +</p> + +<p> +As Paul had not considered the subject in that light, and had founded his +conclusions on the alleged lunacy of the bull, he allowed himself to be put +down for the present. But he sat turning it over in his mind, with such an +obvious intention of fixing Mrs Pipchin presently, that even that hardy old +lady deemed it prudent to retreat until he should have forgotten the subject. +</p> + +<p> +From that time, Mrs Pipchin appeared to have something of the same odd kind of +attraction towards Paul, as Paul had towards her. She would make him move his +chair to her side of the fire, instead of sitting opposite; and there he would +remain in a nook between Mrs Pipchin and the fender, with all the light of his +little face absorbed into the black bombazeen drapery, studying every line and +wrinkle of her countenance, and peering at the hard grey eye, until Mrs Pipchin +was sometimes fain to shut it, on pretence of dozing. Mrs Pipchin had an old +black cat, who generally lay coiled upon the centre foot of the fender, purring +egotistically, and winking at the fire until the contracted pupils of his eyes +were like two notes of admiration. The good old lady might have been—not +to record it disrespectfully—a witch, and Paul and the cat her two +familiars, as they all sat by the fire together. It would have been quite in +keeping with the appearance of the party if they had all sprung up the chimney +in a high wind one night, and never been heard of any more. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Wickam put her own construction on Paul’s eccentricities; and being +confirmed in her low spirits by a perplexed view of chimneys from the room +where she was accustomed to sit, and by the noise of the wind, and by the +general dulness (gashliness was Mrs Wickam’s strong expression) of her +present life, deduced the most dismal reflections from the foregoing premises. +It was a part of Mrs Pipchin’s policy to prevent her own “young +hussy”—that was Mrs Pipchin’s generic name for female +servant—from communicating with Mrs Wickam: to which end she devoted much +of her time to concealing herself behind doors, and springing out on that +devoted maiden, whenever she made an approach towards Mrs Wickam’s +apartment. But Berry was free to hold what converse she could in that quarter, +consistently with the discharge of the multifarious duties at which she toiled +incessantly from morning to night; and to Berry Mrs Wickam unburdened her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“What a pretty fellow he is when he’s asleep!” said Berry, +stopping to look at Paul in bed, one night when she took up Mrs Wickam’s +supper. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” sighed Mrs Wickam. “He need be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he’s not ugly when he’s awake,” observed Berry. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Ma’am. Oh, no. No more was my Uncle’s Betsey +Jane,” said Mrs Wickam. +</p> + +<p> +Berry looked as if she would like to trace the connexion of ideas between Paul +Dombey and Mrs Wickam’s Uncle’s Betsey Jane. +</p> + +<p> +“My Uncle’s wife,” Mrs Wickam went on to say, “died +just like his Mama. My Uncle’s child took on just as Master Paul +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Took on! You don’t think he grieves for his Mama, sure?” +argued Berry, sitting down on the side of the bed. “He can’t +remember anything about her, you know, Mrs Wickam. It’s not +possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Ma’am,” said Mrs Wickam “No more did my +Uncle’s child. But my Uncle’s child said very strange things +sometimes, and looked very strange, and went on very strange, and was very +strange altogether. My Uncle’s child made people’s blood run cold, +some times, she did!” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” asked Berry. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t have sat up all night alone with Betsey Jane!” +said Mrs Wickam, “not if you’d have put Wickam into business next +morning for himself. I couldn’t have done it, Miss Berry. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Berry naturally asked why not? But Mrs Wickam, agreeably to the usage of +some ladies in her condition, pursued her own branch of the subject, without +any compunction. +</p> + +<p> +“Betsey Jane,” said Mrs Wickam, “was as sweet a child as I +could wish to see. I couldn’t wish to see a sweeter. Everything that a +child could have in the way of illnesses, Betsey Jane had come through. The +cramps was as common to her,” said Mrs Wickam, “as biles is to +yourself, Miss Berry.” Miss Berry involuntarily wrinkled her nose. +</p> + +<p> +“But Betsey Jane,” said Mrs Wickam, lowering her voice, and looking +round the room, and towards Paul in bed, “had been minded, in her cradle, +by her departed mother. I couldn’t say how, nor I couldn’t say +when, nor I couldn’t say whether the dear child knew it or not, but +Betsey Jane had been watched by her mother, Miss Berry!” and Mrs Wickam, +with a very white face, and with watery eyes, and with a tremulous voice, again +looked fearfully round the room, and towards Paul in bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” cried Miss Berry—somewhat resentful of the idea. +</p> + +<p> +“You may say nonsense! I ain’t offended, Miss. I hope you may be +able to think in your own conscience that it is nonsense; you’ll find +your spirits all the better for it in this—you’ll excuse my being +so free—in this burying-ground of a place; which is wearing of me down. +Master Paul’s a little restless in his sleep. Pat his back, if you +please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you think,” said Berry, gently doing what she was asked, +“that he has been nursed by his mother, too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Betsey Jane,” returned Mrs Wickam in her most solemn tones, +“was put upon as that child has been put upon, and changed as that child +has changed. I have seen her sit, often and often, think, think, thinking, like +him. I have seen her look, often and often, old, old, old, like him. I have +heard her, many a time, talk just like him. I consider that child and Betsey +Jane on the same footing entirely, Miss Berry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your Uncle’s child alive?” asked Berry. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss, she is alive,” returned Mrs Wickam with an air of +triumph, for it was evident. Miss Berry expected the reverse; “and is +married to a silver-chaser. Oh yes, Miss, SHE is alive,” said Mrs Wickam, +laying strong stress on her nominative case. +</p> + +<p> +It being clear that somebody was dead, Mrs Pipchin’s niece inquired who +it was. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t wish to make you uneasy,” returned Mrs Wickam, +pursuing her supper. “Don’t ask me.” +</p> + +<p> +This was the surest way of being asked again. Miss Berry repeated her question, +therefore; and after some resistance, and reluctance, Mrs Wickam laid down her +knife, and again glancing round the room and at Paul in bed, replied: +</p> + +<p> +“She took fancies to people; whimsical fancies, some of them; others, +affections that one might expect to see—only stronger than common. They +all died.” +</p> + +<p> +This was so very unexpected and awful to Mrs Pipchin’s niece, that she +sat upright on the hard edge of the bedstead, breathing short, and surveying +her informant with looks of undisguised alarm. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Wickam shook her left fore-finger stealthily towards the bed where Florence +lay; then turned it upside down, and made several emphatic points at the floor; +immediately below which was the parlour in which Mrs Pipchin habitually +consumed the toast. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember my words, Miss Berry,” said Mrs Wickam, “and be +thankful that Master Paul is not too fond of you. I am, that he’s not too +fond of me, I assure you; though there isn’t much to live +for—you’ll excuse my being so free—in this jail of a +house!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Berry’s emotion might have led to her patting Paul too hard on the +back, or might have produced a cessation of that soothing monotony, but he +turned in his bed just now, and, presently awaking, sat up in it with his hair +hot and wet from the effects of some childish dream, and asked for Florence. +</p> + +<p> +She was out of her own bed at the first sound of his voice; and bending over +his pillow immediately, sang him to sleep again. Mrs Wickam shaking her head, +and letting fall several tears, pointed out the little group to Berry, and +turned her eyes up to the ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s asleep now, my dear,” said Mrs Wickam after a pause, +“you’d better go to bed again. Don’t you feel cold?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, nurse,” said Florence, laughing. “Not at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” sighed Mrs Wickam, and she shook her head again, expressing +to the watchful Berry, “we shall be cold enough, some of us, by and +by!” +</p> + +<p> +Berry took the frugal supper-tray, with which Mrs Wickam had by this time done, +and bade her good-night. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Miss!” returned Wickam softly. “Good-night! Your +aunt is an old lady, Miss Berry, and it’s what you must have looked for, +often.” +</p> + +<p> +This consolatory farewell, Mrs Wickam accompanied with a look of heartfelt +anguish; and being left alone with the two children again, and becoming +conscious that the wind was blowing mournfully, she indulged in +melancholy—that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries—until she +was overpowered by slumber. +</p> + +<p> +Although the niece of Mrs Pipchin did not expect to find that exemplary dragon +prostrate on the hearth-rug when she went downstairs, she was relieved to find +her unusually fractious and severe, and with every present appearance of +intending to live a long time to be a comfort to all who knew her. Nor had she +any symptoms of declining, in the course of the ensuing week, when the +constitutional viands still continued to disappear in regular succession, +notwithstanding that Paul studied her as attentively as ever, and occupied his +usual seat between the black skirts and the fender, with unwavering constancy. +</p> + +<p> +But as Paul himself was no stronger at the expiration of that time than he had +been on his first arrival, though he looked much healthier in the face, a +little carriage was got for him, in which he could lie at his ease, with an +alphabet and other elementary works of reference, and be wheeled down to the +sea-side. Consistent in his odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad +who was proposed as the drawer of this carriage, and selected, instead, his +grandfather—a weazen, old, crab-faced man, in a suit of battered oilskin, +who had got tough and stringy from long pickling in salt water, and who smelt +like a weedy sea-beach when the tide is out. +</p> + +<p> +With this notable attendant to pull him along, and Florence always walking by +his side, and the despondent Wickam bringing up the rear, he went down to the +margin of the ocean every day; and there he would sit or lie in his carriage +for hours together: never so distressed as by the company of +children—Florence alone excepted, always. +</p> + +<p> +“Go away, if you please,” he would say to any child who came to +bear him company. “Thank you, but I don’t want you.” +</p> + +<p> +Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he was, perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very well, I thank you,” he would answer. “But you had +better go and play, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He had even a dislike, at such times, to the company of Wickam, and was well +pleased when she strolled away, as she generally did, to pick up shells and +acquaintances. His favourite spot was quite a lonely one, far away from most +loungers; and with Florence sitting by his side at work, or reading to him, or +talking to him, and the wind blowing on his face, and the water coming up among +the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing more. +</p> + +<p> +“Floy,” he said one day, “where’s India, where that +boy’s friends live?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s a long, long distance off,” said Florence, raising +her eyes from her work. +</p> + +<p> +“Weeks off?” asked Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes dear. Many weeks’ journey, night and day.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you were in India, Floy,” said Paul, after being silent for a +minute, “I should—what is it that Mama did? I forget.” +</p> + +<p> +“Loved me!” answered Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. Don’t I love you now, Floy? What is it?—Died. If you +were in India, I should die, Floy.” +</p> + +<p> +She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her head down on his pillow, +caressing him. And so would she, she said, if he were there. He would be better +soon. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I am a great deal better now!” he answered. “I +don’t mean that. I mean that I should die of being so sorry and so +lonely, Floy!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Florence asked him what he thought he heard. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” he said. “But I know that they are always saying +something. Always the same thing. What place is over there?” He rose up, +looking eagerly at the horizon. +</p> + +<p> +She told him that there was another country opposite, but he said he +didn’t mean that: he meant further away—farther away! +</p> + +<p> +Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off, to try +to understand what it was that the waves were always saying; and would rise up +in his couch to look towards that invisible region, far away. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /> +In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat +spice of romance and love of the marvellous, of which there was a pretty strong +infusion in the nature of young Walter Gay, and which the guardianship of his +Uncle, old Solomon Gills, had not very much weakened by the waters of stern +practical experience, was the occasion of his attaching an uncommon and +delightful interest to the adventure of Florence with Good Mrs Brown. He +pampered and cherished it in his memory, especially that part of it with which +he had been associated: until it became the spoiled child of his fancy, and +took its own way, and did what it liked with it. +</p> + +<p> +The recollection of those incidents, and his own share in them, may have been +made the more captivating, perhaps, by the weekly dreamings of old Sol and +Captain Cuttle on Sundays. Hardly a Sunday passed, without mysterious +references being made by one or other of those worthy chums to Richard +Whittington; and the latter gentleman had even gone so far as to purchase a +ballad of considerable antiquity, that had long fluttered among many others, +chiefly expressive of maritime sentiments, on a dead wall in the Commercial +Road: which poetical performance set forth the courtship and nuptials of a +promising young coal-whipper with a certain “lovely Peg,” the +accomplished daughter of the master and part-owner of a Newcastle collier. In +this stirring legend, Captain Cuttle descried a profound metaphysical bearing +on the case of Walter and Florence; and it excited him so much, that on very +festive occasions, as birthdays and a few other non-Dominical holidays, he +would roar through the whole song in the little back parlour; making an amazing +shake on the word Pe-e-eg, with which every verse concluded, in compliment to +the heroine of the piece. +</p> + +<p> +But a frank, free-spirited, open-hearted boy, is not much given to analysing +the nature of his own feelings, however strong their hold upon him: and Walter +would have found it difficult to decide this point. He had a great affection +for the wharf where he had encountered Florence, and for the streets (albeit +not enchanting in themselves) by which they had come home. The shoes that had +so often tumbled off by the way, he preserved in his own room; and, sitting in +the little back parlour of an evening, he had drawn a whole gallery of fancy +portraits of Good Mrs Brown. It may be that he became a little smarter in his +dress after that memorable occasion; and he certainly liked in his leisure time +to walk towards that quarter of the town where Mr Dombey’s house was +situated, on the vague chance of passing little Florence in the street. But the +sentiment of all this was as boyish and innocent as could be. Florence was very +pretty, and it is pleasant to admire a pretty face. Florence was defenceless +and weak, and it was a proud thought that he had been able to render her any +protection and assistance. Florence was the most grateful little creature in +the world, and it was delightful to see her bright gratitude beaming in her +face. Florence was neglected and coldly looked upon, and his breast was full of +youthful interest for the slighted child in her dull, stately home. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it came about that, perhaps some half-a-dozen times in the course of the +year, Walter pulled off his hat to Florence in the street, and Florence would +stop to shake hands. Mrs Wickam (who, with a characteristic alteration of his +name, invariably spoke of him as “Young Graves”) was so well used +to this, knowing the story of their acquaintance, that she took no heed of it +at all. Miss Nipper, on the other hand, rather looked out for these occasions: +her sensitive young heart being secretly propitiated by Walter’s good +looks, and inclining to the belief that its sentiments were responded to. +</p> + +<p> +In this way, Walter, so far from forgetting or losing sight of his acquaintance +with Florence, only remembered it better and better. As to its adventurous +beginning, and all those little circumstances which gave it a distinctive +character and relish, he took them into account, more as a pleasant story very +agreeable to his imagination, and not to be dismissed from it, than as a part +of any matter of fact with which he was concerned. They set off Florence very +much, to his fancy; but not himself. Sometimes he thought (and then he walked +very fast) what a grand thing it would have been for him to have been going to +sea on the day after that first meeting, and to have gone, and to have done +wonders there, and to have stopped away a long time, and to have come back an +Admiral of all the colours of the dolphin, or at least a Post-Captain with +epaulettes of insupportable brightness, and have married Florence (then a +beautiful young woman) in spite of Mr Dombey’s teeth, cravat, and +watch-chain, and borne her away to the blue shores of somewhere or other, +triumphantly. But these flights of fancy seldom burnished the brass plate of +Dombey and Son’s Offices into a tablet of golden hope, or shed a +brilliant lustre on their dirty skylights; and when the Captain and Uncle Sol +talked about Richard Whittington and masters’ daughters, Walter felt that +he understood his true position at Dombey and Son’s, much better than +they did. +</p> + +<p> +So it was that he went on doing what he had to do from day to day, in a +cheerful, pains-taking, merry spirit; and saw through the sanguine complexion +of Uncle Sol and Captain Cuttle; and yet entertained a thousand indistinct and +visionary fancies of his own, to which theirs were work-a-day probabilities. +Such was his condition at the Pipchin period, when he looked a little older +than of yore, but not much; and was the same light-footed, light-hearted, +light-headed lad, as when he charged into the parlour at the head of Uncle Sol +and the imaginary boarders, and lighted him to bring up the Madeira. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Uncle? Customers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” returned Solomon, with a sigh. “Customers would +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound it, Uncle!” said Walter, putting down his breakfast cup +with a clatter, and striking his hand on the table: “when I see the +people going up and down the street in shoals all day, and passing and +re-passing the shop every minute, by scores, I feel half tempted to rush out, +collar somebody, bring him in, and make him buy fifty pounds’ worth of +instruments for ready money. What are you looking in at the door +for?—” continued Walter, apostrophizing an old gentleman with a +powdered head (inaudibly to him of course), who was staring at a ship’s +telescope with all his might and main. “That’s no use. I could do +that. Come in and buy it!” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman, however, having satiated his curiosity, walked calmly away. +</p> + +<p> +“There he goes!” said Walter. “That’s the way with +’em all. But, Uncle—I say, Uncle Sol”—for the old man +was meditating and had not responded to his first appeal. “Don’t be +cast down. Don’t be out of spirits, Uncle. When orders do come, +they’ll come in such a crowd, you won’t be able to execute +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be past executing ’em, whenever they come, my boy,” +returned Solomon Gills. “They’ll never come to this shop again, +till I am out of t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Uncle! You musn’t really, you know!” urged Walter. +“Don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +Old Sol endeavoured to assume a cheery look, and smiled across the little table +at him as pleasantly as he could. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing more than usual the matter; is there, +Uncle?” said Walter, leaning his elbows on the tea tray, and bending +over, to speak the more confidentially and kindly. “Be open with me, +Uncle, if there is, and tell me all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no,” returned Old Sol. “More than usual? No, no. +What should there be the matter more than usual?” +</p> + +<p> +Walter answered with an incredulous shake of his head. “That’s what +I want to know,” he said, “and you ask me! I’ll tell you +what, Uncle, when I see you like this, I am quite sorry that I live with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Sol opened his eyes involuntarily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Though nobody ever was happier than I am and always have been with +you, I am quite sorry that I live with you, when I see you with anything in +your mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a little dull at such times, I know,” observed Solomon, +meekly rubbing his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“What I mean, Uncle Sol,” pursued Walter, bending over a little +more to pat him on the shoulder, “is, that then I feel you ought to have, +sitting here and pouring out the tea instead of me, a nice little dumpling of a +wife, you know,—a comfortable, capital, cosy old lady, who was just a +match for you, and knew how to manage you, and keep you in good heart. Here am +I, as loving a nephew as ever was (I am sure I ought to be!) but I am only a +nephew, and I can’t be such a companion to you when you’re low and +out of sorts as she would have made herself, years ago, though I’m sure +I’d give any money if I could cheer you up. And so I say, when I see you +with anything on your mind, that I feel quite sorry you haven’t got +somebody better about you than a blundering young rough-and-tough boy like me, +who has got the will to console you, Uncle, but hasn’t got the +way—hasn’t got the way,” repeated Walter, reaching over +further yet, to shake his Uncle by the hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Wally, my dear boy,” said Solomon, “if the cosy little old +lady had taken her place in this parlour five and forty years ago, I never +could have been fonder of her than I am of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that, Uncle Sol,” returned Walter. “Lord bless you, I +know that. But you wouldn’t have had the whole weight of any +uncomfortable secrets if she had been with you, because she would have known +how to relieve you of ’em, and I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, you do,” returned the Instrument-maker. +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, what’s the matter, Uncle Sol?” said Walter, +coaxingly. “Come! What’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Solomon Gills persisted that there was nothing the matter; and maintained it so +resolutely, that his nephew had no resource but to make a very indifferent +imitation of believing him. +</p> + +<p> +“All I can say is, Uncle Sol, that if there is—” +</p> + +<p> +“But there isn’t,” said Solomon. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Walter. “Then I’ve no more to say; +and that’s lucky, for my time’s up for going to business. I shall +look in by-and-by when I’m out, to see how you get on, Uncle. And mind, +Uncle! I’ll never believe you again, and never tell you anything more +about Mr Carker the Junior, if I find out that you have been deceiving +me!” +</p> + +<p> +Solomon Gills laughingly defied him to find out anything of the kind; and +Walter, revolving in his thoughts all sorts of impracticable ways of making +fortunes and placing the wooden Midshipman in a position of independence, +betook himself to the offices of Dombey and Son with a heavier countenance than +he usually carried there. +</p> + +<p> +There lived in those days, round the corner—in Bishopsgate Street +Without—one Brogley, sworn broker and appraiser, who kept a shop where +every description of second-hand furniture was exhibited in the most +uncomfortable aspect, and under circumstances and in combinations the most +completely foreign to its purpose. Dozens of chairs hooked on to +washing-stands, which with difficulty poised themselves on the shoulders of +sideboards, which in their turn stood upon the wrong side of dining-tables, +gymnastic with their legs upward on the tops of other dining-tables, were among +its most reasonable arrangements. A banquet array of dish-covers, wine-glasses, +and decanters was generally to be seen, spread forth upon the bosom of a +four-post bedstead, for the entertainment of such genial company as +half-a-dozen pokers, and a hall lamp. A set of window curtains with no windows +belonging to them, would be seen gracefully draping a barricade of chests of +drawers, loaded with little jars from chemists’ shops; while a homeless +hearthrug severed from its natural companion the fireside, braved the shrewd +east wind in its adversity, and trembled in melancholy accord with the shrill +complainings of a cabinet piano, wasting away, a string a day, and faintly +resounding to the noises of the street in its jangling and distracted brain. Of +motionless clocks that never stirred a finger, and seemed as incapable of being +successfully wound up, as the pecuniary affairs of their former owners, there +was always great choice in Mr Brogley’s shop; and various +looking-glasses, accidentally placed at compound interest of reflection and +refraction, presented to the eye an eternal perspective of bankruptcy and ruin. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Brogley himself was a moist-eyed, pink-complexioned, crisp-haired man, of a +bulky figure and an easy temper—for that class of Caius Marius who sits +upon the ruins of other people’s Carthages, can keep up his spirits well +enough. He had looked in at Solomon’s shop sometimes, to ask a question +about articles in Solomon’s way of business; and Walter knew him +sufficiently to give him good day when they met in the street. But as that was +the extent of the broker’s acquaintance with Solomon Gills also, Walter +was not a little surprised when he came back in the course of the forenoon, +agreeably to his promise, to find Mr Brogley sitting in the back parlour with +his hands in his pockets, and his hat hanging up behind the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Uncle Sol!” said Walter. The old man was sitting ruefully on +the opposite side of the table, with his spectacles over his eyes, for a +wonder, instead of on his forehead. “How are you now?” +</p> + +<p> +Solomon shook his head, and waved one hand towards the broker, as introducing +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything the matter?” asked Walter, with a catching in +his breath. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. There’s nothing the matter, said Mr Brogley. +“Don’t let it put you out of the way.” +</p> + +<p> +Walter looked from the broker to his Uncle in mute amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is,” said Mr Brogley, “there’s a little +payment on a bond debt —three hundred and seventy odd, overdue: and +I’m in possession.” +</p> + +<p> +“In possession!” cried Walter, looking round at the shop. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Mr Brogley, in confidential assent, and nodding his head +as if he would urge the advisability of their all being comfortable together. +“It’s an execution. That’s what it is. Don’t let it put +you out of the way. I come myself, because of keeping it quiet and sociable. +You know me. It’s quite private.” +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Sol!” faltered Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Wally, my boy,” returned his uncle. “It’s the first +time. Such a calamity never happened to me before. I’m an old man to +begin.” Pushing up his spectacles again (for they were useless any longer +to conceal his emotion), he covered his face with his hand, and sobbed aloud, +and his tears fell down upon his coffee-coloured waistcoat. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Sol! Pray! oh don’t!” exclaimed Walter, who really +felt a thrill of terror in seeing the old man weep. “For God’s sake +don’t do that. Mr Brogley, what shall I do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should recommend you looking up a friend or so,” said Mr +Brogley, “and talking it over.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure!” cried Walter, catching at anything. “Certainly! +Thankee. Captain Cuttle’s the man, Uncle. Wait till I run to Captain +Cuttle. Keep your eye upon my Uncle, will you, Mr Brogley, and make him as +comfortable as you can while I am gone? Don’t despair, Uncle Sol. Try and +keep a good heart, there’s a dear fellow!” +</p> + +<p> +Saying this with great fervour, and disregarding the old man’s broken +remonstrances, Walter dashed out of the shop again as hard as he could go; and, +having hurried round to the office to excuse himself on the plea of his +Uncle’s sudden illness, set off, full speed, for Captain Cuttle’s +residence. +</p> + +<p> +Everything seemed altered as he ran along the streets. There were the usual +entanglement and noise of carts, drays, omnibuses, waggons, and foot +passengers, but the misfortune that had fallen on the wooden Midshipman made it +strange and new. Houses and shops were different from what they used to be, and +bore Mr Brogley’s warrant on their fronts in large characters. The broker +seemed to have got hold of the very churches; for their spires rose into the +sky with an unwonted air. Even the sky itself was changed, and had an execution +in it plainly. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle lived on the brink of a little canal near the India Docks, where +there was a swivel bridge which opened now and then to let some wandering +monster of a ship come roaming up the street like a stranded leviathan. The +gradual change from land to water, on the approach to Captain Cuttle’s +lodgings, was curious. It began with the erection of flagstaffs, as +appurtenances to public-houses; then came slop-sellers’ shops, with +Guernsey shirts, sou’wester hats, and canvas pantaloons, at once the +tightest and the loosest of their order, hanging up outside. These were +succeeded by anchor and chain-cable forges, where sledgehammers were dinging +upon iron all day long. Then came rows of houses, with little vane-surmounted +masts uprearing themselves from among the scarlet beans. Then, ditches. Then, +pollard willows. Then, more ditches. Then, unaccountable patches of dirty +water, hardly to be descried, for the ships that covered them. Then, the air +was perfumed with chips; and all other trades were swallowed up in mast, oar, +and block-making, and boatbuilding. Then, the ground grew marshy and unsettled. +Then, there was nothing to be smelt but rum and sugar. Then, Captain +Cuttle’s lodgings—at once a first floor and a top storey, in Brig +Place—were close before you. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was one of those timber-looking men, suits of oak as well as +hearts, whom it is almost impossible for the liveliest imagination to separate +from any part of their dress, however insignificant. Accordingly, when Walter +knocked at the door, and the Captain instantly poked his head out of one of his +little front windows, and hailed him, with the hard glared hat already on it, +and the shirt-collar like a sail, and the wide suit of blue, all standing as +usual, Walter was as fully persuaded that he was always in that state, as if +the Captain had been a bird and those had been his feathers. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my lad!” said Captain Cuttle. “Stand by and +knock again. Hard! It’s washing day.” +</p> + +<p> +Walter, in his impatience, gave a prodigious thump with the knocker. +</p> + +<p> +“Hard it is!” said Captain Cuttle, and immediately drew in his +head, as if he expected a squall. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was he mistaken: for a widow lady, with her sleeves rolled up to her +shoulders, and her arms frothy with soap-suds and smoking with hot water, +replied to the summons with startling rapidity. Before she looked at Walter she +looked at the knocker, and then, measuring him with her eyes from head to foot, +said she wondered he had left any of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Cuttle’s at home, I know,” said Walter with a +conciliatory smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he?” replied the widow lady. “In-deed!” +</p> + +<p> +“He has just been speaking to me,” said Walter, in breathless +explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“Has he?” replied the widow lady. “Then p’raps +you’ll give him Mrs MacStinger’s respects, and say that the next +time he lowers himself and his lodgings by talking out of the winder +she’ll thank him to come down and open the door too.” Mrs +MacStinger spoke loud, and listened for any observations that might be offered +from the first floor. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll mention it,” said Walter, “if you’ll have +the goodness to let me in, Ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +For he was repelled by a wooden fortification extending across the doorway, and +put there to prevent the little MacStingers in their moments of recreation from +tumbling down the steps. +</p> + +<p> +“A boy that can knock my door down,” said Mrs MacStinger, +contemptuously, “can get over that, I should hope!” But Walter, +taking this as a permission to enter, and getting over it, Mrs MacStinger +immediately demanded whether an Englishwoman’s house was her castle or +not; and whether she was to be broke in upon by “raff.” On these +subjects her thirst for information was still very importunate, when Walter, +having made his way up the little staircase through an artificial fog +occasioned by the washing, which covered the banisters with a clammy +perspiration, entered Captain Cuttle’s room, and found that gentleman in +ambush behind the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Never owed her a penny, Wal”r,” said Captain Cuttle, in a +low voice, and with visible marks of trepidation on his countenance. +“Done her a world of good turns, and the children too. Vixen at times, +though. Whew!” +</p> + +<p> +“I should go away, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Dursn’t do it, Wal”r,” returned the Captain. +“She’d find me out, wherever I went. Sit down. How’s +Gills?” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was dining (in his hat) off cold loin of mutton, porter, and some +smoking hot potatoes, which he had cooked himself, and took out of a little +saucepan before the fire as he wanted them. He unscrewed his hook at +dinner-time, and screwed a knife into its wooden socket instead, with which he +had already begun to peel one of these potatoes for Walter. His rooms were very +small, and strongly impregnated with tobacco-smoke, but snug enough: everything +being stowed away, as if there were an earthquake regularly every half-hour. +</p> + +<p> +“How’s Gills?” inquired the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +No words can describe the Captain’s consternation at this sight. Mrs +MacStinger faded into nothing before it. He dropped the potato and the +fork—and would have dropped the knife too if he could—and sat +gazing at the boy, as if he expected to hear next moment that a gulf had opened +in the City, which had swallowed up his old friend, coffee-coloured suit, +buttons, chronometer, spectacles, and all. +</p> + +<p> +But when Walter told him what was really the matter, Captain Cuttle, after a +moment’s reflection, started up into full activity. He emptied out of a +little tin canister on the top shelf of the cupboard, his whole stock of ready +money (amounting to thirteen pounds and half-a-crown), which he transferred to +one of the pockets of his square blue coat; further enriched that repository +with the contents of his plate chest, consisting of two withered atomies of +tea-spoons, and an obsolete pair of knock-knee’d sugar-tongs; pulled up +his immense double-cased silver watch from the depths in which it reposed, to +assure himself that that valuable was sound and whole; re-attached the hook to +his right wrist; and seizing the stick covered over with knobs, bade Walter +come along. +</p> + +<p> +Remembering, however, in the midst of his virtuous excitement, that Mrs +MacStinger might be lying in wait below, Captain Cuttle hesitated at last, not +without glancing at the window, as if he had some thoughts of escaping by that +unusual means of egress, rather than encounter his terrible enemy. He decided, +however, in favour of stratagem. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r,” said the Captain, with a timid wink, “go +afore, my lad. Sing out, ‘good-bye, Captain Cuttle,’ when +you’re in the passage, and shut the door. Then wait at the corner of the +street “till you see me. +</p> + +<p> +These directions were not issued without a previous knowledge of the +enemy’s tactics, for when Walter got downstairs, Mrs MacStinger glided +out of the little back kitchen, like an avenging spirit. But not gliding out +upon the Captain, as she had expected, she merely made a further allusion to +the knocker, and glided in again. +</p> + +<p> +Some five minutes elapsed before Captain Cuttle could summon courage to attempt +his escape; for Walter waited so long at the street corner, looking back at the +house, before there were any symptoms of the hard glazed hat. At length the +Captain burst out of the door with the suddenness of an explosion, and coming +towards him at a great pace, and never once looking over his shoulder, +pretended, as soon as they were well out of the street, to whistle a tune. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle much hove down, Wal”r?” inquired the Captain, as they +were walking along. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid so. If you had seen him this morning, you would never have +forgotten it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Walk fast, Wal”r, my lad,” returned the Captain, mending his +pace; “and walk the same all the days of your life. Overhaul the +catechism for that advice, and keep it!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was too busy with his own thoughts of Solomon Gills, mingled +perhaps with some reflections on his late escape from Mrs MacStinger, to offer +any further quotations on the way for Walter’s moral improvement They +interchanged no other word until they arrived at old Sol’s door, where +the unfortunate wooden Midshipman, with his instrument at his eye, seemed to be +surveying the whole horizon in search of some friend to help him out of his +difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“Gills!” said the Captain, hurrying into the back parlour, and +taking him by the hand quite tenderly. “Lay your head well to the wind, +and we’ll fight through it. All you’ve got to do,” said the +Captain, with the solemnity of a man who was delivering himself of one of the +most precious practical tenets ever discovered by human wisdom, “is to +lay your head well to the wind, and we’ll fight through it!” +</p> + +<p> +Old Sol returned the pressure of his hand, and thanked him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come! What do you make of it?” said Captain Cuttle. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Lord help you!” returned the broker; “you don’t +suppose that property’s of any use, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” inquired the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Why? The amount’s three hundred and seventy, odd,” replied +the broker. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind,” returned the Captain, though he was evidently +dismayed by the figures: “all’s fish that comes to your net, I +suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said Mr Brogley. “But sprats ain’t whales, +you know.” +</p> + +<p> +The philosophy of this observation seemed to strike the Captain. He ruminated +for a minute; eyeing the broker, meanwhile, as a deep genius; and then called +the Instrument-maker aside. +</p> + +<p> +“Gills,” said Captain Cuttle, “what’s the bearings of +this business? Who’s the creditor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” returned the old man. “Come away. Don’t speak +before Wally. It’s a matter of security for Wally’s father—an +old bond. I’ve paid a good deal of it, Ned, but the times are so bad with +me that I can’t do more just now. I’ve foreseen it, but I +couldn’t help it. Not a word before Wally, for all the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got some money, haven’t you?” whispered the +Captain. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0126m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“Yes, yes—oh yes—I’ve got some,” returned old +Sol, first putting his hands into his empty pockets, and then squeezing his +Welsh wig between them, as if he thought he might wring some gold out of it; +“but I—the little I have got, isn’t convertible, Ned; it +can’t be got at. I have been trying to do something with it for Wally, +and I’m old fashioned, and behind the time. It’s here and there, +and—and, in short, it’s as good as nowhere,” said the old +man, looking in bewilderment about him. +</p> + +<p> +He had so much the air of a half-witted person who had been hiding his money in +a variety of places, and had forgotten where, that the Captain followed his +eyes, not without a faint hope that he might remember some few hundred pounds +concealed up the chimney, or down in the cellar. But Solomon Gills knew better +than that. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m behind the time altogether, my dear Ned,” said Sol, in +resigned despair, “a long way. It’s no use my lagging on so far +behind it. The stock had better be sold—it’s worth more than this +debt—and I had better go and die somewhere, on the balance. I +haven’t any energy left. I don’t understand things. This had better +be the end of it. Let ’em sell the stock and take him down,” said +the old man, pointing feebly to the wooden Midshipman, “and let us both +be broken up together.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 today, I hadn’t need to think of it. But you only lay your +head well to the wind,” said the Captain, again administering that +unanswerable piece of consolation, “and you’re all right!” +</p> + +<p> +Old Sol thanked him from his heart, and went and laid it against the back +parlour fire-place instead. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle walked up and down the shop for some time, cogitating +profoundly, and bringing his bushy black eyebrows to bear so heavily on his +nose, like clouds setting on a mountain, that Walter was afraid to offer any +interruption to the current of his reflections. Mr Brogley, who was averse to +being any constraint upon the party, and who had an ingenious cast of mind, +went, softly whistling, among the stock; rattling weather-glasses, shaking +compasses as if they were physic, catching up keys with loadstones, looking +through telescopes, endeavouring to make himself acquainted with the use of the +globes, setting parallel rulers astride on to his nose, and amusing himself +with other philosophical transactions. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r!” said the Captain at last. “I’ve got +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you, Captain Cuttle?” cried Walter, with great animation. +</p> + +<p> +“Come this way, my lad,” said the Captain. “The stock’s +the security. I’m another. Your governor’s the man to advance +money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey!” faltered Walter. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain nodded gravely. “Look at him,” he said. “Look at +Gills. If they was to sell off these things now, he’d die of it. You know +he would. We mustn’t leave a stone unturned—and there’s a +stone for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“A stone!—Mr Dombey!” faltered Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“You run round to the office, first of all, and see if he’s +there,” said Captain Cuttle, clapping him on the back. +“Quick!” +</p> + +<p> +Walter felt he must not dispute the command—a glance at his Uncle would +have determined him if he had felt otherwise—and disappeared to execute +it. He soon returned, out of breath, to say that Mr Dombey was not there. It +was Saturday, and he had gone to Brighton. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you what, Wal”r!” said the Captain, who seemed to +have prepared himself for this contingency in his absence. “We’ll +go to Brighton. I’ll back you, my boy. I’ll back you, Wal”r. +We’ll go to Brighton by the afternoon’s coach.” +</p> + +<p> +If the application must be made to Mr Dombey at all, which was awful to think +of, Walter felt that he would rather prefer it alone and unassisted, than +backed by the personal influence of Captain Cuttle, to which he hardly thought +Mr Dombey would attach much weight. But as the Captain appeared to be of quite +another opinion, and was bent upon it, and as his friendship was too zealous +and serious to be trifled with by one so much younger than himself, he forbore +to hint the least objection. Cuttle, therefore, taking a hurried leave of +Solomon Gills, and returning the ready money, the teaspoons, the sugar-tongs, +and the silver watch, to his pocket—with a view, as Walter thought, with +horror, to making a gorgeous impression on Mr Dombey—bore him off to the +coach-office, without a minute’s delay, and repeatedly assured him, on +the road, that he would stick by him to the last. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /> +Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman’s Disaster</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ajor +Bagstock, after long and frequent observation of Paul, across Princess’s +Place, through his double-barrelled opera-glass; and after receiving many +minute reports, daily, weekly, and monthly, on that subject, from the native +who kept himself in constant communication with Miss Tox’s maid for that +purpose; came to the conclusion that Dombey, Sir, was a man to be known, and +that J. B. was the boy to make his acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox, however, maintaining her reserved behaviour, and frigidly declining +to understand the Major whenever he called (which he often did) on any little +fishing excursion connected with this project, the Major, in spite of his +constitutional toughness and slyness, was fain to leave the accomplishment of +his desire in some measure to chance, “which,” as he was used to +observe with chuckles at his club, “has been fifty to one in favour of +Joey B., Sir, ever since his elder brother died of Yellow Jack in the West +Indies.” +</p> + +<p> +It was some time coming to his aid in the present instance, but it befriended +him at last. When the dark servant, with full particulars, reported Miss Tox +absent on Brighton service, the Major was suddenly touched with affectionate +reminiscences of his friend Bill Bitherstone of Bengal, who had written to ask +him, if he ever went that way, to bestow a call upon his only son. But when the +same dark servant reported Paul at Mrs Pipchin’s, and the Major, +referring to the letter favoured by Master Bitherstone on his arrival in +England—to which he had never had the least idea of paying any +attention—saw the opening that presented itself, he was made so rabid by +the gout, with which he happened to be then laid up, that he threw a footstool +at the dark servant in return for his intelligence, and swore he would be the +death of the rascal before he had done with him: which the dark servant was +more than half disposed to believe. +</p> + +<p> +At length the Major being released from his fit, went one Saturday growling +down to Brighton, with the native behind him; apostrophizing Miss Tox all the +way, and gloating over the prospect of carrying by storm the distinguished +friend to whom she attached so much mystery, and for whom she had deserted him. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you, Ma’am, would you!” said the Major, straining with +vindictiveness, and swelling every already swollen vein in his head. +“Would you give Joey B. the go-by, Ma’am? Not yet, Ma’am, not +yet! Damme, not yet, Sir. Joe is awake, Ma’am. Bagstock is alive, Sir. J. +B. knows a move or two, Ma’am. Josh has his weather-eye open, Sir. +You’ll find him tough, Ma’am. Tough, Sir, tough is Joseph. Tough, +and de-vilish sly!” +</p> + +<p> +And very tough indeed Master Bitherstone found him, when he took that young +gentleman out for a walk. But the Major, with his complexion like a Stilton +cheese, and his eyes like a prawn’s, went roving about, perfectly +indifferent to Master Bitherstone’s amusement, and dragging Master +Bitherstone along, while he looked about him high and low, for Mr Dombey and +his children. +</p> + +<p> +In good time the Major, previously instructed by Mrs Pipchin, spied out Paul +and Florence, and bore down upon them; there being a stately gentleman (Mr +Dombey, doubtless) in their company. Charging with Master Bitherstone into the +very heart of the little squadron, it fell out, of course, that Master +Bitherstone spoke to his fellow-sufferers. Upon that the Major stopped to +notice and admire them; remembered with amazement that he had seen and spoken +to them at his friend Miss Tox’s in Princess’s Place; opined that +Paul was a devilish fine fellow, and his own little friend; inquired if he +remembered Joey B. the Major; and finally, with a sudden recollection of the +conventionalities of life, turned and apologised to Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“But my little friend here, Sir,” said the Major, “makes a +boy of me again: An old soldier, Sir—Major Bagstock, at your +service—is not ashamed to confess it.” Here the Major lifted his +hat. “Damme, Sir,” cried the Major with sudden warmth, “I +envy you.” Then he recollected himself, and added, “Excuse my +freedom.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey begged he wouldn’t mention it. +</p> + +<p> +“An old campaigner, Sir,” said the Major, “a smoke-dried, +sun-burnt, used-up, invalided old dog of a Major, Sir, was not afraid of being +condemned for his whim by a man like Mr Dombey. I have the honour of addressing +Mr Dombey, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am the present unworthy representative of that name, Major,” +returned Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“By G—, Sir!” said the Major, “it’s a great name. +It’s a name, Sir,” said the Major firmly, as if he defied Mr Dombey +to contradict him, and would feel it his painful duty to bully him if he did, +“that is known and honoured in the British possessions abroad. It is a +name, Sir, that a man is proud to recognise. There is nothing adulatory in +Joseph Bagstock, Sir. His Royal Highness the Duke of York observed on more than +one occasion, ‘there is no adulation in Joey. He is a plain old soldier +is Joe. He is tough to a fault is Joseph:’ but it’s a great name, +Sir. By the Lord, it’s a great name!” said the Major, solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“You are good enough to rate it higher than it deserves, perhaps, +Major,” returned Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir,” said the Major, in a severe tone. No, Mr Dombey, let us +understand each other. That is not the Bagstock vein, Sir. You don’t know +Joseph B. He is a blunt old blade is Josh. No flattery in him, Sir. Nothing +like it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey inclined his head, and said he believed him to be in earnest, and +that his high opinion was gratifying. +</p> + +<p> +“My little friend here, Sir,” croaked the Major, looking as amiably +as he could, on Paul, “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, “will live in +history. That boy, Sir, is not a common production. Take care of him, Mr +Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey seemed to intimate that he would endeavour to do so. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is a boy here, Sir,” pursued the Major, confidentially, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey glanced at the libelled Master Bitherstone, of whom he knew at least +as much as the Major did, and said, in quite a complacent manner, +“Really?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what he is, sir,” said the Major. “He’s a +fool. Joe Bagstock never minces matters. The son of my old friend Bill +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 +presume, Mr Dombey?” said the Major when he had recovered. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not quite decided,” returned Mr Dombey. “I think not. +He is delicate.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I generally come down once a week, Major,” returned that +gentleman. “I stay at the Bedford.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall have the honour 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 honour of this introduction.” +</p> + +<p> +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, if you come to +that,” added the Major, chuckling very much—stirred up Master +Bitherstone with his walking-stick, and departed with that young gentleman, at +a kind of half-trot; rolling his head and coughing with great dignity, as he +staggered away, with his legs very wide asunder. +</p> + +<p> +In fulfilment of his promise, the Major afterwards called on Mr Dombey; and Mr +Dombey, having referred to the army list, afterwards called on the Major. Then +the Major called at Mr Dombey’s house in town; and came down again, in +the same coach as Mr Dombey. In short, Mr Dombey and the Major got on +uncommonly well together, and uncommonly fast: and Mr Dombey observed of the +Major, to his sister, that besides being quite a military man he was really +something more, as he had a very admirable idea of the importance of things +unconnected with his own profession. +</p> + +<p> +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 neighbour and +acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest Louisa,” said Miss Tox to Mrs Chick, when they were +alone together, on the morning of the appointed day, “if I should seem at +all reserved to Major Bagstock, or under any constraint with him, promise me +not to notice it.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Lucretia,” returned Mrs Chick, “what mystery is +involved in this remarkable request? I must insist upon knowing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Since you are resolved to extort a confession from me, Louisa,” +said Miss Tox instantly, “I have no alternative but to confide to you +that the Major has been particular.” +</p> + +<p> +“Particular!” repeated Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“The Major has long been very particular indeed, my love, in his +attentions,” said Miss Tox, “occasionally they have been so very +marked, that my position has been one of no common difficulty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he in good circumstances?” inquired Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“I have every reason to believe, my dear—indeed I may say I +know,” returned Miss Tox, “that he is wealthy. He is truly +military, and full of anecdote. I have been informed that his valour, when he +was in active service, knew no bounds. I am told that he did all sorts of +things in the Peninsula, with every description of fire-arm; and in the East +and West Indies, my love, I really couldn’t undertake to say what he did +not do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very creditable to him indeed,” said Mrs Chick, “extremely +so; and you have given him no encouragement, my dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I were to say, Louisa,” replied Miss Tox, with every +demonstration of making an effort that rent her soul, “that I never +encouraged Major Bagstock slightly, I should not do justice to the friendship +which exists between you and me. It is, perhaps, hardly in the nature of woman +to receive such attentions as the Major once lavished upon myself without +betraying some sense of obligation. But that is past—long past. Between +the Major and me there is now a yawning chasm, and I will not feign to give +encouragement, Louisa, where I cannot give my heart. My affections,” said +Miss Tox—“but, Louisa, this is madness!” and departed from +the room. +</p> + +<p> +All this Mrs Chick communicated to her brother before dinner: and it by no +means indisposed Mr Dombey to receive the Major with unwonted cordiality. The +Major, for his part, was in a state of plethoric satisfaction that knew no +bounds: and he coughed, and choked, and chuckled, and gasped, and swelled, +until the waiters seemed positively afraid of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Your family monopolises Joe’s light, Sir,” said the Major, +when he had saluted Miss Tox. “Joe lives in darkness. Princess’s +Place is changed into Kamschatka in the winter time. There is no ray of sun, +Sir, for Joey B., now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Tox is good enough to take a great deal of interest in Paul, +Major,” returned Mr Dombey on behalf of that blushing virgin. +</p> + +<p> +“Damme Sir,” said the Major, “I’m jealous of my little +friend. I’m pining away Sir. The Bagstock breed is degenerating in the +forsaken person of old Joe.” And the Major, becoming bluer and bluer and +puffing his cheeks further and further over the stiff ridge of his tight +cravat, stared at Miss Tox, until his eyes seemed as if he were at that moment +being overdone before the slow fire at the military college. +</p> + +<p> +Notwithstanding the palpitation of the heart which these allusions occasioned +her, they were anything but disagreeable to Miss Tox, as they enabled her to be +extremely interesting, and to manifest an occasional incoherence and +distraction which she was not at all unwilling to display. The Major gave her +abundant opportunities of exhibiting this emotion: being profuse in his +complaints, at dinner, of her desertion of him and Princess’s Place: and +as he appeared to derive great enjoyment from making them, they all got on very +well. +</p> + +<p> +None the worse on account of the Major taking charge of the whole conversation, +and showing as great an appetite in that respect as in regard of the various +dainties on the table, among 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 flow of spirits thus +engendered, rang such an infinite number of new changes on his own name that he +quite astonished himself. In a word, they were all very well pleased. The Major +was considered to possess an inexhaustible fund of conversation; and when he +took a late farewell, after a long rubber, Mr Dombey again complimented the +blushing Miss Tox on her neighbour and acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +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, nothing but +a heaving mass of indigo. At length he burst into a violent paroxysm of +coughing, and when that was a little better burst into such ejaculations as the +following: +</p> + +<p> +“Would you, Ma’am, would you? Mrs Dombey, eh, Ma’am? I think +not, Ma’am. Not while Joe B. can put a spoke in your wheel, Ma’am. +J. B.“s even with you now, Ma’am. He isn’t altogether bowled +out, yet, Sir, isn’t Bagstock. She’s deep, Sir, deep, but Josh is +deeper. Wide awake is old Joe—broad awake, and staring, Sir!” There +was no doubt of this last assertion being true, and to a very fearful extent; +as it continued to be 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. +</p> + +<p> +It was on the day after this occasion (being Sunday) when, as Mr Dombey, Mrs +Chick, and Miss Tox were sitting at breakfast, still eulogising the Major, +Florence came running in: her face suffused with a bright colour, and her eyes +sparkling joyfully: and cried, +</p> + +<p> +“Papa! Papa! Here’s Walter! and he won’t come in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” cried Mr Dombey. “What does she mean? What is +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Walter, Papa!” said Florence timidly; sensible of having +approached the presence with too much familiarity. “Who found me when I +was lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does she mean young Gay, Louisa?” inquired Mr Dombey, knitting his +brows. “Really, this child’s manners have become very boisterous. +She cannot mean young Gay, I think. See what it is, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick hurried into the passage, and returned with the information that it +was young Gay, accompanied by a very strange-looking person; and that young Gay +said he would not take the liberty of coming in, hearing Mr Dombey was at +breakfast, but would wait until Mr Dombey should signify that he might +approach. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell the boy to come in now,” said Mr Dombey. “Now, Gay, +what is the matter? Who sent you down here? Was there nobody else to +come?” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Sir,” returned Walter. “I have not been +sent. I have been so bold as to come on my own account, which I hope +you’ll pardon when I mention the cause. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr Dombey, without attending to what he said, was looking impatiently on +either side of him (as if he were a pillar in his way) at some object behind. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” said Mr Dombey. “Who is that? I think +you have made some mistake in the door, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m very sorry to intrude with anyone, Sir,” cried +Walter, hastily: “but this is—this is Captain Cuttle, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my lad,” observed the Captain in a deep voice: +“stand by!” +</p> + +<p> +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 imprinted there. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey regarded this phenomenon with amazement and indignation, and seemed +by his looks to appeal to Mrs Chick and Miss Tox against it. Little Paul, who +had come in after Florence, backed towards Miss Tox as the Captain waved his +hook, and stood on the defensive. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Gay,” said Mr Dombey. “What have you got to say to +me?” +</p> + +<p> +Again the Captain observed, as a general opening of the conversation that could +not fail to propitiate all parties, “Wal”r, standby!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid, Sir,” began Walter, trembling, and looking 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 coming down, I am afraid, if I had not overtaken Miss Dombey, +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” said Mr Dombey, following his eyes as he glanced at the +attentive Florence, and frowning unconsciously as she encouraged him with a +smile. “Go on, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay,” observed the Captain, considering it incumbent on him, as +a point of good breeding, to support Mr Dombey. “Well said! Go on, +Wal”r.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle ought to have been withered by the look which Mr Dombey bestowed +upon him in acknowledgment of his patronage. But quite innocent of this, he +closed one eye in reply, and gave Mr Dombey to understand, by certain +significant motions of his hook, that Walter was a little bashful at first, and +might be expected to come out shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is entirely a private and personal matter, that has brought me here, +Sir,” continued Walter, faltering, “and Captain +Cuttle—” +</p> + +<p> +“Here!” interposed the Captain, as an assurance that he was at +hand, and might be relied upon. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is a very old friend of my poor Uncle’s, and a most excellent +man, Sir,” pursued Walter, raising his eyes with a look of entreaty in +the Captain’s behalf, “was so good as to offer to come with me, +which I could hardly refuse.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no;” observed the Captain complacently. “Of course +not. No call for refusing. Go on, Wal”r.” +</p> + +<p> +“And therefore, Sir,” said Walter, venturing to meet Mr +Dombey’s eye, and proceeding with better courage in the very desperation +of the case, now that there was no avoiding it, “therefore I have come, +with him, Sir, to say that my poor old Uncle is in very great affliction 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 difficulty, Sir, we never +could thank you enough for it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 stock, on which I believe I may say, confidently, there are no +other demands, and there is Captain Cuttle, who would wish to be security too. +I—I hardly like to mention,” said Walter, “such earnings as +mine; but if you would allow +them—accumulate—payment—advance—Uncle—frugal, +honourable, old man.” Walter trailed off, through these broken sentences, +into silence: and stood with downcast head, before his employer. +</p> + +<p> +Considering this a favourable 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 into a heap that they might +look as precious as possible, delivered himself of these words: +</p> + +<p> +“Half a loaf’s better than no bread, and the same remark holds good +with crumbs. There’s a few. Annuity of one hundred pound premium also +ready to be made over. If there is a man chock full of science in the 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!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain then withdrew to his former place, where he stood arranging his +scattered locks with the air of a man who had given the finishing touch to a +difficult performance. +</p> + +<p> +When Walter ceased to speak, Mr Dombey’s eyes were attracted to little +Paul, who, seeing his sister hanging down her head and silently weeping in her +commiseration for the distress she had heard described, went over to her, and +tried to comfort her: looking at Walter and his father as he did so, with a +very expressive face. After the momentary distraction of Captain Cuttle’s +address, which he regarded with lofty indifference, Mr Dombey again turned his +eyes upon his son, and sat steadily regarding the child, for some moments, in +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“What was this debt contracted for?” asked Mr Dombey, at length. +“Who is the creditor?” +</p> + +<p> +“He don’t know,” replied the Captain, putting his 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“People who have enough to do to hold their own way,” said Mr +Dombey, unobservant of the Captain’s mysterious signs behind Walter, and +still looking at his son, “had better be content with their own +obligations and difficulties, and not increase them by engaging for other men. +It is an act of dishonesty and presumption, too,” said Mr Dombey, +sternly; “great presumption; for the wealthy could do no more. Paul, come +here!” +</p> + +<p> +The child obeyed: and Mr Dombey took him on his knee. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had money now—” said Mr Dombey. “Look at +me!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul, whose eyes had wandered to his sister, and to Walter, looked his father +in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had money now,” said Mr Dombey; “as much money as +young Gay has talked about; what would you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Give it to his old Uncle,” returned Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Lend it to his old Uncle, eh?” retorted Mr Dombey. “Well! +When you are old enough, you know, you will share my money, and we shall use it +together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey and Son,” interrupted Paul, who had been tutored early in +the phrase. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey and Son,” repeated his father. “Would you like to +begin to be Dombey and Son, now, and lend this money to young Gay’s +Uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! if you please, Papa!” said Paul: “and so would +Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Girls,” said Mr Dombey, “have nothing to do with Dombey and +Son. Would you like it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Papa, yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you shall do it,” returned his father. “And you see, +Paul,” he added, dropping his voice, “how powerful money is, and +how anxious people are to get it. Young Gay comes all this way to beg for +money, and you, who are so grand and great, having got it, are going to let him +have it, as a great favour and obligation.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul turned up the old face for a moment, in which there was a sharp +understanding of the reference conveyed in these words: but it was a young and +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey then turned to a side-table, and wrote a note and sealed it. During +the interval, Paul and Florence whispered to Walter, and Captain Cuttle beamed +on the three, with such aspiring and ineffably presumptuous thoughts as Mr +Dombey never could have believed in. The note being finished, Mr Dombey turned +round to his former place, and held it out to Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Give that,” he said, “the first thing to-morrow morning, 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 consistent with your +Uncle’s circumstances. You will consider that this is done for you by +Master Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +Walter, in the emotion of holding in his hand the means of releasing his good +Uncle from his trouble, would have endeavoured to express something of his +gratitude and joy. But Mr Dombey stopped him short. +</p> + +<p> +“You will consider that it is done,” he repeated, “by Master +Paul. I have explained that to him, and he understands it. I wish no more to be +said.” +</p> + +<p> +As he motioned towards the door, Walter could only bow his head and retire. +Miss Tox, seeing that the Captain appeared about to do the same, interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Sir,” she said, addressing Mr Dombey, at whose munificence +both she and Mrs Chick were shedding tears copiously; “I think you have +overlooked something. Pardon me, Mr Dombey, I think, in the nobility of your +character, and its exalted scope, you have omitted a matter of detail.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Miss Tox!” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman with the—Instrument,” pursued Miss Tox, +glancing at Captain Cuttle, “has left upon the table, at your +elbow—” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle felt he had no alternative but to comply. But he was so much +struck by the magnanimity of Mr Dombey, in refusing treasures lying heaped up +to his hand, that when he had deposited the teaspoons and sugar-tongs in one +pocket, and the ready money in another, and had lowered the great watch down +slowly 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 down upon its palm in a +transport of admiration. At this touch of warm feeling and cold iron, Mr Dombey +shivered all over. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle then kissed his hook to the ladies several times, with great +elegance and gallantry; and having taken a particular leave of Paul and +Florence, accompanied Walter out of the room. Florence was running after them +in the earnestness of her heart, to send some message to old Sol, when Mr +Dombey called her back, and bade her stay where she was. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you never be a Dombey, my dear child!” said Mrs Chick, with +pathetic reproachfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear aunt,” said Florence. “Don’t be angry with me. I +am so thankful to Papa!” +</p> + +<p> +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 musing; +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. +</p> + +<p> +And young Gay—Walter—what of him? +</p> + +<p> +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 arranged and settled next day before noon; and to sit down at evening in +the little back parlour with old Sol and Captain Cuttle; and to see the +Instrument-maker already 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 be confessed that Walter was humbled and +cast down. It is when our budding hopes are nipped beyond recovery by some +rough wind, that we are the most disposed to picture to ourselves what flowers +they might have borne, if they had flourished; and now, when Walter found +himself cut off from that great Dombey 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 might have led him on to +harmless visions of aspiring to Florence in the remote distance of time. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain viewed the subject in quite a different light. He appeared to +entertain a belief that the interview at which he had assisted was so very +satisfactory and 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, if 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 consequent gaiety, he even attempted, in favouring 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 Fle-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 Mrs MacStinger. +</p> + +<p> +That same evening the Major was diffuse at his club, on the subject of his +friend Dombey in the City. “Damme, Sir,” said the Major, +“he’s a prince, is my friend Dombey in the City. I tell you what, +Sir. If you had a few more men among you like old Joe Bagstock and my friend +Dombey in the City, Sir, you’d do!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /> +Paul’s Introduction to a New Scene</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>rs +Pipchin’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 requiring to be coaxed to sleep by the soporific agency of sweet-breads, +that it utterly set at naught the predictions of Mrs Wickam, and showed no +symptoms of decline. Yet, as Paul’s rapt interest in the old lady +continued unbated, Mrs Wickam would not budge an inch from the position she had +taken up. Fortifying and entrenching herself on the strong ground of her +Uncle’s Betsey 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, Miss Berry,” Mrs Wickam would observe, “that +you’ll come into whatever little property there may be to leave. You +deserve it, I am sure, for yours is a trying life. Though there don’t +seem much worth coming into—you’ll excuse my being so open—in +this dismal den.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Berry took it all in good part, and drudged and slaved away as usual; +perfectly convinced that Mrs Pipchin 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 the credit of Mrs Pipchin by Mrs Pipchin’s friends and +admirers; and were made to harmonise with, and carry out, that melancholy fact +of the deceased Mr Pipchin having broken his heart in the Peruvian mines. +</p> + +<p> +For example, there was an honest grocer and general dealer in the retail line +of business, between whom and Mrs Pipchin there was a small memorandum book, +with a greasy red cover, perpetually in question, and concerning which divers +secret councils and conferences were continually being held between the parties +to that register, on the mat in the passage, and with closed doors in the +parlour. Nor were there wanting dark hints from Master Bitherstone (whose +temper had been made revengeful by the solar heats of India acting on his +blood), of balances unsettled, and of a failure, on one occasion within his +memory, in the supply of moist sugar at tea-time. This grocer being a bachelor +and not a man who looked upon the surface for beauty, had once made honourable +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 staunch, 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 spinsterhood. +</p> + +<p> +“Berry’s very fond of you, ain’t she?” Paul once asked +Mrs Pipchin when they were sitting by the fire with the cat. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs Pipchin. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” asked Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Why!” returned the disconcerted old lady. “How can you ask +such things, Sir! why are you fond of your sister Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she’s very good,” said Paul. “There’s +nobody like Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” retorted Mrs Pipchin, shortly, “and there’s +nobody like me, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t there really though?” asked Paul, leaning forward in +his chair, and looking at her very hard. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the old lady. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad of that,” observed Paul, rubbing his hands thoughtfully. +“That’s a very good thing.” +</p> + +<p> +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 bed-time, that he began +that very night to make arrangements for an overland 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 remained 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 +occasioned in the Castle by the unlooked-for announcement of Mr Dombey as a +visitor to Mrs Pipchin. The population of the parlour was immediately swept +upstairs as on the wings of a whirlwind, and after much slamming of bedroom +doors, and trampling overhead, and some knocking about of Master Bitherstone by +Mrs Pipchin, as a relief to the perturbation of her spirits, the black +bombazeen garments of the worthy old lady darkened the audience-chamber where +Mr Dombey was contemplating the vacant arm-chair of his son and heir. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Pipchin,” said Mr Dombey, “How do you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Sir,” said Mrs Pipchin, “I am pretty well, +considering.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin always used that form of words. It meant, considering her virtues, +sacrifices, and so forth. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t expect, Sir, to be very well,” said Mrs Pipchin, +taking a chair and fetching her breath; “but such health as I have, I am +grateful for.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey inclined his head with the satisfied air of a patron, who felt that +this was the sort of thing for which he paid so much a quarter. After a +moment’s silence he went on to say: +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Pipchin, I have taken the liberty of calling, to consult you in +reference to my son. I have had it in my mind to do so for some time past; but +have deferred it from time to time, in order that his health might be +thoroughly re-established. You have no misgivings on that subject, Mrs +Pipchin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Brighton has proved very beneficial, Sir,” returned Mrs Pipchin. +“Very beneficial, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I purpose,” said Mr Dombey, “his remaining at +Brighton.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin rubbed her hands, and bent her grey eyes on the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” pursued Mr Dombey, stretching out his forefinger, “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 getting +on, Mrs Pipchin. Really, he is getting on.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something melancholy in the triumphant air with which Mr Dombey said +this. It showed how long Paul’s childish life had been to him, and how +his hopes were set upon a later stage of his existence. Pity may appear a +strange word to connect with anyone so haughty and so cold, and yet he seemed a +worthy subject for it at that moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Six years old!” said Mr Dombey, settling his +neckcloth—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ten years,” croaked the unsympathetic Pipchin, with a frosty +glistening of her hard grey eye, and a dreary shaking of her bent head, +“is a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +“It depends on circumstances, returned Mr Dombey; “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 +Pipchin, instead of being behind his peers, my son ought to be before them; far +before them. There is an eminence ready for him to mount upon. There is nothing +of chance or doubt in the course before my son. His way in life was clear and +prepared, and marked out before he existed. The education of such a young +gentleman must not be delayed. It must not be left imperfect. It must be very +steadily and seriously undertaken, Mrs Pipchin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir,” said Mrs Pipchin, “I can say nothing to the +contrary.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was quite sure, Mrs Pipchin,” returned Mr Dombey, approvingly, +“that a person of your good sense could not, and would not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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,” said Mrs Pipchin, impatiently rubbing her hooked +nose. “It never was thought of in my time, and it has no business to be +thought of now. My opinion is ‘keep ’em at it’.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 satisfied 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. I have been thinking of Doctor Blimber’s, Mrs Pipchin.” +</p> + +<p> +“My neighbour, Sir?” said Mrs Pipchin. “I believe the +Doctor’s is an excellent establishment. I’ve heard that it’s +very strictly conducted, and there is nothing but learning going on from +morning to night.” +</p> + +<p> +“And it’s very expensive,” added Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“And it’s very expensive, Sir,” returned Mrs Pipchin, +catching at the fact, as if in omitting that, she had omitted one of its +leading merits. +</p> + +<p> +“I have had some communication with the Doctor, Mrs Pipchin,” said +Mr Dombey, hitching his chair anxiously a little nearer to the fire, “and +he does not consider Paul at all too young for his purpose. He mentioned +several instances of boys in Greek at about the same age. If I have any little +uneasiness in my own mind, Mrs Pipchin, on the subject of this change, it is +not on that head. My son not having known a mother has gradually concentrated +much—too much—of his childish affection on his sister. Whether +their separation—” Mr Dombey said no more, but sat silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Hoity-toity!” exclaimed Mrs Pipchin, shaking out her black +bombazeen 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 apologised immediately afterwards for using so common a figure of speech, +but said (and truly) that that was the way she reasoned with ’em. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey waited until Mrs Pipchin had done bridling and shaking her head, and +frowning down a legion of Bitherstones and Pankeys; and then said quietly, but +correctively, “He, my good madam, he.” +</p> + +<p> +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 grey eye was sharp +enough to see that the recipe, however Mr Dombey might admit 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 different form +of life he would lead at Doctor Blimber’s, and the studies he would have +to master, would very soon prove sufficient alienations. As this chimed in with +Mr Dombey’s own hope and belief, it gave that gentleman a still higher +opinion of Mrs Pipchin’s understanding; and as Mrs Pipchin, at the same +time, bewailed the loss of her dear little friend (which was not an +overwhelming shock to her, as she had long expected it, and had not looked, in +the beginning, for his remaining with her longer than three months), he formed +an equally good opinion of Mrs Pipchin’s disinterestedness. It was plain +that he had given the subject anxious consideration, for he had formed a plan, +which he announced to the ogress, of sending Paul to the Doctor’s as a +weekly boarder for the first half year, during which time Florence would remain +at the Castle, that she might receive her brother there, on Saturdays. This +would wean him by degrees, Mr Dombey said; possibly with a recollection of his +not having been weaned by degrees on a former occasion. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey finished the interview by expressing his hope that Mrs Pipchin would +still remain in office as general superintendent and overseer of his son, +pending his studies at Brighton; and having kissed Paul, and shaken hands with +Florence, and beheld Master Bitherstone in his collar of state, and made Miss +Pankey cry by patting her on the head (in which region she was uncommonly +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Doctor Blimber’s establishment was a great hot-house, in which +there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work. All the boys blew before +their time. Mental green-peas were produced at Christmas, and intellectual +asparagus all the year round. Mathematical gooseberries (very sour ones too) +were common at untimely 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. Nature was +of no consequence at all. No matter what a young gentleman was intended to +bear, Doctor Blimber made him bear to pattern, somehow or other. +</p> + +<p> +This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system of forcing was +attended with its usual disadvantages. There was not the right taste about the +premature productions, and they didn’t keep well. Moreover, one young +gentleman, with a swollen nose and an excessively large head (the oldest of the +ten who had “gone through” everything), suddenly left off blowing +one 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 nurserymaids, who +had no idea of his existence; and looking at the gas-lighted world over the +little iron bars in the left-hand corner window of the front three pairs of +stairs, after bed-time, like a greatly overgrown cherub who had sat up aloft +much too long. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black, with strings at his +knees, and stockings below them. He had a bald head, 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 pair of little eyes that were always +half shut up, and a mouth that was always half expanded into a grin, as if he +had, that moment, posed a boy, and were waiting to convict him from his own +lips. Insomuch, that when the Doctor put his right hand into the breast of his +coat, and with his other 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 sphynx, and settled his business. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor’s was a mighty fine house, fronting the sea. Not a joyful +style of house within, but quite the contrary. Sad-coloured curtains, whose +proportions were spare and lean, hid themselves despondently behind the +windows. The tables and chairs were put away in rows, like figures in a sum; +fires were so rarely lighted in the rooms of ceremony, that they felt like +wells, and a visitor represented the bucket; the dining-room seemed the last +place in the world where any eating or drinking was likely to occur; there was +no sound through 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 cooing of +young gentlemen at their lessons, like the murmurings of an assemblage of +melancholy pigeons. +</p> + +<p> +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 her hair short and crisp, and wore spectacles. She was dry and sandy with +working in the graves of deceased languages. None of your live languages for +Miss Blimber. They must be dead—stone dead—and then Miss Blimber +dug them up like a Ghoul. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Blimber, her Mama, 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 gentlemen, in the largest possible shirt-collars, and the +stiffest possible cravats. It was so classical, she said. +</p> + +<p> +As to Mr Feeder, B.A., Doctor Blimber’s assistant, he was a kind of human +barrel-organ, with a little list of tunes at which he was continually working, +over and over again, without any variation. He might have been fitted up with a +change of barrels, perhaps, in early life, if his destiny had been favourable; +but it had not been; and he had only one, with which, in a monotonous round, it +was his occupation to bewilder the young ideas of Doctor Blimber’s young +gentlemen. The young gentlemen were prematurely full of carking anxieties. They +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 parents 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 afterwards departed, that all the fancies +of the poets, and lessons of the sages, were a mere collection of words and +grammar, and had no other meaning in the world. +</p> + +<p> +But he went on blow, blow, blowing, in the Doctor’s hothouse, all the +time; and the Doctor’s glory and reputation were great, when he took his +wintry growth home to his relations and friends. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin hovered behind the victim, with her sable 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 she waited +for the opening of the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Almost,” returned the child. +</p> + +<p> +Even his childish agitation could not master the sly and quaint yet touching +look, with which he accompanied the reply. +</p> + +<p> +It brought a vague expression of dissatisfaction into Mr Dombey’s face; +but the door being opened, it was quickly gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Doctor Blimber is at home, I believe?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +The man said yes; and as they passed in, looked at Paul as if he were a little +mouse, and the house were a trap. He was a weak-eyed young man, with the first +faint streaks or early dawn of a grin on his countenance. It was mere +imbecility; but Mrs Pipchin took it into her head that it was impudence, and +made a snap at him directly. +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you laugh behind the gentleman’s back?” said Mrs +Pipchin. “And what do you take me for?” +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t a laughing at nobody, and I’m sure I don’t +take you for nothing, Ma’am,” returned the young man, in +consternation. +</p> + +<p> +“A pack of idle dogs!” said Mrs Pipchin, “only fit to be +turnspits. Go and tell your master that Mr Dombey’s here, or it’ll +be worse for you!” +</p> + +<p> +The weak-eyed young man went, very meekly, to discharge himself of this +commission; and soon came back to invite them to the Doctor’s study. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re laughing again, Sir,” said Mrs Pipchin, when it came +to her turn, bringing up the rear, to pass him in the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t,” returned the young man, grievously oppressed. +“I never see such a thing as this!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Mrs Pipchin?” said Mr Dombey, looking round. +“Softly! Pray!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a globe at each knee, +books all round him, Homer over the door, and Minerva on the mantel-shelf. +“And how do you do, Sir?” he said to Mr Dombey, “and how is +my little friend?” Grave as an organ was the Doctor’s speech; and +when he ceased, the great clock in the hall seemed (to Paul at least) to take +him up, and to go on saying, “how, is, my, lit, tle, friend? how, is, my, +lit, tle, friend?” over and over and over again. +</p> + +<p> +The little friend being something too small to be seen at all from where the +Doctor sat, over the books on his table, the Doctor made several futile +attempts to get a view of him round the legs; which Mr Dombey perceiving, +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” said the Doctor, leaning back in his chair with his hand in +his breast. “Now I see my little friend. How do you do, my little +friend?” +</p> + +<p> +The clock in the hall wouldn’t subscribe to this alteration in the form +of words, but continued to repeat how, is, my, lit, tle, friend? how, is, my, +lit, tle, friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, I thank you, Sir,” returned Paul, answering the clock +quite as much as the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” said Doctor Blimber. “Shall we make a man of +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear, Paul?” added Mr Dombey; Paul being silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we make a man of him?” repeated the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“I had rather be a child,” replied Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” said the Doctor. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +The child sat on the table looking at him, with a curious expression of +suppressed emotion in his face, and beating one hand proudly on his knee as if +he had the rising tears beneath it, and crushed them. But his other hand +strayed a little way the while, a little farther—farther from him +yet—until it lighted on the neck of Florence. “This is why,” +it seemed to say, and then the steady look was broken up and gone; the working +lip was loosened; and the tears came streaming forth. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Pipchin,” said his father, in a querulous manner, “I am +really very sorry to see this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come away from him, do, Miss Dombey,” quoth the matron. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind,” said the Doctor, blandly nodding his head, to keep +Mrs Pipchin back. “Never mind; we shall substitute new cares and new +impressions, Mr Dombey, very shortly. You would still wish my little friend to +acquire—” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything, if you please, Doctor,” returned Mr Dombey, firmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the Doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes, and his usual +smile, seemed to survey Paul with the sort of interest that might attach to +some choice little animal he was going to stuff. “Yes, exactly. Ha! We +shall impart a great variety of information to our little friend, and bring him +quickly forward, I daresay. I daresay. Quite a virgin soil, I believe you said, +Mr Dombey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Except some ordinary preparation at home, and from this lady,” +replied Mr Dombey, introducing Mrs Pipchin, who instantly communicated a +rigidity to her whole muscular system, and snorted defiance beforehand, in case +the Doctor should disparage her; “except so far, Paul has, as yet, +applied himself to no studies at all.” +</p> + +<p> +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 satisfactory, he observed, rubbing his hands, to begin at the foundation. +And again he leered at Paul, as if he would have liked to tackle him with the +Greek alphabet, on the spot. +</p> + +<p> +“That circumstance, indeed, Doctor Blimber,” pursued Mr Dombey, +glancing at his little son, “and the interview I have already had the +pleasure of holding with you, renders any further explanation, and +consequently, any further intrusion on your valuable time, so unnecessary, +that—” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Miss Dombey!” said the acid Pipchin. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 endangering his position on the table. But, on this hint, she turned to +admire his classical and intellectual lineaments, and turning again to Mr +Dombey, said, with a sigh, that she envied his dear son. +</p> + +<p> +“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 a husband—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, hush,” said Doctor Blimber. “Fie for shame.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife,” said Mrs +Blimber, with an engaging smile. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey answered “Not at all:” applying those words, it is to be +presumed, to the partiality, and not to the forgiveness. +</p> + +<p> +“And it may seem remarkable in one who is a mother also,” resumed +Mrs Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +“And such a mother,” observed Mr Dombey, bowing with some confused +idea of being complimentary to Cornelia. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cornelia looked at Mr Dombey through her spectacles, as if she would have liked +to crack a few quotations with him from the authority in question. But this +design, if she entertained it, was frustrated by a knock at the room-door. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that?” said the Doctor. “Oh! Come in, Toots; come in. +Mr Dombey, Sir.” Toots bowed. “Quite a coincidence!” said +Doctor Blimber. “Here we have the beginning and the end. Alpha and Omega. +Our head boy, Mr Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor might have called him their head and shoulders boy, for he was at +least that much taller than any of the rest. He blushed very much at finding +himself among strangers, and chuckled aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“An addition to our little Portico, Toots,” said the Doctor; +“Mr Dombey’s son.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If Mr Dombey will walk upstairs,” said Mrs Blimber, “I shall +be more than proud to show him the dominions of the drowsy god.” +</p> + +<p> +With that, Mrs Blimber, who was a lady of great suavity, and a wiry figure, and +who wore a cap composed of sky-blue materials, proceeded upstairs with Mr +Dombey and Cornelia; Mrs Pipchin following, and looking out sharp for her enemy +the footman. +</p> + +<p> +While they were gone, Paul sat upon the table, holding Florence by the hand, +and glancing timidly from the Doctor round and round the room, while the +Doctor, leaning back in his chair, with his hand in his breast as usual, held a +book from him at arm’s length, and read. There was something very awful +in this manner of reading. It was such a determined, unimpassioned, inflexible, +cold-blooded way of going to work. It left the Doctor’s countenance +exposed to view; and when the Doctor smiled suspiciously at his author, or knit +his brows, or shook his head and made wry faces at him, as much as to say, +“Don’t tell me, Sir; I know better,” it was terrific. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey and his conductress were soon heard coming downstairs again, talking +all the way; and presently they re-entered the Doctor’s study. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, Mr Dombey,” said the Doctor, laying down his book, +“that the arrangements meet your approval.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are excellent, Sir,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Very fair, indeed,” said Mrs Pipchin, in a low voice; never +disposed to give too much encouragement. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Pipchin,” said Mr Dombey, wheeling round, “will, with +your permission, Doctor and Mrs Blimber, visit Paul now and then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whenever Mrs Pipchin pleases,” observed the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Always happy to see her,” said Mrs Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Mr Dombey, “I have given all the trouble I +need, and may take my leave. Paul, my child,” he went close to him, as he +sat upon the table. “Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Papa.” +</p> + +<p> +The limp and careless little hand that Mr Dombey took in his, was singularly +out of keeping with the wistful face. But he had no part in its sorrowful +expression. It was not addressed to him. No, no. To Florence—all to +Florence. +</p> + +<p> +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 compensation for his +injury. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall see you soon, Paul. You are free on Saturdays and Sundays, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Papa,” returned Paul: looking at his sister. “On +Saturdays and Sundays.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll try and learn a great deal here, and be a clever +man,” said Mr Dombey; “won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try,” returned the child, wearily. +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll soon be grown up now!” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“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 extinguished itself in her black dress. That excellent ogress +stepped forward to take leave and to bear off Florence, which 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 small hand again, he +took leave of Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss Blimber, with his usual +polite frigidity, and walked out of the study. +</p> + +<p> +Despite his entreaty that they would not think of stirring, Doctor Blimber, Mrs +Blimber, and Miss Blimber all pressed forward to attend him to the hall; and +thus Mrs Pipchin got into a state of entanglement with Miss Blimber and the +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 to throw her arms round his neck, and that hers was the +last face in the doorway: turned towards him with a smile of encouragement, the +brighter for the tears through which it beamed. +</p> + +<p> +It made his childish bosom heave and swell when it was gone; and sent the +globes, the books, blind Homer and Minerva, swimming round the room. But they +stopped, all of a sudden; and then he heard the loud clock in the hall still +gravely inquiring “how, is, my, lit, tle, friend? how, is, my, lit, tle, +friend?” as it had done before. +</p> + +<p> +He sat, with folded hands, upon his pedestal, silently listening. But he might +have answered “weary, weary! very lonely, very sad!” And there, +with an aching void in his young heart, and all outside so cold, and bare, and +strange, Paul sat as if he had taken life unfurnished, and the upholsterer were +never coming. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /> +Paul’s Education</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>fter +the lapse of some minutes, which appeared an immense time to little Paul Dombey +on the table, Doctor Blimber came back. The Doctor’s walk was stately, +and calculated to impress the juvenile mind with solemn feelings. It was a sort +of march; but when the Doctor put out his right foot, he gravely turned upon +his axis, with a semi-circular sweep towards the left; and when he put out his +left foot, he turned in the same manner towards the right. So that he seemed, +at every stride he took, to look about him as though he were saying, “Can +anybody have the goodness to indicate any subject, in any direction, on which I +am uninformed? I rather think not.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Cornelia,” said the Doctor, “Dombey will be your charge at +first. Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Blimber received her young ward from the Doctor’s hands; and Paul, +feeling that the spectacles were surveying him, cast down his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“How old are you, Dombey?” said Miss Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dombey?” said Miss +Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +“None of it,” answered Paul. Feeling that the answer was a shock to +Miss Blimber’s sensibility, he looked up at the three faces that were +looking down at him, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a dreadfully low name” said Mrs Blimber. “Unclassical +to a degree! Who is the monster, child?” +</p> + +<p> +“What monster?” inquired Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Glubb,” said Mrs Blimber, with a great disrelish. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s no more a monster than you are,” returned Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” cried the Doctor, in a terrible voice. “Ay, ay, ay? +Aha! What’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +Paul was dreadfully frightened; but still he made a stand for the absent Glubb, +though he did it trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a very nice old man, Ma’am,” he said. “He +used to draw my couch. He knows all about the deep sea, and the fish that are +in it, and the great monsters that come and lie on rocks in the sun, and dive +into the water again when they’re startled, blowing and splashing so, +that they can be heard for miles. There are some creatures, said Paul, warming +with his subject, “I don’t know how many yards long, and I forget +their names, but 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 runs away, and +then, as they turn 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 my Mama that’s dead, or what it is that it is +always saying—always saying! he knows a great deal about it. And I +wish,” the child concluded, with a sudden falling of his countenance, and +failing in his animation, as he looked 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” said the Doctor, shaking his head; “this is bad, but +study will do much.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Take him round the house, Cornelia,” said the Doctor, “and +familiarise him with his new sphere. Go with that young lady, Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Dombey obeyed; giving his hand to the abstruse Cornelia, and looking at her +sideways, with timid curiosity, 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. +</p> + +<p> +Cornelia took him first to the schoolroom, which was situated at the back of +the hall, and was approached through two baize doors, which deadened and +muffled the young gentlemen’s voices. Here, there were eight young +gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration, all very hard at work, and +very grave indeed. Toots, as an old hand, had a desk to himself in one corner: +and a magnificent man, of immense age, he looked, in Paul’s young eyes, +behind it. +</p> + +<p> +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, +two, who grasped their foreheads convulsively, were engaged in solving +mathematical problems; one with his face like a dirty window, from much crying, +was endeavouring to flounder through a hopeless number of lines before dinner; +and one sat looking at his task in stony stupefaction and despair—which +it seemed had been his condition ever since breakfast time. +</p> + +<p> +The appearance of a new boy did not create the sensation that might have been +expected. Mr Feeder, B.A. (who was in the habit of shaving his head for +coolness, and had nothing but little bristles on it), gave him a 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 was flabby and quite cold. +</p> + +<p> +Paul having been already introduced to Toots, that pupil merely chuckled and +breathed hard, as his custom was, and pursued the occupation in which he was +engaged. It was not a severe one; for on account of his having “gone +through” so much (in more senses than one), and also of his having, as +before hinted, left off blowing in his prime, Toots now had licence to pursue +his own course of study: which was chiefly to write long letters to himself +from persons of distinction, adds “P. Toots, Esquire, Brighton, +Sussex,” and to preserve them in his desk with great care. +</p> + +<p> +These ceremonies passed, Cornelia led Paul upstairs to the top of the house; +which was rather a slow journey, 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. +</p> + +<p> +Just as they got downstairs again into the hall, Paul saw the weak-eyed young +man who had given that mortal 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 +dreadful 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 schoolroom among +his “friends.” +</p> + +<p> +So Dombey, deferentially passing the great clock which was still as anxious as +ever to know how he found himself, opened the schoolroom door a very little +way, and strayed in like a lost boy: shutting it after him with some +difficulty. His friends were all dispersed about the room except the stony +friend, who remained immoveable. Mr Feeder was stretching himself in his grey +gown, as if, regardless of expense, he were resolved to pull the sleeves off. +</p> + +<p> +“Heigh ho hum!” cried Mr Feeder, shaking himself like a cart-horse. +“Oh dear me, dear me! Ya-a-a-ah!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul was quite alarmed by Mr Feeder’s yawning; it was done on such a +great scale, and he was so terribly in earnest. All the boys too (Toots +excepted) seemed knocked up, and were getting ready for dinner—some newly +tying their neckcloths, which were very stiff indeed; and others washing their +hands or brushing their hair, in an adjoining ante-chamber—as if they +didn’t think they should enjoy it at all. +</p> + +<p> +Young Toots who was ready beforehand, and had therefore nothing to do, and had +leisure to bestow upon Paul, said, with heavy good nature: +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down, Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Sir,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +His endeavouring 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 discovery. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a very small chap;” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir, I’m small,” returned Paul. “Thank you, +Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +For Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done it kindly too. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s your tailor?” inquired Toots, after looking at him for +some moments. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a woman that has made my clothes as yet,” said Paul. +“My sister’s dressmaker.” +</p> + +<p> +“My tailor’s Burgess and Co.,” said Toots. +“Fash’nable. But very dear.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your father’s regularly rich, ain’t he?” inquired Mr +Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir,” said Paul. “He’s Dombey and Son.” +</p> + +<p> +“And which?” demanded Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“And Son, Sir,” replied Paul. +</p> + +<p> +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 mention 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 and Son +immediately. +</p> + +<p> +By this time the other pupils (always excepting the 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 injury upon him, too, had Bitherstone. +</p> + +<p> +“You sleep in my room, don’t you?” asked a solemn young +gentleman, whose shirt-collar curled up the lobes of his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Master Briggs?” inquired Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Tozer,” said the young gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +Paul answered yes; and Tozer pointing out the stony pupil, said that was +Briggs. Paul had already felt certain that it must be either Briggs or Tozer, +though he didn’t know why. +</p> + +<p> +“Is yours a strong constitution?” inquired Tozer. +</p> + +<p> +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 saying “yes,” +all the young gentlemen (Briggs excepted) gave a low groan. +</p> + +<p> +It was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gong, which 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 crosswise 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. +</p> + +<p> +Grace having been said by the Doctor, dinner began. There was some nice soup; +also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables, pie, and cheese. Every young +gentleman had a massive silver fork, and a napkin; and all the arrangements +were stately and handsome. In particular, there was a butler in a blue coat and +bright buttons, who gave quite a winey flavour to the table beer; he poured it +out so superbly. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor Blimber, Mrs Blimber, and Miss +Blimber, 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 +Blimber, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“It is remarkable, Mr Feeder, that the Romans—” +</p> + +<p> +At the mention of this terrible people, their implacable enemies, every young +gentleman fastened his gaze upon the Doctor, with an assumption of the deepest +interest. One of the number who happened to be drinking, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 provinces were ravaged to supply the +splendid means of one Imperial Banquet—” +</p> + +<p> +Here the offender, who had been swelling and straining, and waiting in vain for +a full stop, broke out violently. +</p> + +<p> +“Johnson,” said Mr Feeder, in a low reproachful voice, “take +some water.” +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until the water was brought, and +then resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“And when, Mr Feeder—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Mr Feeder, reddening. “I beg +your pardon, Doctor Blimber.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when,” said the Doctor, raising his voice, “when, Sir, +as we read, and have no reason to doubt—incredible as it may appear to +the vulgar—of our time—the brother of Vitellius prepared for him a +feast, in which were served, of fish, two thousand dishes—” +</p> + +<p> +“Take some water, Johnson—dishes, Sir,” said Mr Feeder. +</p> + +<p> +“Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or try a crust of bread,” said Mr Feeder. +</p> + +<p> +“And one dish,” pursued Doctor Blimber, raising his voice still +higher as he looked all round the table, “called, from its enormous +dimensions, the Shield of Minerva, and made, among other costly ingredients, of +the brains of pheasants—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ow, ow, ow!” (from Johnson.) +</p> + +<p> +“Woodcocks—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ow, ow, ow!” +</p> + +<p> +“The sounds of the fish called scari—” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll burst some vessel in your head,” said Mr Feeder. +“You had better let it come.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“What would be your mother’s feelings if you died of +apoplexy!” said Mr Feeder. +</p> + +<p> +“A Domitian—” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’re blue, you know,” said Mr Feeder. +</p> + +<p> +“A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and many more, pursued +the Doctor; “it is, Mr Feeder—if you are doing me the honour to +attend—remarkable; VERY remarkable, Sir—” +</p> + +<p> +But Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst at that moment into such +an overwhelming fit of coughing, that although both his immediate neighbours +thumped him on the back, and Mr Feeder himself held a glass of water to his +lips, and the butler walked him up and down several times between his own chair +and the sideboard, like a sentry, it was a full five minutes before he was +moderately composed. Then there was a profound silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” said Doctor Blimber, “rise for Grace! Cornelia, +lift Dombey down”—nothing of whom but his scalp was accordingly +seen above the tablecloth. “Johnson will repeat to me tomorrow 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, in half-an-hour.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0157m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +The young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr Feeder did likewise. During the +half-hour, the young gentlemen, broken into pairs, loitered arm-in-arm up and +down a small piece of ground behind the house, or endeavoured to kindle a spark +of animation in the breast of Briggs. But nothing happened so vulgar as play. +Punctually at the appointed time, the gong was sounded, and the studies, under +the joint auspices of Doctor Blimber and Mr Feeder, were resumed. +</p> + +<p> +As the Olympic game of lounging up and down had been cut shorter than usual +that day, on Johnson’s account, they all went out for a walk before tea. +Even Briggs (though he hadn’t begun yet) partook of this dissipation; in +the enjoyment of which he looked over the cliff two or three times darkly. +Doctor Blimber accompanied them; and Paul had the honour of being taken in tow +by the Doctor himself: a distinguished state of things, in which he looked very +little and feeble. +</p> + +<p> +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 meantime 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, as before, inquired if he was fond of waistcoats. +</p> + +<p> +Paul said “Yes, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“So am I,” said Toots. +</p> + +<p> +No word more spoke Toots that night; but he stood looking at Paul as if he +liked him; and as there was company in that, and Paul was not inclined to talk, +it answered his purpose better than conversation. +</p> + +<p> +At eight o’clock or so, the gong sounded again for prayers in the +dining-room, where the butler afterwards presided over a side-table, on which +bread and cheese and beer were spread for such young gentlemen as desired to +partake of those refreshments. The ceremonies concluded by the Doctor’s +saying, “Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven to-morrow;” +and then, for the first time, Paul saw Cornelia Blimber’s eye, and saw +that it was upon him. When the Doctor had said these words, “Gentlemen, +we will resume our studies at seven tomorrow,” the pupils bowed again, +and went to bed. +</p> + +<p> +In the confidence of their own room upstairs, Briggs 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 prophetic words, he undressed himself moodily, +and got into bed. Briggs was in his bed too, and Paul in his bed too, before +the weak-eyed young man appeared to take away the candle, when he wished them +good-night and pleasant dreams. But his benevolent wishes were in vain, as far +as Briggs and Tozer were concerned; for Paul, who lay awake for a long while, +and often woke afterwards, found that Briggs was ridden by his lesson as a +nightmare: 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 was all one to Paul—which, in the silence of night, had an +inexpressibly wicked and guilty effect. +</p> + +<p> +Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +shivering and rubbing his shoulders in a very bad humour. Poor Paul +couldn’t dress himself easily, not being used to it, and asked them if +they would have the goodness to tie some strings for him; but as Briggs merely +said “Bother!” and Tozer, “Oh yes!” he went down when +he was otherwise ready, to the next storey, where he saw a pretty young woman +in leather gloves, cleaning a 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 downstairs, towards the room in which the +young gentlemen resumed their studies, when, passing by a door that stood ajar, +a voice from within cried, “Is that Dombey?” On Paul replying, +“Yes, Ma’am:” for he knew the voice to be Miss +Blimber’s: Miss Blimber said, “Come in, Dombey.” And in he +went. +</p> + +<p> +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 +she had already her spectacles on, which made Paul wonder whether she went to +bed in them. She had a cool little sitting-room of her own up there, with some +books in it, and no fire But Miss Blimber was never cold, and never sleepy. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, “I am going out for a +constitutional.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul wondered what that was, and why she didn’t send the footman out to +get it in such unfavourable weather. But he made no observation on the subject: +his attention being devoted to a little pile of new books, on which Miss +Blimber appeared to have been recently engaged. +</p> + +<p> +“These are yours, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +“All of ’em, Ma’am?” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Ma’am,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“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 have got to learn. Don’t +lose time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them downstairs, and +begin directly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Ma’am,” answered Paul. +</p> + +<p> +There were so many of them, that although Paul put one hand under the bottom +book and his other hand and his chin on the top book, and hugged them all +closely, the middle book 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 before two of them escaped again. But he held the rest so +tight, that he only left one more on the first floor, and one in the passage; +and when he had got the main body down into the schoolroom, he set off upstairs +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 +interruption 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 upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. “How have you got on with +those books?” +</p> + +<p> +They comprised a little English, and a deal of Latin—names of things, +declensions of articles and substantives, exercises thereon, and preliminary +rules—a trifle of orthography, a glance at ancient history, a wink or 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 obtruded themselves into +number three, which slided into number four, which grafted itself on to number +two. So that whether twenty Romuluses made a Remus, or hic haec hoc was troy +weight, or a verb always agreed with an ancient Briton, or three times four was +Taurus a bull, were open questions with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Dombey, Dombey!” said Miss Blimber, “this is very +shocking.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please,” said Paul, “I think if I might sometimes +talk a little to old Glubb, I should be able to do better.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, I suppose, Dombey, one by one, and perfect yourself in the day’s +instalment of subject A, before you turn at all to subject B. I am sorry to +say, Dombey, that your education appears to have been very much +neglected.” +</p> + +<p> +“So Papa says,” returned Paul; “but I told you—I have +been a weak child. Florence knows I have. So does Wickam.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is Wickam?” asked Miss Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +“She has been my nurse,” Paul answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I must beg you not to mention Wickam to me, then,” said Miss +Blimber. “I couldn’t allow it”. +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me who she was,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” returned Miss Blimber; “but this is all very +different indeed from anything of that sort, Dombey, and I couldn’t think +of permitting it. As to having been weak, you must begin to be strong. And now +take away the top book, if you please, Dombey, and return when you are master +of the theme.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Blimber 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 laboured away at it, down below: sometimes +remembering every word of it, and sometimes forgetting it all, and everything +else besides: until at last he ventured upstairs again to repeat the lesson, +when it was nearly all driven out of his head before he began, by Miss +Blimber’s shutting up the book, and saying, “Go on, Dombey!” +a proceeding so suggestive of the knowledge inside of her, that Paul looked +upon the young lady with consternation, as a kind of learned Guy Fawkes, or +artificial Bogle, stuffed full of scholastic straw. +</p> + +<p> +He acquitted himself very well, nevertheless; and Miss Blimber, commending him +as giving promise of getting on fast, immediately provided him with subject B; +from which he passed to C, and even D before dinner. It was hard work, resuming +his studies, soon after dinner; and he felt giddy and confused and drowsy and +dull. But all the other young gentlemen had similar 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 neighbourhood. +The studies went round like a mighty wheel, and the young gentlemen were always +stretched upon it. +</p> + +<p> +After tea there were exercises again, and preparations for next day by +candlelight. And in due course there was bed; where, but for that resumption of +the studies which took place in dreams, were rest and sweet forgetfulness. +</p> + +<p> +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 Sabbaths for at least two little +Christians among all the Jews, and did the holy Sabbath work of strengthening +and knitting up a brother’s and a sister’s love. +</p> + +<p> +Not even Sunday nights—the heavy Sunday nights, whose shadow darkened the +first waking burst of light on Sunday mornings—could mar those precious +Saturdays. Whether it was the great sea-shore, where they sat, and strolled +together; or whether it was only Mrs Pipchin’s dull back room, in which +she sang to him so softly, with his drowsy head upon her arm; Paul never cared. +It was Florence. That was all he thought of. So, on Sunday nights, when the +Doctor’s dark door stood agape to swallow him up for another week, the +time was come for taking leave of Florence; no one else. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Wickam had been drafted home to the house in town, and Miss Nipper, now a +smart young woman, had come down. To many a single combat with Mrs Pipchin, did +Miss Nipper gallantly devote herself, and if ever Mrs Pipchin in all her life +had found her match, she 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 bouncing in upon her from the passage, even in unguarded +moments of chops, and carried desolation to her very toast. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t show ’em to me, Miss Floy, if you please,” +returned Nipper, “I’d as soon see Mrs Pipchin.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, tomorrow morning. I +have money enough,” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, goodness gracious me, Miss Floy,” returned Miss Nipper, +“how can you talk like that, when you have books upon books already, and +masterses and mississes a teaching of you everything continual, though my +belief 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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can buy me the books, Susan; and you will, when you know why I +want them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Paul has a great deal too much to do, Susan,” said Florence, +“I am sure of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And well you may be, Miss,” returned her maid, “and make +your mind quite easy that the willing dear is worked and worked away. If those +is Latin legs,” exclaimed Miss Nipper, with strong feeling—in +allusion to Paul’s; “give me English ones.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid he feels lonely and lost at Doctor Blimber’s, +Susan,” pursued Florence, turning away her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Miss Nipper, with great sharpness, “Oh, them +‘Blimbers’” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t blame anyone,” said Florence. “It’s a +mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say nothing about blame, Miss,” cried Miss Nipper, “for I +know that you object, but I may wish, Miss, that the family was set to work to +make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front and had the pickaxe.” +</p> + +<p> +After this speech, Miss Nipper, who was perfectly serious, wiped her eyes. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0164m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The books were not easy to procure; and the answer at several shops was, either +that they were just out of them, or that they never kept them, or that they had +had a great many last month, or that they expected a great many next week But +Susan was not easily baffled in such an enterprise; and having entrapped a +white-haired youth, in a black calico apron, from a library where she was +known, to accompany her in her quest, she led him such a life in going up and +down, that he exerted himself to the utmost, if it were only to get rid of her; +and finally enabled her to return home in triumph. +</p> + +<p> +With these treasures then, after her own daily lessons were over, Florence sat +down at night to track Paul’s footsteps through the thorny ways of +learning; and being possessed of a naturally quick and sound 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 grey; and when the candles were burnt +down and guttering out;—Florence tried so hard to be a substitute for one +small Dombey, that her fortitude and perseverance might have almost won her a +free right to bear the name herself. +</p> + +<p> +And high was her reward, when one Saturday evening, as little Paul was sitting +down as usual to “resume his studies,” she sat down by his side, +and showed him all that was so rough, made smooth, and all that was so dark, +made clear and plain, before him. It was nothing but a startled look in +Paul’s wan face—a flush—a smile—and then a close +embrace—but God knows how her heart leapt up at this rich payment for her +trouble. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Floy!” cried her brother, “how I love you! How I love +you, Floy!” +</p> + +<p> +“And I you, dear!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I am sure of that, Floy.” +</p> + +<p> +He said no more about it, but all that evening sat close by her, very quiet; +and in the night he called out from his little room within hers, three or four +times, that he loved her. +</p> + +<p> +Regularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit down with Paul on Saturday +night, and patiently assist him through so much as they could anticipate +together of his next week’s work. The cheering thought that he was +labouring on where Florence had just toiled before 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, consequent on this assistance, +it saved him, possibly, from sinking underneath the burden which the fair +Cornelia Blimber piled upon his back. +</p> + +<p> +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, regarded the young gentlemen as if they were +all Doctors, and were born grown up. Comforted by the applause of the young +gentlemen’s nearest relations, and urged on by their blind vanity and +ill-considered haste, it would have been strange if Doctor Blimber had +discovered his mistake, or trimmed his swelling sails to any other tack. +</p> + +<p> +Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he made great progress and +was naturally clever, Mr Dombey was more bent than ever on his being forced and +crammed. In the case of Briggs, when Doctor Blimber reported that he did not +make great progress yet, and was not naturally clever, Briggs senior was +inexorable in the same purpose. In short, however high and false the +temperature at which the Doctor kept his hothouse, the owners of the plants +were always ready to lend a helping hand at the bellows, and to stir the fire. +</p> + +<p> +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 +circumstances so favourable to the development of those tendencies, became even +more strange, and old, and thoughtful, than before. +</p> + +<p> +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 +member of the Doctor’s household, as he had had in Mrs Pipchin. He loved +to be alone; and in those short intervals when he was not occupied with his +books, liked nothing so 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 paperhanging in the house; saw things that no one else +saw in the patterns; found out miniature tigers and lions running up the +bedroom walls, and squinting faces leering in the squares and diamonds of the +floor-cloth. +</p> + +<p> +The solitary child lived on, surrounded by this arabesque 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. +</p> + +<p> +Unless young Toots had some idea on the subject, to the expression of which he +was wholly unequal. Ideas, like ghosts (according to the common notion of +ghosts), must be spoken to a little before they will explain themselves; and +Toots had long left off asking any questions of his own mind. Some mist there +may have been, issuing from that leaden casket, his cranium, which, if it could +have taken shape and form, would have become a genie; but it could not; and it +only so far followed the example of the smoke in the Arabian 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. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you?” he would say to Paul, fifty times a day. +“Quite well, Sir, thank you,” Paul would answer. “Shake +hands,” would be Toots’s next advance. +</p> + +<p> +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 which Paul again replied, “Quite well, Sir, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +One evening Mr Toots was sitting at his desk, oppressed 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I say!” cried Toots, speaking the moment he entered the room, lest +he should forget it; “what do you think about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I think about a great many things,” replied Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you, though?” said Toots, appearing to consider that fact in +itself surprising. “If you had to die,” said Paul, looking up into +his face—Mr Toots started, and seemed much disturbed. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think you would rather die on a moonlight night, when +the sky was quite clear, and the wind blowing, as it did last night?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shaking his head, that he +didn’t know about that. +</p> + +<p> +“Not blowing, at least,” said Paul, “but sounding in the air +like the sea sounds in the shells. It was a beautiful night. When I had +listened to the water for a long time, I got up and looked out. There was a +boat over there, in the full light of the moon; a boat with a sail.” +</p> + +<p> +The child looked at him so steadfastly, and spoke so earnestly, that Mr Toots, +feeling himself called upon to say something about this boat, said, +“Smugglers.” But with an impartial remembrance of there being two +sides to every question, he added, “or Preventive.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pitch,” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“It seemed to beckon,” said the child, “to beckon me to +come!—There she is! There she is!” +</p> + +<p> +Toots was almost beside himself with dismay at this sudden exclamation, after +what had gone before, and cried “Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +His quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasure, as he stood at his +window, kissing and clapping his hands: and the way in which the light +retreated from his features as she passed out of his view, and left a patient +melancholy on the little face: were too remarkable wholly to escape even +Toots’s notice. Their interview being interrupted at this moment by a +visit from Mrs Pipchin, who usually brought her black skirts to bear upon Paul +just before dusk, once or twice a week, Toots had no opportunity of improving +the occasion: but it left so marked an 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 invention of the weak-eyed +young man downstairs, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, one other figure walked alone before +the Doctor’s house. He rarely joined them on the Saturdays now. He could +not bear it. He would rather come unrecognised, and look up at the windows +where his son was qualifying for a man; and wait, and watch, and plan, and +hope. +</p> + +<p> +Oh! could he but have seen, or seen as others did, the slight spare boy above, +watching the waves and clouds at twilight, with his earnest eyes, and breasting +the window of his solitary cage when birds flew by, as if he would have +emulated them, and soared away! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /> +Shipping Intelligence and Office Business</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r +Dombey’s offices were in a court where there was an old-established stall +of choice fruit at the corner: 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Dombey. 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. +</p> + +<p> +The clerks within were not a whit behind-hand in their demonstrations of +respect. A solemn hush prevailed, as Mr Dombey passed through the outer office. +The wit of the Counting-House became in a moment as mute as the row of leathern +fire-buckets hanging up behind him. Such vapid and flat daylight as filtered +through the ground-glass windows and 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 appearance, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, carried 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 Dombey’s elbow. And so +little objection had Perch to being deferential in the last degree, that if he +might have laid himself at Mr Dombey’s feet, or might have called him by +some such title as used to be bestowed upon the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, he +would have been all the better pleased. +</p> + +<p> +As this honour would have been an innovation and an experiment, Perch was fain +to content himself by expressing as well as he could, in his manner, You 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 +for ever. +</p> + +<p> +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 passage outside Mr Dombey’s door. Mr +Carker, as Grand Vizier, inhabited the room that was nearest to the Sultan. Mr +Morfin, as an officer of inferior state, inhabited the room that was nearest to +the clerks. +</p> + +<p> +The gentleman last mentioned was a cheerful-looking, hazel-eyed elderly +bachelor: gravely attired, as to his upper man, in black; and as to his legs, +in pepper-and-salt colour. 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 +in that stately 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 business; +and had a paternal affection for his violoncello, which was once in every week +transported from Islington, his place of abode, to a certain club-room hard by +the Bank, where quartettes of the most tormenting and excruciating nature were +executed every Wednesday evening by a private party. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker was a gentleman thirty-eight or forty years old, of a florid +complexion, 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 Dombey, to +a man in your position from a man in mine, there is no show of subservience +compatible with the transaction of business between us, that I should think +sufficient. I frankly tell you, Sir, I give it up altogether. I feel that I +could not satisfy my own mind; and Heaven knows, Mr Dombey, you can afford to +dispense with the endeavour.” If he had carried these words about with +him printed on a placard, and had constantly offered it to Mr Dombey’s +perusal on the breast of his coat, he could not have been more explicit than he +was. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Carker?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Coolish!” observed Carker, stirring the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Rather,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Any news of the young gentleman who is so important to us all?” +asked Carker, with his whole regiment of teeth on parade. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—not direct news—I hear he’s very well,” said +Mr Dombey. Who had come from Brighton over-night. But no one knew It. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, and becoming a great scholar, no doubt?” observed the +Manager. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” returned Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Egad!” said Mr Carker, shaking his head, “Time flies!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so, sometimes,” returned Mr Dombey, glancing at his +newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! You! You have no reason to think so,” observed Carker. +“One who sits on such an elevation as yours, and can sit there, unmoved, +in all seasons—hasn’t much reason to know anything about the flight +of time. It’s men like myself, who are low down and are not superior in +circumstances, and who inherit new masters in the course of Time, that have +cause to look about us. I shall have a rising sun to worship, soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Time enough, time enough, Carker!” said Mr Dombey, rising from his +chair, and standing with his back to the fire. “Have you anything there +for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know that I need trouble you,” returned Carker, +turning over the papers in his hand. “You have a committee today at +three, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“And one at three, three-quarters,” added Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have an accurate memory of your own,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I!” returned the manager. “It’s the only capital +of a man like me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey did not look less pompous or at all displeased, as he stood leaning +against the chimney-piece, surveying his (of course unconscious) clerk, from +head to foot. The stiffness and nicety of 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Morfin’s here,” he answered, looking up with his widest and +almost sudden smile; “humming musical recollections—of his last +night’s quartette party, I suppose—through the walls between us, +and driving me half mad. I wish he’d make a bonfire of his violoncello, +and burn his music-books in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You respect nobody, Carker, I think,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A dangerous quality, if real; and a not less dangerous one, if feigned. But Mr +Dombey hardly seemed to think so, as he still stood with his back to the fire, +drawn up to his full height, and looking at his head-clerk with a dignified +composure, in which there seemed to lurk a stronger latent sense of power than +usual. +</p> + +<p> +“Talking of Morfin,” resumed Mr Carker, taking out one paper from +the rest, “he reports a junior dead in the agency at Barbados, and +proposes to reserve a passage in the Son and Heir—she’ll sail in a +month or so—for the successor. You don’t care who goes, I suppose? +We have nobody of that sort here.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey shook his head with supreme indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no very precious appointment,” observed Mr Carker, +taking up a pen, with which to endorse a memorandum on the back of the paper. +“I hope he may bestow it on some orphan nephew of a musical friend. It +may perhaps stop his fiddle-playing, if he has a gift that way. Who’s +that? Come in!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +At the mention of this name, Mr Carker the Manager was or affected to be, +touched to the quick with shame and humiliation. He cast his eyes full on Mr +Dombey with an altered and apologetic look, abased them on the ground, and +remained for a moment without speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought, Sir,” he said suddenly and angrily, turning on Walter, +“that you had been before requested not to drag Mr Carker the Junior into +your conversation.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” returned Walter. “I was only going to +say that Mr Carker the Junior had told me he believed you were gone out, or I +should not have knocked at the door when you were engaged with Mr Dombey. These +are letters for Mr Dombey, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Sir,” returned Mr Carker the Manager, plucking them +sharply from his hand. “Go about your business.” +</p> + +<p> +But in taking them with so little ceremony, Mr Carker dropped one on the floor, +and did not see what he had done; neither did Mr Dombey observe the letter +lying near his feet. Walter hesitated for a moment, thinking that one or other +of them would notice it; but finding that neither did, he stopped, came back, +picked it up, and laid it himself on Mr Dombey’s desk. The letters were +post-letters; and it happened that the one in question was Mrs Pipchin’s +regular report, directed as usual—for Mrs Pipchin was but an indifferent +penwoman—by Florence. Mr Dombey, having his attention 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. +</p> + +<p> +“You can leave the room, Sir!” said Mr Dombey, haughtily. +</p> + +<p> +He crushed the letter in his hand; and having watched Walter out at the door, +put it in his pocket without breaking the seal. +</p> + +<p> +“These continual references to Mr Carker the Junior,” Mr Carker the +Manager began, as soon as they were alone, “are, to a man in my position, +uttered before one in yours, so unspeakably distressing—” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Carker,” Mr Dombey interrupted. “You are too +sensitive.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sensitive,” he returned. “If one in your position could +by any possibility imagine yourself in my place: which you cannot: you would be +so too.” +</p> + +<p> +As Mr Dombey’s thoughts were evidently pursuing some other subject, his +discreet ally broke off here, and stood with his teeth ready to present to him, +when he should look up. +</p> + +<p> +“You want somebody to send to the West Indies, you were saying,” +observed Mr Dombey, hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Send young Gay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good, very good indeed. Nothing easier,” said Mr Carker, without +any show of surprise, and taking up the pen to re-endorse the letter, as coolly +as he had done before. “‘Send young Gay.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Call him back,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker was quick to do so, and Walter was quick to return. +</p> + +<p> +“Gay,” said Mr Dombey, turning a little to look at him over his +shoulder. “Here is a—” +</p> + +<p> +“An opening,” said Mr Carker, with his mouth stretched to the +utmost. +</p> + +<p> +“In the West Indies. At Barbados. I am going to send you,” said Mr +Dombey, scorning to embellish the bare truth, “to fill a junior situation +in the counting-house at Barbados. Let your Uncle know from me, that I have +chosen you to go to the West Indies.” +</p> + +<p> +Walter’s breath was so completely taken away by his astonishment, that he +could hardly find enough for the repetition of the words “West +Indies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody must go,” said Mr Dombey, “and you are young and +healthy, and your Uncle’s circumstances are not good. Tell your Uncle +that you are appointed. You will not go yet. There will be an interval of a +month—or two perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I remain there, Sir?” inquired Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you remain there, Sir!” repeated Mr Dombey, turning a little +more round towards him. “What do you mean? What does he mean, +Carker?” +</p> + +<p> +“Live there, Sir,” faltered Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” returned Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +Walter bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t wait, Gay,” observed Mr Carker: bare to the +gums. +</p> + +<p> +“Unless,” said Mr Dombey, stopping in his reading without looking +off the letter, and seeming to listen. “Unless he has anything to +say.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir,” returned Walter, agitated and confused, and almost +stunned, as an infinite variety of pictures presented themselves to his mind; +among which Captain Cuttle, in his glazed hat, transfixed with astonishment at +Mrs MacStinger’s, and his uncle bemoaning his loss in the little back +parlour, held prominent places. “I hardly know—I—I am much +obliged, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“He needn’t wait, Carker,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +And as Mr Carker again echoed the words, and also collected his papers as if he +were going away 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. +</p> + +<p> +Going along the passage, with the mingled consciousness and helplessness of a +dream, he heard Mr Dombey’s door shut again, as Mr Carker came out: and +immediately afterwards that gentleman called to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring your friend Mr Carker the Junior to my room, Sir, if you +please.” +</p> + +<p> +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 Carker the Manager. +</p> + +<p> +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 +himself could have looked. He received them without any change in his attitude +or softening of his harsh and black expression: merely signing to Walter to +close the door. +</p> + +<p> +“John Carker,” said the Manager, when this was done, turning +suddenly upon his brother, with his two rows of teeth bristling as if he would +have bitten him, “what is the league between you and this young man, in +virtue of which I am haunted and hunted by the mention of your name? Is it not +enough for you, John Carker, that I am your near relation, and can’t +detach myself from that—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“From that disgrace,” assented his brother with keen emphasis, +“but is the fact to be blurted out and trumpeted, and proclaimed +continually in the presence of the very House! In moments of confidence too? Do +you think your name is calculated to harmonise in this place with trust and +confidence, John Carker?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” returned the other. “No, James. God knows I have no +such thought.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is your thought, then?” said his brother, “and why do +you thrust yourself in my way? Haven’t you injured me enough +already?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have never injured you, James, wilfully.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are my brother,” said the Manager. “That’s injury +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could undo it, James.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you could and would.” +</p> + +<p> +During this conversation, Walter had looked from one brother to the other, with +pain and amazement. He who was the Senior in years, and Junior in the House, +stood, with his eyes cast upon the ground, and his head bowed, humbly listening +to the reproaches of the other. Though these were rendered very bitter by the +tone and look with which they were accompanied, and by the presence of Walter +whom they so much surprised and shocked, he entered no other protest against +them than by slightly raising his right hand in a deprecatory manner, as if he +would have said, “Spare me!” So, had they been blows, and he a +brave man, under strong constraint, and weakened by bodily suffering, he might +have stood before the executioner. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Carker,” he said, addressing himself to the Manager. +“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 expressed wish. But +it has been my own mistake, Sir. We have never exchanged one word upon the +subject—very few, indeed, on any subject. And it has not been,” +added Walter, after a moment’s pause, “all heedlessness on my part, +Sir; for I have felt an interest in Mr Carker ever since I have been here, and +have hardly been able to help speaking of him sometimes, when I have thought of +him so much!” +</p> + +<p> +Walter said this from his soul, and with the very breath of honour. For he +looked upon the bowed head, and the downcast eyes, and upraised hand, and +thought, “I have felt it; and why should I not avow it in behalf of this +unfriended, broken man!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker the Manager looked at him, as he spoke, and when he had finished +speaking, with a smile that seemed to divide his face into two parts. +</p> + +<p> +“You are an excitable youth, Gay,” he said; “and should +endeavour to cool down a little now, for it would be unwise to encourage +feverish predispositions. Be as cool as you can, Gay. Be as cool as you can. +You might have asked Mr John Carker himself (if you have not done so) whether +he claims to be, or is, an object of such strong interest.” +</p> + +<p> +“James, do me justice,” said his brother. “I have claimed +nothing; and I claim nothing. Believe me, on my—” +</p> + +<p> +“Honour?” said his brother, with another smile, as he warmed +himself before the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“On my Me—on my fallen life!” returned the other, in the same +low voice, but with a deeper stress on his words than he had yet seemed capable +of giving them. “Believe me, I have held myself aloof, and kept alone. +This has been unsought by me. I have avoided him and everyone. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, you have avoided me, Mr Carker,” said Walter, with the +tears rising to his eyes; so true was his compassion. “I know it, to my +disappointment and regret. When I first came here, and ever since, I am sure I +have tried to be as much your friend, as one of my age could presume to be; but +it has been of no use. +</p> + +<p> +“And observe,” said the Manager, taking him up quickly, “it +will be of still less use, Gay, if you persist in forcing Mr John +Carker’s name on people’s attention. That is not the way to +befriend Mr John Carker. Ask him if he thinks it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no service to me,” said the brother. “It only leads to +such a conversation as the present, which I need not say I could have well +spared. No one can be a better friend to me:” he spoke here very +distinctly, as if he would impress it upon Walter: “than in forgetting +me, and leaving me to go my way, unquestioned and unnoticed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your memory not being retentive, Gay, of what you are told by +others,” said Mr Carker the Manager, warming himself with great and +increased satisfaction, “I thought it well that you should be told this +from the best authority,” nodding towards his brother. “You are not +likely to forget it now, I hope. That’s all, Gay. You can go.” +</p> + +<p> +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 position he could not help +overhearing what followed. +</p> + +<p> +“Think of me more leniently, if you can, James,” said 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 self.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your other self!” repeated the Manager, disdainfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Not as I am, but as I was when I first came here 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 of +leading on to good or evil.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not,” said his brother, with some hidden and sarcastic +meaning in his tone. +</p> + +<p> +“You strike me sharply; and your hand is steady, and your thrust is very +deep,” returned the other, speaking (or so Walter thought) as if some +cruel weapon actually stabbed him as he spoke. “I imagined all this when +he was a boy. I believed it. It was a truth to me. I saw him lightly walking on +the edge of an unseen gulf where so many others walk with equal gaiety, and +from which—” +</p> + +<p> +“The old excuse,” interrupted his brother, as he stirred the fire. +“So many. Go on. Say, so many fall.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 little lower; and went on stumbling still, until he fell +headlong and found himself below a shattered man. Think what I suffered, when I +watched that boy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have only yourself to thank for it,” returned the brother. +</p> + +<p> +“Only myself,” he assented with a sigh. “I don’t seek +to divide the blame or shame.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have divided the shame,” James Carker muttered through his +teeth. And, through so many and such close teeth, he could mutter well. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, James,” returned his brother, speaking for the first time in +an accent of reproach, and seeming, by the sound of his voice, to have covered +his face with his hands, “I have been, since then, a useful foil to you. +You have trodden on me freely in your climbing up. Don’t spurn me with +your heel!” +</p> + +<p> +A silence ensued. After a time, Mr Carker the Manager was heard rustling among +his papers, as if he had resolved to bring the interview to a conclusion. At +the same time his brother withdrew nearer to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all,” he said. “I watched him with such +trembling and such fear, as was some little punishment to 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 I had seen direct cause, I would have shown him my +example. I was afraid to be seen speaking with him, lest it should be 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 +history, in connexion with young Walter Gay, and what he has made me feel; and +think of me more leniently, James, if you can.” +</p> + +<p> +With these words he came out to where Walter was 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Carker, pray let me thank you! Let me say how much I feel for you! +How sorry I am, to have been the unhappy cause of all this! How I almost look +upon you now as my protector and guardian! How very, very much, I feel obliged +to you and pity you!” said Walter, squeezing both his hands, and hardly +knowing, in his agitation, what he did or said. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Morfin’s room being close at hand and empty, and the door wide open, +they moved thither by one accord: the passage being seldom free from someone +passing to or fro. When they were there, and Walter saw in Mr Carker’s +face some traces of the emotion within, he almost felt as if he had never seen +the face before; it was so greatly changed. +</p> + +<p> +“Walter,” he said, laying his hand on his shoulder. “I am far +removed from you, and may I ever be. Do you know what I am?” +</p> + +<p> +“What you are!” appeared to hang on Walter’s lips, as he +regarded him attentively. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Again his last few words hung trembling upon Walter’s lips, but he could +neither utter them, nor any of his own. +</p> + +<p> +“The House was very good to me. May Heaven reward 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 present seat, alone as now, but then a known and recognised example +to the rest. They were all merciful to me, and I lived. Time has altered that +part of my poor expiation; and I think, except the three heads of the House, +there is no one here who knows my story rightly. Before the little boy grows +up, and has it told to him, my corner may be vacant. I would rather that it +might be so! This is the only change to me since that day, when I left all +youth, and hope, and good men’s company, behind me in that room. God +bless you, Walter! Keep you, and all dear to you, in honesty, or strike them +dead!” +</p> + +<p> +Some recollection of his trembling from head to foot, as if with excessive +cold, and of his bursting into tears, was all that Walter could add to this, +when he tried to recall exactly what had passed between them. +</p> + +<p> +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 connexion 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. +</p> + +<p> +But it was true, and the news had already penetrated to the outer office; for +while he sat with a heavy heart, pondering on these things, and resting his +head upon his arm, Perch the messenger, descending from his mahogany bracket, +and jogging his elbow, begged his pardon, but wished to say in his ear, Did he +think he could arrange to send home to England a jar of preserved Ginger, +cheap, for Mrs Perch’s own eating, in the course of her recovery from her +next confinement? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /> +Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home for the Holidays</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen +the Midsummer vacation approached, no indecent manifestations of joy were +exhibited by the leaden-eyed young gentlemen assembled at Doctor +Blimber’s. Any such violent expression as “breaking up,” +would have been quite inapplicable to that polite establishment. The young +gentlemen oozed away, semi-annually, to their own homes; but they never broke +up. They would have scorned the action. +</p> + +<p> +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, +designing him for the Church, was of opinion that he couldn’t be in that +forward state of preparation too soon—Tozer said, indeed, that choosing +between two evils, he thought he would rather stay where he was, than go home. +However inconsistent this declaration might appear with that passage in +Tozer’s Essay on the subject, wherein he had observed “that the +thoughts of home and all its recollections, awakened in his mind the most +pleasing emotions of anticipation and delight,” and had also likened +himself to a Roman General, flushed with a recent victory over the Iceni, or +laden with Carthaginian spoil, advancing within a few hours’ march of the +Capitol, presupposed, for the purposes of the simile, to be the dwelling-place +of Mrs Tozer, still it was very sincerely made. For it seemed that Tozer had a +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 +similar pretence of kindness, carried him to see a Giant, or a Dwarf, or a +Conjuror, or anything, Tozer knew he had read up some classical allusion to the +subject beforehand, and was thrown into a state of mortal apprehension: not +foreseeing where he might break out, or what authority he might not quote +against him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 quite +tame and frolicsome. The grim sly faces in the squares and diamonds of the +floor-cloth, relaxed and peeped out at him with less wicked eyes. The grave old +clock had more of personal interest in the tone of its formal inquiry; and the +restless sea went rolling on all night, to the sounding of a melancholy +strain—yet it was pleasant too—that rose and fell with the waves, +and rocked him, as it were, to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Feeder, B.A., seemed to think that he, too, would enjoy the holidays very +much. Mr Toots projected a life of holidays from that time forth; for, as he +regularly informed Paul every day, it was his “last half” at Doctor +Blimber’s, and he was going to begin to come into his property directly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 constituted +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 “chuckle-headed noodle.” +Whereas the innocent Toots had no more idea of awakening Mrs Pipchin’s +wrath, than he had of any other definite possibility or proposition. On the +contrary, he was disposed to consider her rather a remarkable character, with +many points of interest about her. For this reason he smiled on her with so +much urbanity, and asked her how she did, so often, in the course of her visits +to little Paul, that at last she one night told him plainly, she wasn’t +used to it, whatever he might think; and she could not, and she would not bear +it, either from himself or any other puppy then existing: at which unexpected +acknowledgment of his civilities, Mr Toots was so alarmed that he secreted +himself in a retired spot until she had gone. Nor did he ever again face the +doughty Mrs Pipchin, under Doctor Blimber’s roof. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Ma’am,” returned Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“You know what I mean, do you, Dombey?” inquired Miss Blimber, +looking hard at him, through the spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Ma’am,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“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 information?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Pipchin told me I wasn’t to ask questions,” returned +Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“I must beg you not to mention Mrs Pipchin to me, on any account, +Dombey,” returned Miss Blimber. “I couldn’t think of allowing +it. The course of study here, is very far removed from anything of that sort. A +repetition of such allusions would make it necessary for me to request to hear, +without a mistake, before breakfast-time to-morrow morning, from Verbum +personale down to simillimia cygno.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean, Ma’am—” began little Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn’t mean, if you +please, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, who preserved an awful politeness in +her admonitions. “That is a line of argument I couldn’t dream of +permitting.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul felt it safest to say nothing at all, so he only looked at Miss +Blimber’s spectacles. Miss Blimber having shaken her head at him gravely, +referred to a paper lying before her. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Analysis of the character of P. Dombey.’ If my recollection +serves me,” said Miss Blimber breaking off, “the word analysis as +opposed to synthesis, is thus defined by Walker. ‘The resolution of an +object, whether of the senses or of the intellect, into its first +elements.’ As opposed to synthesis, you observe. Now you know what +analysis is, Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Dombey didn’t seem to be absolutely blinded by the light let in upon his +intellect, but he made Miss Blimber a little bow. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Analysis,’” resumed Miss Blimber, casting her eye +over the paper, “‘of the character of P. Dombey.’ I find that +the natural capacity of Dombey is extremely good; and that his general +disposition to study may be stated in an equal ratio. Thus, taking eight as our +standard and highest number, I find these qualities in Dombey stated each at +six three-fourths!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Blimber paused to see how Paul received this news. Being undecided whether +six three-fourths meant six pounds fifteen, or sixpence three farthings, or six +foot three, or three quarters past six, or six somethings that he hadn’t +learnt yet, with three unknown something elses over, Paul rubbed his hands and +looked straight at Miss Blimber. It happened to answer as well as anything else +he could have done; and Cornelia proceeded. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low company, as +evinced in the case of a person named Glubb, originally seven, but since +reduced. Gentlemanly demeanour four, and improving with advancing years.’ +Now what I particularly wish to call your attention to, Dombey, is the general +observation at the close of this analysis.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul set himself to follow it with great care. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It may be generally observed of Dombey,’” said Miss +Blimber, reading in a loud voice, and at every second word directing her +spectacles towards the little figure before her: “‘that his +abilities and inclinations are 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 +gentlemen of his age and social position.’ Now, Dombey,” said Miss +Blimber, laying down the paper, “do you understand that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I do, Ma’am,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“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. It +is naturally painful to us; for we can’t like you, you know, Dombey, as +well as we could wish.” +</p> + +<p> +She touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly become more and more +solicitous from day to day, as the time of his departure drew more near, that +all the house should like him. From some hidden reason, very imperfectly +understood by himself—if understood at all—he felt a gradually +increasing impulse of affection, towards almost everything and everybody in the +place. He could not bear to think that they would be quite indifferent to him +when he was gone. He wanted them to remember him kindly; and he had made it his +business even to conciliate a great hoarse shaggy 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Blimber, who had joined them, he preferred +the same petition: and when that lady could not forbear, even in his presence, +from giving utterance to her often-repeated opinion, that he was an odd child, +Paul told her that he was sure she was quite right; that he thought it must be +his bones, but he didn’t know; and that he hoped she would overlook it, +for he was fond of them all. +</p> + +<p> +“Not so fond,” said Paul, with a mixture of timidity and perfect +frankness, which was one of the most peculiar and most engaging qualities of +the child, “not so fond as I am of Florence, of course; that could never +be. You couldn’t expect that, could you, Ma’am?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! the old-fashioned little soul!” cried Mrs Blimber, in a +whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“But I like everybody here very much,” pursued Paul, “and I +should grieve to go away, and think that anyone was glad that I was gone, or +didn’t care.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the oddest child in the world; and +when she told the Doctor what had passed, the Doctor did not controvert his +wife’s opinion. But he said, as he had said before, when Paul first came, +that study would do much; and he also said, as he had said on that occasion, +“Bring him on, Cornelia! Bring him on!” +</p> + +<p> +Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously as she could; and Paul had had +a hard life of it. But over and above the getting through his tasks, he had +long had another purpose always present to him, and to which he still held +fast. It was, to be a gentle, useful, 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 watching the waves and clouds from his +solitary window, he was oftener found, too, among the other boys, modestly +rendering them some little voluntary service. Thus it came to pass, that even +among those rigid and absorbed young anchorites, who mortified themselves +beneath the roof of Doctor Blimber, Paul was an object of general interest; a +fragile little plaything that they all liked, and that no one would have +thought of treating roughly. But he could not change his nature, or rewrite the +analysis; and so they all agreed that Dombey was old-fashioned. +</p> + +<p> +There were some immunities, however, attaching to the character enjoyed by no +one else. They could have better spared a newer-fashioned child, and that alone +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 punishment, 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 rumoured that the butler, +regarding him with favour such as that stern man had never shown before to +mortal boy, had sometimes mingled porter with his table-beer to make him +strong. +</p> + +<p> +Over and above these extensive privileges, Paul had free 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 flute, +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 secondhand key-bugle, a chess-board and +men, a Spanish Grammar, a set of sketching materials, and a pair of +boxing-gloves. The art of self-defence Mr Feeder said he should undoubtedly +make a point of learning, as he considered it the duty of every man to do; for +it might lead to the protection of a female in distress. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr Feeder’s great possession was a large green jar of snuff, which Mr +Toots had brought down as a present, at the close of the last vacation; and for +which he had paid a high price, having been the genuine property of the Prince +Regent. Neither Mr Toots nor Mr Feeder could partake of this or any other +snuff, even in the most stinted and moderate degree, without being seized with +convulsions of sneezing. Nevertheless it was their great delight to moisten a +box-full with cold tea, stir it up on a piece of parchment with a paper-knife, +and devote themselves to its consumption then and there. In the course of which +cramming of their noses, they endured surprising torments with the constancy of +martyrs: and, drinking table-beer at intervals, felt all the glories of +dissipation. +</p> + +<p> +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 +holidays, 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 book +of travels or wild adventure, and was almost afraid of such a slashing person. +</p> + +<p> +Going into this room one evening, when the holidays were very near, Paul found +Mr Feeder filling up the 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 of the letters towards him, “And +there you are, too, Dombey. That’s yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine, Sir?” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“Your invitation,” returned Mr Feeder. +</p> + +<p> +Paul, looking at it, found, in copper-plate 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’s +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 be expected to inform Doctor and Mrs Blimber, in +superfine small-hand, that Mr P. Dombey would be happy to have the honour of +waiting on them, in accordance with their polite invitation. Lastly, Mr Feeder +said, he had better not refer to the festive occasion, in the hearing of Doctor +and Mrs Blimber; as these preliminaries, and the whole of the arrangements, +were conducted on principles of classicality and high breeding; and that Doctor +and Mrs Blimber on the one hand, and the young gentlemen on the other, were +supposed, in their scholastic capacities, not to have the least idea of what +was in the wind. +</p> + +<p> +Paul thanked Mr Feeder for these hints, and pocketing 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 +dropped 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Come, come! That’s well! How is my little friend now?” +said Doctor Blimber, encouragingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite well, thank you, Sir,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +But there seemed to be something the matter with the floor, for he +couldn’t stand upon it steadily; and with the walls too, for they were +inclined to turn round and round, and could only be stopped by being looked at +very hard indeed. 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 upstairs, 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 +chimney. +</p> + +<p> +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 kind too in Mr Feeder, that Paul, not being able to make up his +mind whether it was best to laugh or cry at him, did both at once. +</p> + +<p> +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, instead of Mr Feeder, he cried out, +“Mrs Pipchin, don’t tell Florence!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t tell Florence what, my little Paul?” said Mrs Pipchin, +coming round to the bedside, and sitting down in the chair. +</p> + +<p> +“About me,” said Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Mrs Pipchin. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think I mean to do when I grow up, Mrs Pipchin?” +inquired Paul, turning his face towards her on his pillow, and resting his chin +wistfully on his folded hands. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin couldn’t guess. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean,” said Paul, “to put my money all together in one +Bank, never try to get any more, go away into the country with my darling +Florence, have a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and live there with her +all my life!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” cried Mrs Pipchin. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Paul. “That’s what I mean to do, when +I—” He stopped, and pondered for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin’s grey eye scanned his thoughtful face. +</p> + +<p> +“If I grow up,” said Paul. Then he went on immediately 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 his being so fond of +them, and about his being so glad of it. Then he told Mrs Pipchin about the +analysis, and about his being certainly old-fashioned, and took Mrs +Pipchin’s opinion on that point, and whether she knew why it was, and +what it meant. Mrs Pipchin denied the fact altogether, as the shortest way of +getting out of the difficulty; but Paul was far from satisfied with that reply, +and looked so searchingly at Mrs Pipchin for a truer answer, that she was +obliged to get up and look out of the window to avoid his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +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 +at the bedside, with Mrs Blimber. How they came there, or how long they had +been there, Paul didn’t know; but when he saw them, he sat up in bed, and +answered 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 chatty with the +Apothecary, and they parted excellent friends. Lying down again with his eyes +shut, he heard the Apothecary say, out of the room and quite a long way +off—or he dreamed it—that there was a want of vital power (what was +that, Paul wondered!) and great constitutional weakness. That as the little +fellow had set his heart on parting with his school-mates on the seventeenth, +it would be better to indulge the fancy if he grew no worse. That he was glad +to hear from Mrs Pipchin, that the little fellow would go to his friends in +London on the eighteenth. That he would write to Mr Dombey, when he should have +gained a better knowledge of the case, and before that day. That there was no +immediate cause for—what? Paul lost that word. And that the little fellow +had a fine mind, but was an old-fashioned boy. +</p> + +<p> +What old fashion could that be, Paul wondered with a palpitating heart, that +was so visibly expressed in him; so plainly seen by so many people! +</p> + +<p> +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 presently a +bottle and glass got into her hands magically, and she poured out the contents +for him. After that, he had some real good jelly, which Mrs Blimber brought to +him herself; and then he was so well, that Mrs Pipchin went home, at his urgent +solicitation, and Briggs and Tozer came to bed. Poor Briggs grumbled terribly +about his own analysis, which could hardly have discomposed him more if it had +been a chemical process; but he was very good to Paul, and so was Tozer, and so +were all the rest, for they every one looked in before going to bed, and said, +“How are you now, Dombey?” “Cheer up, little Dombey!” +and so forth. After Briggs had got into bed, he lay awake for a long time, +still bemoaning his analysis, and saying he knew it was all wrong, and they +couldn’t have analysed a murderer worse, and—how would Doctor +Blimber like it if his pocket-money depended on it? It was very easy, Briggs +said, to make a galley-slave of a boy all the half-year, and then score him up +idle; and to crib two dinners a-week out of his board, and then score him up +greedy; but that wasn’t going to be submitted to, he believed, was it? +Oh! Ah! +</p> + +<p> +Before the weak-eyed young man performed on the gong next morning, he came +upstairs 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, coming back with Doctor and Mrs Blimber, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think, Doctor Blimber, we may release this young gentleman from +his books just now; the vacation being so very near at hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“By all means,” said Doctor Blimber. “My love, you will +inform Cornelia, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Assuredly,” said Mrs Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our little friend,” observed Doctor Blimber, “has never +complained.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no!” replied the Apothecary. “He was not likely to +complain.” +</p> + +<p> +“You find him greatly better?” said Doctor Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! he is greatly better, Sir,” returned the Apothecary. +</p> + +<p> +Paul had begun to speculate, in his own odd way, on the subject that might +occupy the Apothecary’s mind just at that moment; so musingly had he +answered the two questions of Doctor Blimber. But the Apothecary happening to +meet his little patient’s eyes, as the latter set off on that mental +expedition, and coming instantly out of his abstraction with a cheerful smile, +Paul smiled in return and abandoned it. +</p> + +<p> +He lay in bed all that day, dozing and dreaming, and looking at Mr Toots; but +got up on the next, and went downstairs. Lo and behold, there was something the +matter with the great clock; and a workman on a pair of steps had taken its +face off, and was poking instruments into the works by the light of a candle! +This was a great event for Paul, who sat down on the bottom stair, and watched +the operation attentively: now and then glancing at the clock face, leaning all +askew, against the wall hard by, and feeling a little confused by a suspicion +that it was ogling him. +</p> + +<p> +The 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 informed on the subject of +the Curfew Bell of ancient days, Paul gave him an account of that institution; +and also asked him, as a practical man, what he thought about King +Alfred’s idea of measuring time by the burning of candles; to which the +workman replied, that he thought it 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. +</p> + +<p> +What could that old fashion be, that seemed to make the people sorry! What +could it be! +</p> + +<p> +Having nothing to learn now, he thought of this frequently; though not so often +as he might have done, if he had had fewer things to think of. But he had a +great many; and was always thinking, all day long. +</p> + +<p> +First, there was Florence coming to the party. Florence would see that the boys +were fond of him; and that would make her happy. This was his great theme. Let +Florence once be sure that they were gentle and good to him, and that he had +become a little favourite among them, 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, perhaps, when he came back. +</p> + +<p> +When he came back! Fifty times a day, his noiseless little feet went up the +stairs to his own room, as he collected every book, and scrap, and trifle that +belonged to him, and put them all together there, down to the minutest thing, +for taking home! There was no shade of coming back on little Paul; no +preparation for it, or other reference to it, grew out of anything he thought +or did, except this slight one in connexion with his sister. On the contrary, +he had to think of everything 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. +</p> + +<p> +He had to peep into those rooms upstairs, and think how solitary they would be +when he was gone, and wonder through how many silent days, weeks, months, and +years, they would continue just as grave and undisturbed. He had to +think—would any other child (old-fashioned, like himself) stray there at +any time, to whom the same grotesque distortions of pattern and furniture would +manifest themselves; and would anybody tell that boy of little Dombey, who had +been there once? +</p> + +<p> +He had to think of a portrait on the stairs, which always looked earnestly +after him as he went away, eyeing it over his shoulder; and which, when he +passed it in the company of anyone, 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 upward. +</p> + +<p> +At his own bedroom window, there were crowds of thoughts that mixed with these, +and came on, one upon another, like the rolling waves. Where those wild birds +lived, that were always hovering out at sea in troubled weather; where the +clouds rose and first began; whence the wind issued on its rushing flight, and +where it stopped; whether the spot where he and Florence had so often sat, and +watched, and talked about these things, could ever be exactly as it used to be +without them; whether it could ever be the same to Florence, if he were in some +distant place, and she were sitting there alone. +</p> + +<p> +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 schoolroom, to Doctor Blimber’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; +sometimes he looked up words in dictionaries for other young gentlemen who were +in extremity; sometimes he held skeins of silk for Mrs Blimber to wind; +sometimes he put Cornelia’s desk to rights; sometimes he would even creep +into the Doctor’s study, and, sitting on the carpet near his learned +feet, turn the globes softly, and go round the world, or take a flight among +the far-off stars. +</p> + +<p> +In those days immediately before the holidays, in short, when the other young +gentlemen were labouring for dear life through a general resumption of the +studies of the whole half-year, Paul was such a privileged pupil as had never +been seen in that house before. He could hardly believe it himself; but his +liberty lasted from hour to hour, and from day to day; and little Dombey was +caressed by everyone. Doctor Blimber was so particular about him, that he +requested Johnson to retire from the dinner-table one day, for having +thoughtlessly spoken to him as “poor little Dombey;” which Paul +thought rather hard and severe, though he had flushed at the moment, and +wondered why Johnson should pity him. It was the more questionable justice, +Paul thought, in the Doctor, from his having 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 lie down anywhere +and rest; for he couldn’t help feeling that these were more and more his +habits every day. +</p> + +<p> +At last the party-day arrived; and Doctor Blimber said at breakfast, +“Gentlemen, we will resume our 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 act 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 crushed him. +</p> + +<p> +Not the least allusion was made to the ceremonies of the evening, either at +breakfast or at dinner; but there was a bustle in the house all day, and in the +course of his perambulations, Paul made acquaintance with various strange +benches and candlesticks, and met a harp in a green greatcoat standing on the +landing outside the drawing-room door. There was something queer, too, about +Mrs Blimber’s head at dinner-time, as 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 +play-bill too; for Paul read “Theatre Royal” over one of her +sparkling spectacles, and “Brighton” over the other. +</p> + +<p> +There was a grand array of white waistcoats and cravats in the young +gentlemen’s bedrooms as evening approached; and such a smell of singed +hair, that Doctor Blimber sent up the footman with his compliments, and wished +to know if the house was on fire. But it was only the hairdresser curling the +young gentlemen, and over-heating his tongs in the ardour of business. +</p> + +<p> +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 drawing-room; where he found Doctor Blimber pacing up and down the room +full dressed, but with a dignified and unconcerned demeanour, as if he thought +it barely possible that one or two people might drop in by and by. Shortly +afterwards, Mrs Blimber appeared, looking lovely, Paul thought; and attired in +such a number of skirts that it was quite an excursion to walk round her. Miss +Blimber came down soon after her Mama; a little squeezed in appearance, but +very charming. +</p> + +<p> +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 Blimber said, “Ay, ay, ay! God bless my +soul!” and seemed extremely glad to see them. Mr Toots was one blaze of +jewellery and buttons; and he felt the circumstance so strongly, that when he +had shaken hands with the Doctor, and had bowed to Mrs Blimber and Miss +Blimber, he took Paul aside, and said, “What do you think of this, +Dombey?” +</p> + +<p> +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 was best to wear his waistbands turned up or +turned down. Observing that Mr Feeder’s were turned up, Mr Toots turned +his up; but the waistbands of the next arrival being turned down, Mr Toots +turned his down. The differences in point of waistcoat-buttoning, not only at +the bottom, but at the top too, became so numerous and complicated as the +arrivals thickened, that Mr Toots was continually fingering that article of +dress, as if he were performing on some instrument; and appeared to find the +incessant execution it demanded, quite bewildering. +</p> + +<p> +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 Mrs Baps, to whom +Mrs Blimber was extremely kind and condescending. Mr Baps was a very grave +gentleman, 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 +comparing pumps with him) about what you were to do with your raw materials +when they came into your ports in return for your drain of gold. Mr Toots, to +whom the question seemed perplexing, suggested “Cook ’em.” +But Mr Baps did not appear to think that would do. +</p> + +<p> +Paul now slipped away from the cushioned corner of a sofa, which had been his +post of observation, and went downstairs into the tea-room to be ready for +Florence, whom he had not seen for nearly a fortnight, as he had remained at +Doctor Blimber’s on the previous 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 there, but his friend +and another young woman waiting to serve out the tea), he could hardly make up +his mind to let her go again, or to take away her bright and loving eyes from +his face. +</p> + +<p> +“But what is the matter, Floy?” asked Paul, almost sure that he saw +a tear there. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, darling; nothing,” returned Florence. +</p> + +<p> +Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger—and it was a tear! +“Why, Floy!” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll go home together, and I’ll nurse you, love,” +said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Nurse me!” echoed Paul. +</p> + +<p> +Paul couldn’t understand what that had to do with it, nor why the two +young women looked on so seriously, nor why Florence turned away her face for a +moment, and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles. +</p> + +<p> +“Floy,” said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his hand. +“Tell me, dear, Do you think I have grown old-fashioned?” +</p> + +<p> +His sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him “No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I know they say so,” returned Paul, “and I want to +know what they mean, Floy.” +</p> + +<p> +But a loud double knock coming at the door, and Florence hurrying to the table, +there was no more said between them. Paul wondered again when he saw his friend +whisper to Florence, as if she were comforting her; but a new arrival put that +out of his head speedily. +</p> + +<p> +It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Master Skettles. Master Skettles +was to be a new boy after the vacation, and Fame had been busy, in Mr +Feeder’s room, with his father, who was in the House of Commons, and of +whom Mr Feeder had said that when he did catch the Speaker’s eye (which +he had been expected to do for three or four years), it was anticipated that he +would rather touch up the Radicals. +</p> + +<p> +“And what room is this now, for instance?” said Lady Skettles to +Paul’s friend, “Melia. +</p> + +<p> +“Doctor Blimber’s study, Ma’am,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And this little creature, now,” said Lady Skettles, turning to +Paul. “Is he one of the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Young gentlemen, Ma’am; yes, Ma’am,” said Paul’s +friend. +</p> + +<p> +“And what is your name, my pale child?” said Lady Skettles. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey,” answered Paul. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said that he had had the honour +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir,” answered Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“That is my brave boy,” said Sir Barnet Skettles. +“Barnet,” to Master Skettles, who was revenging himself for the +studies to come, on the plum-cake, “this is a young gentleman you ought +to know. This is a young gentleman you may know, Barnet,” said Sir Barnet +Skettles, with an emphasis on the permission. +</p> + +<p> +“What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!” exclaimed Lady Skettles +softly, as she looked at Florence through her glass. +</p> + +<p> +“My sister,” said Paul, presenting her. +</p> + +<p> +The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complete. And as Lady Skettles had +conceived, at first sight, a liking for Paul, they all went upstairs together: +Sir Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence, and young Barnet following. +</p> + +<p> +Young Barnet did not remain long in the background after they had reached the +drawing-room, for Dr Blimber had him out in no time, dancing with Florence. He +did not appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or particularly anything but +sulky, or to care much what he was about; but 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 Skettles Junior was in a state of bliss, without showing it. +</p> + +<p> +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 observed that he liked to see Florence dancing, +but they left the space in front quite clear, so that he might follow her with +his eyes. They were so kind, too, even the strangers, of whom there were soon a +great many, that they came and spoke to him every now and then, and asked him +how he was, and if his head ached, and whether he was tired. He was very much +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 sitting by his side as soon as every dance was ended, he +looked on very happily indeed. +</p> + +<p> +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 +he told her the truth, too; for his small heart swelled, and his face glowed, +when he saw how much they all admired her, and how she was the beautiful little +rosebud of the room. +</p> + +<p> +From his nest among the pillows, Paul could see and hear almost everything that +passed as if the whole were being done for his amusement. Among other little +incidents that he observed, he observed Mr Baps the dancing-master get into +conversation with Sir Barnet Skettles, and very soon ask him, as he had asked +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 Barnet almost dumb, for he could only +shake his head after that, and say, Why then you must fall back upon your +cottons, he supposed. +</p> + +<p> +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 +gentleman who played the harp), as if he thought him a remarkable kind of man; +and shortly afterwards he said so in those words to Doctor Blimber, and +inquired if he might take the liberty of asking who he was, and whether he had +ever been in the Board of Trade. Doctor Blimber answered no, he believed not; +and that in fact he was a Professor of—” +</p> + +<p> +“Of something connected with statistics, I’ll swear?” +observed Sir Barnet Skettles. +</p> + +<p> +“Why no, Sir Barnet,” replied Doctor Blimber, rubbing his chin. +“No, not exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet,” said Sir Barnet +Skettles. +</p> + +<p> +“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 dancing.” +</p> + +<p> +Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite altered Sir Barnet +Skettles’s opinion of Mr Baps, and that Sir Barnet flew into a perfect +rage, and glowered 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-sum-mate and con-foun-ded +impudence. +</p> + +<p> +There was another thing 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 nothing else, but secretly to +stimulate the music to perform wild tunes. Further, he became particular in his +attentions to the ladies; and dancing with Miss Blimber, whispered to +her—whispered to her!—though not so softly but that Paul heard him +say this remarkable poetry, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Had I a heart for falsehood framed,<br /> +I ne’er could injure You!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +This, Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies, in succession. Well might Mr +Feeder say to Mr Toots, that he was afraid he should be the worse for it +to-morrow! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Blimber was a little alarmed by this—comparatively +speaking—profligate behaviour; and especially by the alteration in the +character of the music, which, beginning to comprehend low melodies that were +popular in the streets, might not unnaturally be supposed to give 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 of person +for his situation, and that she particularly liked the unassuming style of his +hair—which (as already hinted) was about a quarter of an inch long. +</p> + +<p> +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 presently discovered +that she was dying with anxiety to have that gratification; and though Florence +was at first very much frightened at being asked to sing before so many people, +and begged earnestly to be excused, yet, on Paul calling her to him, and +saying, “Do, Floy! Please! 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 all alone, so young, and good, and +beautiful, and kind to him; and heard her thrilling voice, so natural and +sweet, and such a golden link between him and all his life’s love and +happiness, rising out of the silence; he turned his face away, and hid his +tears. Not, as he told them when they spoke to him, not that the music was too +plaintive or too sorrowful, but it was so dear to him. +</p> + +<p> +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 “Dombey’s +sister” reached his ears from all the boys: admiration of the +self-possessed and modest little beauty was on every lip: reports of her +intelligence and accomplishments floated past him, constantly; and, as if borne +in upon the air of the summer night, there was a half intelligible sentiment +diffused around, referring to Florence and himself, and breathing sympathy for +both, that soothed and touched him. +</p> + +<p> +He did not know why. For all that the child observed, and felt, and thought, +that night—the present and the absent; what was then and what had +been—were blended like the colours in the rainbow, or in the plumage of +rich birds when the sun is shining on them, or in the softening sky when the +same 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 +evermore to occupy it, but as peacefully disposed of and gone. A solitary +window, gazed through years ago, looked out upon an ocean, miles and miles +away; upon its waters, fancies, busy with him only yesterday, were hushed and +lulled to rest like broken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had wondered +at, when lying on his couch upon the beach, he thought he still heard sounding +through his sister’s song, and through the hum of voices, and the tread +of feet, and having some part in the faces flitting by, and even in the heavy +gentleness of Mr Toots, who frequently came up to shake him by the hand. +Through the universal kindness he still thought he heard it, speaking to him; +and even his old-fashioned reputation seemed to be allied to it, he knew not +how. Thus little Paul sat musing, listening, looking on, and dreaming; and was +very happy. +</p> + +<p> +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 Barnet Skettles, had said he hoped the two +young gentlemen would become intimately acquainted. Lady Skettles kissed him, +and patted 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Doctor Blimber,” said Paul, stretching out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, my little friend,” returned the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very much obliged to you, Sir,” said Paul, looking +innocently up into his awful face. “Ask them to take care of Diogenes, if +you please.” +</p> + +<p> +Diogenes was the dog: who had never in his life received a friend into his +confidence, before Paul. The Doctor promised that every attention should be +paid to Diogenes in Paul’s absence, and Paul having again thanked him, +and shaken hands with him, bade adieu to Mrs Blimber and Cornelia with such +heartfelt earnestness that Mrs Blimber forgot from that moment to mention +Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had fully intended it all the evening. +Cornelia, taking both Paul’s hands in hers, said, “Dombey, Dombey, +you have always been my favourite 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Blimber family were included. Such a circumstance, Mr Feeder +said aloud, as had never happened in the case of any former young gentleman +within his experience; but it would be difficult to say if this were sober fact +or custard-cups. The servants, with the butler at their head, had all an +interest in seeing Little Dombey go; and even the weak-eyed young man, taking +out his books and trunks to the coach that was to carry him and Florence to Mrs +Pipchin’s for the night, melted visibly. +</p> + +<p> +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 downstairs to +shake hands with him, crying individually “Dombey, don’t forget +me!” and indulging in many such ebullitions of feeling, uncommon among +those young Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florence, as she wrapped him up +before the door was opened, Did she hear them? Would she ever forget it? Was +she glad to know it? And a lively delight was in his eyes as he spoke to her. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0198m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +Once, for a last look, he turned and gazed upon 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 came back as he had seen it +in this last view; and it never seemed to be a real place again, but always a +dream, full of eyes. +</p> + +<p> +This was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber’s, however. There was +something else. There was Mr Toots. Who, unexpectedly letting down one of the +coach-windows, and looking in, said, with a most egregious chuckle, “Is +Dombey there?” and immediately put it up again, without waiting for an +answer. Nor was this quite the last of Mr Toots, even; for before the coachman +could drive off, he as suddenly let down the other window, and looking in with +a precisely similar chuckle, said in a precisely similar tone of voice, +“Is Dombey there?” and disappeared precisely as before. +</p> + +<p> +How Florence laughed! Paul often remembered it, and laughed himself whenever he +did so. +</p> + +<p> +But there was much, soon afterwards—next day, and after that—which +Paul could only recollect confusedly. As, why they stayed at Mrs +Pipchin’s days and nights, instead of going home; why he lay in bed, with +Florence sitting by his side; whether that had been his father in the room, or +only a tall shadow on the wall; whether he had heard his doctor say, of +someone, that if they had removed him before the occasion on which he had built +up fancies, strong in proportion to his own weakness, it was very possible he +might have pined away. +</p> + +<p> +He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, “Oh +Floy, take me home, and never leave me!” but he thought he had. He +fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, “Take me home, Floy! +take me home!” +</p> + +<p> +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 remembered 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to speak to Florence, if you please,” he said. “To +Florence by herself, for a moment!” +</p> + +<p> +She bent down over him, and the others stood away. +</p> + +<p> +“Floy, my pet, wasn’t that Papa in the hall, when they brought me +from the coach?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me +coming in?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very glad he didn’t cry,” said little Paul. +“I thought he did. Don’t tell them that I asked.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /> +Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for Walter Gay</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>alter +could not, for several days, decide what to do in the Barbados business; and +even cherished some faint hope that Mr Dombey might not have meant what he had +said, or that he might change his mind, and 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 time was slipping by, and he had none +to lose, he felt that he must act, without hesitating any longer. +</p> + +<p> +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 parlour 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 distressing +necessity. +</p> + +<p> +Yet it would never do to run away from him. He must know of it beforehand; and +how to tell him was the point. As to the question of going or not going, Walter +did not consider that he had any power of choice in the matter. Mr Dombey had +truly told him that he was young, and that his Uncle’s circumstances were +not good; and Mr Dombey had plainly expressed, in the glance with which he had +accompanied that reminder, that if he declined to go he might stay at home if +he chose, but not in his counting-house. His Uncle and he lay under a great +obligation to Mr Dombey, which was of Walter’s own soliciting. He might +have begun in secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman’s favour, +and might have thought that he was now and then disposed to put a slight upon +him, which was hardly just. But what would have been duty without that, was +still duty with it—or Walter thought so—and duty must be done. +</p> + +<p> +When Mr Dombey had looked 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 anxious to show even more cheerfulness and activity +after the West Indian interview than he had shown before: if that were +possible, in one of his quick and zealous disposition. He was too young and +inexperienced to think, that possibly this very quality in him was not +agreeable to Mr Dombey, and that it was no stepping-stone to his good opinion +to be elastic and hopeful of pleasing under the shadow of his powerful +displeasure, whether it were right or wrong. But it may have been—it may +have been—that the great man thought himself defied in this new +exposition of an honest spirit, and purposed to bring it down. +</p> + +<p> +“Well! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,” thought +Walter, with a sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice might +perhaps quaver a little, and that his 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 more to beat up Captain +Cuttle’s quarters. +</p> + +<p> +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 Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one day discharged from the +West India Docks on a false suspicion (got up expressly against him by the +general enemy) of screwing gimlets into 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 parlour for the reception of ladies and +gentlemen of the Ranting persuasion, upon whom, on the first occasion of their +assemblage, the admonitions of the Reverend Melchisedech had produced so +powerful an effect, that, in their rapturous performance of a sacred jig, which +closed the service, the whole flock broke through into a kitchen below, and +disabled a mangle belonging to one of the fold. +</p> + +<p> +This the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided to Walter +and his Uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the night when Brogley +the broker was paid out. The Captain himself was punctual in his attendance at +a church in his own neighbourhood, which hoisted the Union Jack every Sunday +morning; and where he was good enough—the lawful beadle being +infirm—to keep an eye upon the boys, over whom he exercised great power, +in virtue of his mysterious hook. Knowing the regularity of the Captain’s +habits, Walter made all the haste he could, that he might anticipate his going +out; and he made such good speed, that he had the pleasure, on turning into +Brig Place, to behold the broad blue coat and waistcoat hanging out of the +Captain’s open window, to air in the sun. +</p> + +<p> +It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by mortal eyes +without the Captain; but he certainly was not in them, otherwise his +legs—the houses in Brig Place not being lofty—would have obstructed +the street door, which was perfectly clear. Quite wondering at this discovery, +Walter gave a single knock. +</p> + +<p> +“Stinger,” he distinctly heard the Captain say, up in his room, as +if that were no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks. +</p> + +<p> +“Cuttle,” he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately +afterwards the Captain, in his clean shirt and braces, with his neckerchief +hanging loosely round his throat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat on, +appeared at the window, leaning out over the broad blue coat and waistcoat. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r!” cried the Captain, looking down upon him in +amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle,” returned Walter, “only me” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter, my lad?” inquired the Captain, with great +concern. “Gills an’t been and sprung nothing again?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Walter. “My Uncle’s all right, Captain +Cuttle.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain expressed his gratification, and said he would come down below and +open the door, which he did. +</p> + +<p> +“Though you’re early, Wal”r,” said the Captain, eyeing +him still doubtfully, when they got upstairs: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, sitting down, +“I was afraid you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your +friendly counsel.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you shall,” said the Captain; “what’ll you +take?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle,” returned Walter, +smiling. “That’s the only thing for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on then,” said the Captain. “With a will, my +lad!” +</p> + +<p> +Walter related to him what had happened; and the difficulty in which he felt +respecting his Uncle, and the relief it would be to him if Captain Cuttle, in +his kindness, would help him to smooth it away; Captain Cuttle’s infinite +consternation and astonishment at the prospect unfolded to him, gradually +swallowing that gentleman up, until it left his face quite vacant, and the suit +of blue, the glazed hat, and the hook, apparently without an owner. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Captain Cuttle,” pursued Walter, “for myself, I am +young, as Mr Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way +through the world, I know; but there are two points I was thinking, as I came +along, that I should be very particular about, in respect to my Uncle. I +don’t mean to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight of his +life—you believe me, I know—but I am. Now, don’t you think I +am?” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain seemed to make an endeavour 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, Wal”r! Of a want of custom?” said the Captain, +suddenly reappearing. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Of his Nevy,” interposed the Captain. “Right!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well then,” said Walter, trying to speak gaily, “we must do +our best to make him believe that the separation is but a temporary one, after +all; but as I know better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and as +I have so many reasons for regarding him with affection, and duty, and honour, +I am afraid I should make but a very poor hand at that, if I tried to persuade +him of it. That’s my great reason for wishing you to break it out to him; +and that’s the first point.” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep her off a point or so!” observed the Captain, in a +contemplative voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you say, Captain Cuttle?” inquired Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand by!” returned the Captain, thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +Walter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular information to add +to this, but as he said no more, went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not a +favourite with Mr Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and I have always +done it; but he does not like me. He can’t help his likings and +dislikings, perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say that I am certain he +does not like me. He does not send me to this post as a good one; he disclaims +to represent it as being better than it is; and I doubt very much if it will +ever lead me to advancement in the House—whether it does not, on the +contrary, dispose of me for ever, and put me out of the way. Now, we must say +nothing of this to my Uncle, Captain Cuttle, but must make it out to be as +favourable and promising as we can; and when I tell you what it really is, I +only do so, that in case any means should ever arise of lending me a hand, so +far off, I may have one friend at home who knows my real situation. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my boy,” replied the Captain, “in the Proverbs +of Solomon you will find the following words, ‘May we never want a friend +in need, nor a bottle to give him!’ When found, make a note of.” +</p> + +<p> +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 accuracy and pointed application of his quotation), “When found, make +a note of.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 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 world—I would gladly +go! I would have gladly gone, years ago, and taken my chance of what might come +of it. But it was against my Uncle’s wishes, and against the plans he had +formed for me; and there was an end of that. But what I feel, Captain Cuttle, +is that we have been a little mistaken all along, and that, so far as any +improvement in my prospects is concerned, I am no better off now than I was +when I first entered Dombey’s House—perhaps a little worse, for the +House may have been kindly inclined towards me then, and it certainly is not +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Turn again, Whittington,” muttered the disconsolate Captain, after +looking at Walter for some time. +</p> + +<p> +“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 complain,” he added, in his lively, animated, energetic +way. “I have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I can live. When +I leave my Uncle, I leave him to you; and I can leave him to no one better, +Captain Cuttle. I haven’t told you all this because I despair, not I; +it’s to convince you that I can’t pick and choose in Dombey’s +House, and that where I am sent, there I must go, and what I am offered, that I +must take. It’s better for my Uncle that I should be sent away; for Mr +Dombey is a valuable friend to him, as he proved himself, you know when, +Captain Cuttle; and I am persuaded he won’t be less valuable when he +hasn’t me there, every day, to awaken his dislike. So hurrah for the West +Indies, Captain Cuttle! How does that tune go that the sailors sing? +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“For the Port of Barbados, Boys!<br /> +Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Cheerily!<br /> +Leaving old England behind us, Boys!<br /> +Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Cheerily!”<br /> +Here the Captain roared in chorus—<br /> +Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â “Oh cheerily, cheerily!<br /> +Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Oh cheer-i-ly!” +</p> + +<p> +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, produced a fine effect. +When it was impossible to sustain the concluding note any longer, the skipper +bellowed forth a terrific “ahoy!” intended in part as a friendly +greeting, and in part to show that he was not at all breathed. That done, he +shut down his window, and went to bed again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 entirely to his own +satisfaction; he had felicitated himself so often on the sagacity and foresight +displayed in that arrangement, and had found it so complete and perfect in all +its parts; that to suffer it to go to pieces all at once, and even to assist in +breaking it up, required a great effort of his resolution. The Captain, too, +found it difficult to unload his old ideas upon the subject, and to take a +perfectly new cargo on board, with that rapidity which the circumstances +required, or without jumbling and confounding the two. Consequently, instead of +putting on his coat and waistcoat with anything like the impetuosity that could +alone have kept pace with Walter’s mood, he declined to invest himself +with those garments at all at present; and informed Walter that on such a +serious matter, he must be allowed to “bite his nails a bit”. +</p> + +<p> +“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 Cuttle’s aground.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0207m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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 sublimation of all philosophical reflection and grave inquiry, applied +himself to the consideration of the subject in its various branches. +</p> + +<p> +“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 subject, or any other that could be +named, as would give Parliament six and beat ’em. Been knocked overboard, +that man,” said the Captain, “twice, and none the worse for it. Was +beat in his apprenticeship, for three weeks (off and on), about the head with a +ring-bolt. And yet a clearer-minded man don’t walk.” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of his respect for Captain Cuttle, Walter could not help inwardly +rejoicing at the absence of this sage, and devoutly hoping that his limpid +intellect might not be brought to bear on his difficulties until they were +quite settled. +</p> + +<p> +“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 opinion that was no more like that buoy +than your Uncle’s buttons are. There ain’t a man that +walks—certainly not on two legs—that can come near him. Not near +him!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s his name, Captain Cuttle?” inquired Walter, +determined to be interested in the Captain’s friend. +</p> + +<p> +“His name’s Bunsby,” said the Captain. “But Lord, it +might be anything for the matter of that, with such a mind as his!” +</p> + +<p> +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 immersed in cogitation. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Captain Cuttle was labouring with such great designs, that far from +being aground, he soon got off into the deepest of water, and could find no +bottom to his penetration. By degrees it became perfectly plain to the Captain +that there was some mistake here; that it was undoubtedly much more likely to +be Walter’s mistake 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 between Walter and Mr Dombey, +“it only wants a word in season from a friend of both parties, to set it +right and smooth, and make all taut again.” Captain Cuttle’s +deduction from these considerations was, that as he already enjoyed the +pleasure of knowing Mr Dombey, from having spent a very agreeable half-hour in +his company 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! +</p> + +<p> +As these reflections presented themselves to the Captain’s mind, and by +slow degrees assumed this shape and form, his visage cleared like a doubtful +morning when it gives place to a bright noon. His eyebrows, which had been in +the highest degree portentous, smoothed their rugged bristling aspect, and +became serene; his eyes, which had been nearly closed in the severity of his +mental exercise, opened freely; a smile which had been at first but three +specks—one at the right-hand corner of his mouth, and one at the corner +of each eye—gradually overspread his whole face, and, rippling up into +his forehead, lifted the glazed hat: as if that too had been aground with +Captain Cuttle, and were now, like him, happily afloat again. +</p> + +<p> +Finally, the Captain left off biting his nails, and said, “Now, +Wal”r, my boy, you may help me on with them slops.” By which the +Captain meant his coat and waistcoat. +</p> + +<p> +Walter little imagined why the Captain was so particular in the arrangement of +his cravat, as to twist the pendent ends into a sort of pigtail, and pass them +through a massive gold ring with a picture of a tomb upon it, and a neat iron +railing, and a tree, in memory of some deceased friend. Nor why the Captain +pulled up his shirt-collar to the utmost limits allowed by the Irish linen +below, and by so doing decorated himself with a complete 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 was ready. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain’s walk was more complacent than usual when they got out into +the street; but this Walter supposed to be the effect of the ankle-jacks, and +took little heed of. Before they had gone very far, they encountered a woman +selling flowers; when the Captain stopping short, as if struck by a happy idea, +made a purchase of the largest bundle in her basket: a most glorious nosegay, +fan-shaped, some two feet and a half round, and composed of all the +jolliest-looking flowers that blow. +</p> + +<p> +Armed with this little token which he designed for Mr Dombey, Captain Cuttle +walked on with Walter until they reached the Instrument-maker’s door, +before which they both paused. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going in?” said Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” returned the Captain, who felt that Walter must be got rid +of before he proceeded any further, and that he had better time his projected +visit somewhat later in the day. +</p> + +<p> +“And you won’t forget anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” returned the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go upon my walk at once,” said Walter, “and then +I shall be out of the way, Captain Cuttle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take a good long “un, my lad!” replied the Captain, calling +after him. Walter waved his hand in assent, and went his way. +</p> + +<p> +His way was nowhere in particular; but he thought he would go out into the +fields, where he could reflect upon the unknown life before him, and resting +under some tree, ponder quietly. He knew no better fields than those near +Hampstead, and no better means of getting at them than by passing Mr +Dombey’s house. +</p> + +<p> +It was as stately and as dark as ever, when he went by and glanced up at its +frowning front. The blinds were all pulled down, but the upper windows stood +wide open, and the pleasant air stirring those curtains and waving them to and +fro was the only sign of animation in the whole exterior. Walter walked softly +as he passed, and was glad when he had left the house a door or two behind. +</p> + +<p> +He looked back then; with the interest he had always felt for the place since +the adventure of the lost child, years ago; and looked especially at those +upper windows. While he was thus engaged, a chariot drove to the door, and a +portly gentleman in black, with a heavy watch-chain, alighted, and went in. +When he afterwards remembered this gentleman and his equipage together, Walter +had no doubt he was a physician; and then he wondered who was ill; but the +discovery did not occur to him until he had walked some distance, thinking +listlessly of other things. +</p> + +<p> +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 plaything +she ever had. No, not so much. +</p> + +<p> +Yet Walter so idealised 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 for himself as +a libeller when he argued that she could ever grow proud. On the other hand, +his meditations were of that fantastic order that it seemed hardly less +libellous in him to imagine her grown a woman: to think of her as anything but +the same artless, gentle, winning little 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, was 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 indefinite—indefinite in all but its +power of giving him pleasure, and restraining him like an angel’s hand +from anything unworthy. +</p> + +<p> +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 landscape. 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. +</p> + +<p> +Walter had left the fields behind him, and was plodding homeward in the same +abstracted mood, when he heard a shout from a man, and then a woman’s +voice calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his surprise, he saw +that a hackney-coach, going in the contrary direction, had stopped at no great +distance; that the coachman was looking back from his box and making signals to +him with his whip; and that a young woman inside was leaning out of the window, +and beckoning with immense energy. Running up to this coach, he found that the +young woman was Miss Nipper, and that Miss Nipper was in such a flutter as to +be almost beside herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Staggs’s Gardens, Mr Walter!” said Miss Nipper; “if +you please, oh do!” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” cried Walter; “what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr Walter, Staggs’s Gardens, if you please!” said Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” cried the coachman, appealing to Walter, with a sort of +exalting 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 thoroughfares, where she would drive up. I’ve had a many fares +in this coach, first and last, but never such a fare as her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to go to Staggs’s Gardens, Susan?” inquired +Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! She wants to go there! WHERE IS IT?” growled the coachman. +</p> + +<p> +“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’s eldest, and though I went there afterwards, I can’t +remember where it is, I think it’s sunk into the ground. Oh, Mr Walter, +don’t desert me, Staggs’s Gardens, if you please! Miss Floy’s +darling—all our darlings—little, meek, meek Master Paul! Oh Mr +Walter!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” cried Walter. “Is he very ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“The pretty flower!” cried Susan, wringing her hands, “has +took the fancy that he’d like to see his old nurse, and I’ve come +to bring her to his bedside, Mrs Staggs, of Polly Toodle’s Gardens, +someone pray!” +</p> + +<p> +Greatly moved by what he heard, and catching Susan’s earnestness +immediately, Walter, now that he understood the nature of her errand, dashed +into it with such ardour that the coachman had enough to do to follow closely +as he ran before, inquiring here and there and everywhere, the way to +Staggs’s Gardens. +</p> + +<p> +There was no such place as Staggs’s Gardens. It had vanished from the +earth. Where the old rotten summer-houses once had stood, palaces now reared +their heads, and granite columns of gigantic girth opened a vista to the +railway world beyond. The miserable waste ground, where the refuse-matter had +been heaped of yore, was swallowed up and gone; and in its frowsy stead were +tiers of warehouses, crammed with rich goods and costly merchandise. The old +by-streets now swarmed with passengers and vehicles of every kind: the new +streets that had stopped disheartened in the mud and waggon-ruts, formed towns +within themselves, originating wholesome comforts and conveniences belonging to +themselves, and never tried nor thought of 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 thoroughfares, had +started off upon the line at steam’s own speed, and shot away into the +country in a monster train. +</p> + +<p> +As to the neighbourhood which had hesitated to acknowledge the railroad in its +straggling days, that had grown wise and penitent, as any Christian might in +such a 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 newsmen. There were railway hotels, office-houses, +lodging-houses, boarding-houses; railway plans, maps, views, wrappers, bottles, +sandwich-boxes, and time-tables; railway hackney-coach and 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 railway +chimneys by machinery. +</p> + +<p> +To and from the heart of this great change, all day and night, throbbing +currents rushed and returned incessantly like its life’s blood. Crowds of +people and mountains of goods, departing and arriving scores upon scores of +times in every four-and-twenty hours, produced a fermentation in the place that +was always in action. The 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 conquering +engines rumbled at their distant work, or, advancing smoothly to their +journey’s end, and gliding like tame 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 unsuspected in them, and strong purposes not yet +achieved. +</p> + +<p> +But Staggs’s Gardens had been cut up root and branch. Oh woe the day when +“not a rood of English ground”—laid out in Staggs’s +Gardens—is secure! +</p> + +<p> +At last, after much fruitless inquiry, Walter, followed by the coach and Susan, +found a man who had once resided in that vanished land, and who was no other +than the master sweep before referred to, grown stout, and knocking a double +knock at his own door. He knowed Toodle, he said, well. Belonged to the +Railroad, didn’t he? +</p> + +<p> +“Yes sir, yes!” cried Susan Nipper from the coach window. +</p> + +<p> +Where did he live now? hastily inquired Walter. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Has the little boy been long ill, Susan?” inquired Walter, as they +hurried on. +</p> + +<p> +“Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how much,” said Susan; +adding, with excessive sharpness, “Oh, them Blimbers!” +</p> + +<p> +“Blimbers?” echoed Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t forgive myself at such a time as this, Mr +Walter,” said Susan, “and when there’s so much serious +distress to think about, if I rested hard on anyone, especially on them that +little darling Paul speaks well of, but I may wish that the family was set to +work in a stony soil to make new roads, and that Miss Blimber went in front, +and had the pickaxe!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Nipper then took breath, and went on faster than before, as if this +extraordinary aspiration had relieved her. Walter, who had by this time no +breath of his own to spare, hurried along without asking any more questions; +and they soon, in their impatience, burst in at a little door and came into a +clean parlour full of children. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Mrs Richards?” exclaimed Susan Nipper, looking +round. “Oh Mrs Richards, Mrs Richards, come along with me, my dear +creetur!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, if it ain’t Susan!” cried Polly, rising with her honest +face and motherly figure from among the group, in great surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mrs Richards, it’s me,” said Susan, “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 today 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, withering +away!” Susan Nipper crying, Polly shed tears to see her, and to hear what +she had said; and all the children gathered round (including numbers of new +babies); and Mr Toodle, who had just come home from Birmingham, and was eating +his dinner out of a basin, laid down his knife and fork, and put on his +wife’s bonnet and shawl for her, which were hanging up behind the door; +then tapped her on the back; and said, with more fatherly feeling than +eloquence, “Polly! cut away!” +</p> + +<p> +So they got back to the coach, long before the coachman expected them; and +Walter, putting Susan and Mrs Richards inside, took his seat on the box himself +that there might be no more mistakes, and deposited them safely in the hall of +Mr Dombey’s house—where, by the bye, he saw a mighty nosegay lying, +which reminded him of the one Captain Cuttle had purchased in his company that +morning. He would have lingered to know more of the young invalid, or waited +any length of time to see if he could render the least service; but, painfully +sensible that such conduct would be looked upon by Mr Dombey as presumptuous +and forward, he turned slowly, sadly, anxiously, away. +</p> + +<p> +He 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 house with a sorrowful foreboding. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /> +What the Waves were always saying</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>aul +had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in +the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time went, but watching +it and watching everything about him with observing eyes. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 passed, and lose them in the +hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring about the +candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was, the swift and rapid +river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it—to stem it 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 roused and busy; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his +attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, “I am +better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell Papa so!” +</p> + +<p> +By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of +carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you, now!” They +would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would +recline the while she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, +and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat +up so many nights beside him. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually decline; and +again the golden water would be dancing on the wall. +</p> + +<p> +He was visited by as many as three grave doctors—they used to assemble +downstairs, 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 gentleman 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. +</p> + +<p> +The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at Doctor +Blimber’s—except Florence; Florence never changed—and what +had been Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with his head upon his +hand. Old Mrs Pipchin dozing in an easy chair, often changed to Miss Tox, or +his aunt; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what +happened next, without emotion. But this figure with its head upon its hand +returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never +speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul +began to wonder languidly, if it were real; and in the night-time saw it +sitting there, with fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Floy!” he said. “What is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where, dearest?” +</p> + +<p> +“There! at the bottom of the bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing there, except Papa!” +</p> + +<p> +The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside, said: +“My own boy! Don’t you know me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am quite happy!” +</p> + +<p> +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; and Paul never +saw him in his room again at any time, whether it were day or night, but he +called out, “Don’t be 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. +</p> + +<p> +How many times the golden water danced upon the wall; how many nights the dark, +dark river rolled towards the sea in spite of him; Paul never counted, never +sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, 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. +</p> + +<p> +One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the +drawing-room downstairs, and thought she must have loved sweet Florence better +than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that she was +dying—for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could +have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him to +inquire if he had ever seen his mother? for he could not remember whether they +had told him, yes or no, the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Floy, did I ever see Mama?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, darling, why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I ever see any kind face, like Mama’s, looking at me when I +was a baby, Floy?” +</p> + +<p> +He asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, dear!” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose, Floy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your old nurse’s. Often.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where is my old nurse?” said Paul. “Is she dead too? +Floy, are we all dead, except you?” +</p> + +<p> +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 colourless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled +very much. +</p> + +<p> +“Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!” +</p> + +<p> +“She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Floy!” +</p> + +<p> +Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When 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, is it tomorrow? Is she come?” +</p> + +<p> +Someone seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul thought he +heard her telling him when he had closed his eyes again, that she would soon be +back; but he did not open them to see. She kept her word—perhaps she had +never been away—but the next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps +on the stairs, and then Paul woke—woke mind and body—and sat +upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no grey mist before +them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and +called them by their names. +</p> + +<p> +“And who is this? Is this my old nurse?” said the child, regarding +with a radiant smile, a figure coming in. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears 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 so +full of tenderness and pity. +</p> + +<p> +“Floy! this is a kind good face!” said Paul. “I am glad to +see it again. Don’t go away, old nurse! Stay here.” +</p> + +<p> +His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew. +</p> + +<p> +“Who was that, who said ‘Walter’?” he asked, looking +round. “Someone said Walter. Is he here? I should like to see him very +much.” +</p> + +<p> +Nobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan, “Call him +back, then: let him come up!” Alter 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 into the room. His open face and +manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favourite with Paul; and +when Paul saw him, he stretched Out his hand, and said +“Good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, my child!” said Mrs Pipchin, hurrying to his bed’s +head. “Not good-bye?” +</p> + +<p> +For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he had so +often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. “Yes,” he said +placidly, “good-bye! Walter dear, good-bye!”—turning his head +to where he stood, and putting out his hand again. “Where is Papa?” +</p> + +<p> +He felt his father’s breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted +from his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember Walter, dear Papa,” he whispered, looking in his face. +“Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!” The feeble hand waved in +the air, as if it cried “good-bye!” to Walter once again. +</p> + +<p> +“Now lay me down,” he said, “and, Floy, come close to me, and +let me see you!” +</p> + +<p> +Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light +came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together. +</p> + +<p> +“How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! +But it’s very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!” +</p> + +<p> +Presently he told her the motion of the boat upon the stream 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?— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the +print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head +is shining on me as I go!” +</p> + +<p> +The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the +room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, +and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide +firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion—Death! +</p> + +<p> +Oh thank GOD, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And +look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when +the swift river bears us to the ocean! +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, dear me! To think,” said Miss Tox, bursting out afresh +that night, as if her heart were broken, “that Dombey and Son should be a +Daughter after all!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /> +Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People +</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">C</span>aptain Cuttle, in the exercise of that surprising talent for +deep-laid and unfathomable scheming, with which (as is not unusual in men of +transparent simplicity) he sincerely believed himself to be endowed by nature, +had gone to Mr Dombey’s house on the eventful Sunday, winking all the way +as a vent for his superfluous sagacity, and had presented himself in the full +lustre of the ankle-jacks before the eyes of Towlinson. Hearing from that +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 under existing circumstances, and a +friendly intimation that he would “look up again” to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +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; and the Captain’s sly arrangement, involved in one +catastrophe with greater hopes and loftier designs, was crushed to pieces. So, +when an avalanche bears down a mountain-forest, twigs and bushes suffer with +the trees, and all perish together. +</p> + +<p> +When Walter returned home on the Sunday evening from his long walk, and its +memorable close, he was too much occupied at first by the tidings he had to +give them, and by the emotions naturally awakened in his breast by the scene +through which he had passed, to observe either that his Uncle was evidently +unacquainted with the intelligence the Captain had undertaken 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 understand. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, however, becoming cognisant of what had happened, relinquished +these attempts, as he perceived the slender chance that now existed of his +being able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr Dombey before the period of +Walter’s departure. But in admitting to himself, with a disappointed and +crestfallen countenance, 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 still felt an unabated confidence that he, Ned Cuttle, +was the man for Mr Dombey; and that, to set Walter’s fortunes quite +square, nothing was wanted but that they two should come together. For the +Captain never could forget how well he and Mr Dombey had got on at Brighton; +with what nicety each of them had put in a word when it was wanted; how exactly +they had taken one another’s measure; nor how Ned Cuttle had pointed out +that resources in the first extremity, and had brought the interview to the +desired termination. On all these grounds the Captain soothed himself with +thinking that though Ned Cuttle was forced by the pressure of events to +“stand by” almost useless for the present, Ned would fetch up with +a wet sail in good time, and carry all before him. +</p> + +<p> +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 politic to give Mr Dombey a verbal invitation, +whenever they should meet, to come and cut his mutton in Brig Place on some day +of his own naming, and enter on the question of his young friend’s +prospects over a social glass. But the uncertain temper of Mrs MacStinger, and +the possibility of her setting up her rest in the passage during such an +entertainment, and there delivering some homily of an uncomplimentary nature, +operated as a check on the Captain’s hospitable thoughts, and rendered +him timid of giving them encouragement. +</p> + +<p> +One fact 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 might stand in the way of his perceiving it himself, he +was, as one might say, a member of Mr Dombey’s family. He had been, in +his own person, connected with the incident he so pathetically described; he +had been by name remembered and commended in close association with it; and his +fortunes must have a particular interest in his employer’s eyes. If the +Captain had any lurking doubt whatever of his own conclusions, he had not the +least doubt that they were good conclusions for the peace of mind of the +Instrument-maker. Therefore he availed himself of so favourable a moment for +breaking the West Indian intelligence to his friend, as a piece of +extraordinary preferment; declaring that for his part he would freely give a +hundred thousand pounds (if he had it) for Walter’s gain in the long-run, +and that he had no doubt such an investment would yield a handsome premium. +</p> + +<p> +Solomon Gills was at first stunned by the communication, which fell upon the +little back-parlour like a thunderbolt, and tore up the hearth savagely. But +the Captain flashed such golden prospects before his dim sight: hinted so +mysteriously at Whittingtonian consequences; laid such emphasis on what Walter +had just now told them: and appealed to it so confidently as a corroboration of +his predictions, and a great advance towards the realisation of the romantic +legend of Lovely Peg: that he bewildered the old man. Walter, for his part, +feigned to be so full of hope and ardour, and so sure of coming home again +soon, and backed up the Captain with such expressive shakings of his head and +rubbings of his hands, that Solomon, looking first at him then at Captain +Cuttle, began to think he ought to be transported with joy. +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m behind the time, you understand,” he observed in +apology, passing his hand nervously down the whole row of bright buttons on his +coat, and then up again, as if they were beads and he were telling them twice +over: “and I would rather have my dear boy here. It’s an +old-fashioned notion, I daresay. He was always fond of the sea +He’s”—and he looked wistfully at +Walter—“he’s glad to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Sol!” cried Walter, quickly, “if you say that, I +won’t go. No, Captain Cuttle, I won’t. If 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my lad,” said the Captain. “Steady! Sol Gills, +take an observation of your nevy.” +</p> + +<p> +Following with his eyes the majestic action of the Captain’s hook, the +old man looked at Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ned,” said the old man, drawing Walter to his side, and taking his +arm tenderly through his, “I know. I know. Of course I know that Wally +considers me more than himself always. That’s in my mind. When I say he +is glad to go, I mean I hope he is. Eh? look you, Ned and you too, Wally, my +dear, this is new and unexpected to me; and I’m afraid my being behind +the time, and poor, is at the bottom of it. Is it really good fortune for him, +do you tell me, now?” said the old man, looking anxiously from one to the +other. “Really and truly? Is it? I can reconcile myself to almost +anything that advances Wally, but I won’t have Wally putting himself at +any disadvantage for me, or keeping anything from me. You, Ned Cuttle!” +said the old man, fastening on the Captain, to the manifest confusion of that +diplomatist; “are you dealing plainly by your old friend? Speak out, Ned +Cuttle. Is there anything behind? Ought he to go? How do you know it first, and +why?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, who did not fail to make himself acquainted with all that passed, +through inquiries of Walter 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 understanding of his position. It was after much +consideration of this fact, and much pondering over such an unfortunate +combination of circumstances, that a bright idea occurred to the Captain. +Suppose he made a call on Mr Carker, and tried to find out from him how the +land really lay! +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came upon him in a moment of +inspiration, as he was smoking an early pipe in Brig Place after breakfast; and +it was worthy of the tobacco. It would quiet his conscience, which was an +honest one, and was made a little uneasy by what Walter had confided to him, +and what Sol Gills had said; and it would be a deep, shrewd act of friendship. +He would sound Mr Carker carefully, and say much or little, just as he read +that gentleman’s character, and discovered that they got on well together +or the reverse. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, without the fear of Walter before his eyes (who he knew was at +home packing), Captain Cuttle again assumed his ankle-jacks and mourning +brooch, and issued forth on this second expedition. He purchased no +propitiatory nosegay on the present occasion, as he was going to a place of +business; but he put a small sunflower in his button-hole to give himself an +agreeable relish of the country; and with this, and the knobby stick, and the +glazed hat, bore down upon the offices of Dombey and Son. +</p> + +<p> +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 +evaporate, and appeared suddenly to Mr Perch. +</p> + +<p> +“Matey,” said the Captain, in persuasive accents. “One of +your Governors is named Carker.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Perch admitted it; but gave him to understand, as in official duty bound, +that all his Governors were engaged, and never expected to be disengaged any +more. +</p> + +<p> +“Look’ee here, mate,” said the Captain in his ear; “my +name’s Cap’en Cuttle.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain would have hooked Perch gently to him, but Mr Perch eluded the +attempt; not so much in design, as in starting at the sudden thought that such +a weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs Perch might, in her then condition, be +destructive to that lady’s hopes. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’ll be so good as just report Cap’en Cuttle here, when +you get a chance,” said the Captain, “I’ll wait.” +</p> + +<p> +Saying which, the Captain took his seat on Mr Perch’s 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 appeared refreshed. He subsequently +arranged his hair with his hook, and sat looking round the office, +contemplating the clerks with a serene respect. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain’s equanimity was so impenetrable, and he was altogether so +mysterious a being, that Perch the messenger was daunted. +</p> + +<p> +“What name was it you said?” asked Mr Perch, bending down over him +as he sat on the bracket. +</p> + +<p> +“Cap’en,” in a deep hoarse whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr Perch, keeping time with his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Cuttle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Mr Perch, in the same tone, for he caught it, and +couldn’t help it; the Captain, in his diplomacy, was so impressive. +“I’ll see if he’s disengaged now. I don’t know. Perhaps +he may be for a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 returning, said, “Will Captain Cuttle walk this +way?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker the Manager, standing on the hearth-rug before the empty fireplace, +which was ornamented with a castellated sheet of brown paper, looked at the +Captain as he came in, with no very special encouragement. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Carker?” said Captain Cuttle. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so,” said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain liked his answering with a smile; it looked pleasant. “You +see,” began the Captain, rolling his eyes slowly round the little room, +and taking in as much of it as his shirt-collar permitted; “I’m a +seafaring man myself, Mr Carker, and Wal”r, as is on your books here, is +almost a son of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Walter Gay?” said Mr Carker, showing all his teeth again. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r Gay it is,” replied the Captain, “right!” +The Captain’s manner expressed a warm approval of Mr Carker’s +quickness of perception. “I’m a intimate friend of his and his +Uncle’s. Perhaps,” said the Captain, “you may have heard your +head Governor mention my name?—Captain Cuttle.” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Mr Carker, with a still wider demonstration than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” resumed the Captain, “I’ve the pleasure of his +acquaintance. I waited upon him down on the Sussex coast there, with my young +friend Wal”r, when—in short, when there was a little accommodation +wanted.” The Captain nodded his head in a manner that was at once +comfortable, easy, and expressive. “You remember, I daresay?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Mr Carker, “I had the honour of arranging the +business.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure!” returned the Captain. “Right again! you had. +Now I’ve took the liberty of coming here— +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you sit down?” said Mr Carker, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee kindly, my lad,” returned the Captain: “of +coming here, on account of my friend Wal”r. Sol Gills, his Uncle, is a +man of science, and in science he may be considered a clipper; but he +ain’t what I should altogether call a able seaman—not man of +practice. Wal”r is as trim a lad as ever stepped; but he’s a little +down by the head in one respect, and that is, modesty. Now what I should wish +to put to you,” said the Captain, lowering his voice, and speaking in a +kind of confidential growl, “in a friendly way, entirely between you and +me, and for my own private reckoning, “till your head Governor has wore +round a bit, and I can come alongside of him, is this.—Is everything +right and comfortable here, and is Wal”r out’ard bound with a +pretty fair wind?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 think?” +</p> + +<p> +The acuteness and the significance of the Captain’s eye as he cocked it +in reply, no words short of those unutterable Chinese words before referred to +could describe. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” said the Captain, unspeakably encouraged, “what do +you say? Am I right or wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +So much had the Captain expressed in his eye, emboldened and incited by Mr +Carker’s smiling urbanity, that he felt himself in as fair a condition to +put the question, as if he had expressed his sentiments with the utmost +elaboration. +</p> + +<p> +“Right,” said Mr Carker, “I have no doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Out’ard bound with fair weather, then, I say,” cried Captain +Cuttle. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker smiled assent. +</p> + +<p> +“Wind right astarn, and plenty of it,” pursued the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker smiled assent again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gay has brilliant prospects,” observed Mr Carker, stretching his +mouth wider yet: “all the world before him.” +</p> + +<p> +“All the world and his wife too, as the saying is,” returned the +delighted Captain. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d bet a gill of old Jamaica,” said the Captain, eyeing him +attentively, “that I know what you’re a smiling at.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker took his cue, and smiled the more. +</p> + +<p> +“It goes no farther?” said the Captain, making a poke at the door +with the knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut. +</p> + +<p> +“Not an inch,” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re thinking of a capital F perhaps?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker didn’t deny it. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything about a L,” said the Captain, “or a O?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker still smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I right, again?” inquired the Captain in a whisper, with the +scarlet circle on his forehead swelling in his triumphant joy. +</p> + +<p> +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 youngsters +can. We’ve always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut out for each +other.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +their interview. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a general indraught that way,” observed the happy +Captain. “Wind and water sets in that direction, you see. Look at his +being present t’other day!” +</p> + +<p> +“Most favourable to his hopes,” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at his being towed along in the wake of that day!” pursued +the Captain. “Why what can cut him adrift now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” replied Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re right again,” returned the Captain, giving his hand +another squeeze. “Nothing it is. So! steady! There’s a son gone: +pretty little creetur. Ain’t there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there’s a son gone,” said the acquiescent Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain’s complacency as he gently jogged Mr Carker with his elbow, +on concluding each of the foregoing 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 eloquence 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I right?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Honour!” interposed the Captain. “Not a word.” +</p> + +<p> +“To him or anyone?” pursued the Manager. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle frowned and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance—and guidance, of +course,” repeated Mr Carker, “with a view to your future +proceedings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee kindly, I am sure,” said the Captain, listening +with great attention. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no hesitation in saying, that’s the fact. You have hit the +probabilities exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +“And with regard to your head Governor,” said the Captain, +“why an interview had better come about nat’ral between us. +There’s time enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated, “Time enough.” +Not articulating the words, but bowing his head affably, and forming them with +his tongue and lips. +</p> + +<p> +“And as I know—it’s what I always said—that +Wal”r’s in a way to make his fortune,” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“To make his fortune,” Mr Carker repeated, in the same dumb manner. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Of his general expectations here,” assented Mr Carker, dumbly as +before. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, so long as I know that,” pursued the Captain, +“there’s no hurry, and my mind’s at ease. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker still blandly assenting in the same voiceless manner, Captain Cuttle +was strongly confirmed in his opinion that he was one of the most agreeable men +he had ever met, and that even Mr Dombey might improve himself on such a model. +With great heartiness, therefore, the Captain once again extended his enormous +hand (not unlike an old block in colour), and gave him a grip that left upon +his smoother flesh a proof impression of the chinks and crevices with which the +Captain’s palm was liberally tattooed. +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell!” said the Captain. “I ain’t a man of many +words, but I take it very kind of you to be so friendly, and above-board. +You’ll excuse me if I’ve been at all intruding, will you?” +said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” returned the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee. My berth ain’t very roomy,” said the +Captain, turning back again, “but it’s tolerably snug; and if you +was to find yourself near Brig Place, number nine, at any time—will you +make a note of it?—and would come upstairs, without minding what was said +by the person at the door, I should be proud to see you. +</p> + +<p> +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 false mouth, +stretched but not laughing; in whose spotless cravat and very whiskers; even in +whose silent passing of his soft hand over his white linen and his smooth face; +there was something desperately cat-like. +</p> + +<p> +The unconscious Captain walked out in a state of self-glorification that +imparted quite a new cut to the broad blue suit. “Stand by, Ned!” +said the Captain to himself. “You’ve done a little business for the +youngsters today, my lad!” +</p> + +<p> +In his exultation, and in his familiarity, present and prospective, with the +House, the Captain, when he reached the outer office, could not refrain from +rallying Mr Perch a little, and asking him whether he thought everybody was +still engaged. But not to be bitter on a man who had 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. +</p> + +<p> +Before leaving the premises, the Captain, somewhat to the astonishment of the +clerks, looked round from a central point of view, and took a general survey of +the officers part and parcel of a project in which his young friend was nearly +interested. The strong-room excited his especial admiration; 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 the court. Being promptly joined by Mr Perch, he +conveyed that gentleman to the tavern, and fulfilled his pledge—hastily, +for Perch’s time was precious. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll give you for a toast,” said the Captain, +“Wal”r!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” submitted Mr Perch. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r!” repeated the Captain, in a voice of thunder. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Perch, who seemed to remember having heard in infancy that there was once a +poet of that name, made no objection; but he was much astonished at the +Captain’s coming into the City to propose a poet; indeed, if he had +proposed to put a poet’s statue up—say Shakespeare’s for +example—in a civic thoroughfare, he could hardly have done a greater +outrage to Mr Perch’s experience. On the whole, he was such a 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. +</p> + +<p> +Mysterious and incomprehensible, the Captain, with that lively sense upon him +of having done a little business for the youngsters, remained all day, even to +his most intimate friends; and but that Walter attributed his winks and grins, +and other such pantomimic reliefs of himself, to his satisfaction in the +success of their innocent deception upon old Sol Gills, he would assuredly 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 beaming 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 infants, until he was securely lodged in his own room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /> +Father and Daughter</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here +is a hush through Mr Dombey’s house. Servants gliding up and down stairs +rustle, but make no sound of footsteps. They talk together constantly, and sit +long at meals, making much of their meat and drink, and enjoying themselves +after a grim unholy fashion. Mrs Wickam, with 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 sociable. 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 corner +house. It seems to all of them as having happened a long time ago; though yet +the child lies, calm and beautiful, upon his little bed. +</p> + +<p> +After dark there come some visitors—noiseless visitors, with shoes of +felt—who have been there before; and with them comes that bed of rest +which is so strange a one for infant sleepers. All this time, the bereaved +father has not been seen even by his attendant; for he sits in an inner corner +of his own dark room when anyone is there, and never seems to move at other +times, except to pace it to and fro. But in the morning it is whispered among +the household that he was heard to go upstairs in the dead night, and that he +stayed there—in the room—until the sun was shining. +</p> + +<p> +At the offices in the City, the ground-glass windows are made more dim by +shutters; and while the lighted lamps upon the desks are half extinguished by +the day that wanders in, the day is half extinguished by the lamps, and an +unusual gloom prevails. There is not much business done. The clerks are +indisposed to work; and they make assignations to eat chops in the afternoon, +and go up the river. Perch, the messenger, stays long upon his errands; and +finds himself in bars of 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; but +alone in his own room he shows his teeth all day; and it would seem that there +is something gone from Mr Carker’s path—some obstacle +removed—which clears his way before him. +</p> + +<p> +Now the rosy children living opposite to Mr Dombey’s house, peep from +their nursery windows down into the street; for there are four black horses at +his door, with feathers on their heads; and feathers tremble on the carriage +that they draw; and these, and an array of men with scarves and staves, attract +a crowd. The juggler who was going to twirl the basin, puts his loose coat on +again over his fine dress; and his trudging wife, one-sided with her heavy baby +in her arms, loiters to see the company come out. But closer to her dingy +breast she presses her baby, when the burden that is so easily carried is borne +forth; and the youngest of the rosy children at the high window opposite, needs +no restraining hand to check her in her glee, when, pointing with her dimpled +finger, she looks into her nurse’s face, and asks “What’s +that?” +</p> + +<p> +And now, among the knot of servants dressed in mourning, and the weeping women, +Mr Dombey passes through the hall to the other carriage that is waiting to +receive him. He is not “brought down,” these observers think, by +sorrow and distress of mind. His walk is as erect, his bearing is as stiff as +ever it has been. He hides his face behind no handkerchief, and looks before +him. But that his face is something sunk and rigid, and is pale, it bears the +same expression as of old. He takes his place within the carriage, and 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 perhaps the baby underneath her +shabby shawl may not grow up to be a man, and wear a sky-blue fillet round his +head, and salmon-coloured worsted drawers, and tumble in the mud. +</p> + +<p> +The feathers wind their gloomy way along the streets, and come within the sound +of a church bell. In this same church, the pretty boy received all that will +soon be left of him on earth—a name. All of him that is dead, they lay +there, near the perishable substance of his mother. It is well. Their ashes lie +where Florence in her walks—oh lonely, lonely walks!—may pass them +any day. +</p> + +<p> +The service over, and the clergyman withdrawn, Mr Dombey looks round, demanding +in a low voice, whether the person who has been requested to attend to receive +instructions for the tablet, is there? +</p> + +<p> +Someone comes forward, and says “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey intimates where he would have it placed; and shows him, with his hand +upon the wall, the shape and size; and how it is to follow the memorial to the +mother. Then, with his pencil, he writes out the inscription, and gives it to +him: adding, “I wish to have it done at once. +</p> + +<p> +“It shall be done immediately, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr Dombey not +observing his hesitation, turns away, and leads towards the porch. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Sir;” a touch falls gently on his mourning +cloak; “but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be put in hand +when I get back—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be so good as read it over again? I think there’s a +mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +The statuary gives him back the paper, and points out, with his pocket rule, +the words, “beloved and only child.” +</p> + +<p> +“It should be, ‘son,’ I think, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right. Of course. Make the correction.” +</p> + +<p> +The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to the coach. When the other +three, who follow closely, take their seats, his face is hidden for the first +time—shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any more that day. He +alights first, and passes immediately into his own room. The other mourners +(who are only Mr Chick, and two of the medical attendants) proceed upstairs 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 everyday 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 moralise. 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 housemaid, who has +not yet tried her mourning bonnet. They are very tender to each other at dusky +street-corners, and Towlinson has visions of leading an altered and blameless +existence as a serious greengrocer in Oxford Market. +</p> + +<p> +There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr Dombey’s house tonight, than +there has been for many nights. The morning sun awakens the old household, +settled down once more in their old ways. The rosy children opposite run past +with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in the church. The juggler’s wife +is active with the money-box in another quarter of the town. The mason sings +and whistles as he chips out P-A-U-L in the marble slab before him. +</p> + +<p> +And can it be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak creature +makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep that nothing but the width and +depth of vast eternity can fill it up! Florence, in her innocent affliction, +might have answered, “Oh my brother, oh my dearly loved and loving +brother! Only friend and companion of my slighted childhood! Could any less +idea shed the light already dawning on your early grave, or give birth to the +softened sorrow that is springing into life beneath this rain of tears!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Which will be the prime of life,” observed Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“You will then,” pursued Mrs Chick, gently squeezing 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will try, dear aunt I do try,” answered Florence, sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear it,” said Mrs Chick, “because; my love, as +our dear Miss Tox—of whose sound sense and excellent judgment, there +cannot possibly be two opinions—” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,” said Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“—will tell you, and confirm by her experience,” pursued Mrs +Chick, “we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is +required of us. If any—my dear,” turning to Miss Tox, “I want +a word. Mis—Mis-” +</p> + +<p> +“Demeanour?” suggested Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no,” said Mrs Chic “How can you! Goodness me, +it’s on, the end of my tongue. Mis-” +</p> + +<p> +“Placed affection?” suggested Miss Tox, timidly. +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good indeed,” said Miss Tox, much impressed by the +originality of the sentiment “Very good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unhappily,” pursued Mrs Chick, “we have a warning under our +own eyes. We have but too much reason to suppose, my dear child, that if an +effort had been made in time, in this family, a train of the most trying and +distressing circumstances might have been avoided. Nothing shall ever persuade +me,” observed the good matron, with a resolute air, “but that if +that effort had been made by poor dear Fanny, the poor dear darling child would +at least have had a stronger constitution.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half a moment; but, as a +practical illustration of her doctrine, brought herself up short, in the middle +of a sob, and went on again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear aunt!” said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her, that +she might the better and more earnestly look into her face. “Tell me more +about Papa. Pray tell me about him! Is he quite heartbroken?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was something in this appeal that +moved her very much. Whether she saw it in 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 +recognised the earnest and devoted spirit which, although discarded and +repulsed, was wrung with tenderness long unreturned, and in the waste and +solitude of this bereavement cried to him to seek a comfort in it, and to give +some, by some small response—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, without waiting for a lead from that wise matron. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick herself lost, for a moment, the presence of mind on which she so much +prided herself; and remained mute, looking on the beautiful young face that had +so long, so steadily, and patiently, been turned towards the little bed. But +recovering her voice—which was synonymous with her presence of mind, +indeed they were one and the same thing—she replied with dignity: +</p> + +<p> +“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 understand. I believe I have as much influence with your 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 have said to your Papa, +‘Paul!’—that is the exact expression I +used—‘Paul! why do you not take something stimulating?’ Your +Papa’s reply has always been, ‘Louisa, have the goodness to leave +me. I want nothing. I am better by myself.’ If I was to be put upon my +oath to-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate,” said Mrs Chick, “I +have no doubt I could venture to swear to those identical words.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, “My Louisa is ever +methodical!” +</p> + +<p> +“In short, Florence,” resumed her aunt, “literally nothing +has passed between your poor Papa and myself, until today; when I mentioned to +your Papa that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly kind +notes—our sweet boy! Lady Skettles loved him like a—where’s +my pocket handkerchief?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox produced one. +</p> + +<p> +“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!’” +</p> + +<p> +Florence raised her tearful eye. +</p> + +<p> +“At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to paying +this visit at present, or to going home with me—” +</p> + +<p> +“I should much prefer it, aunt,” was the faint rejoinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Why then, child,” said Mrs Chick, “you can. It’s a +strange choice, I must say. But you always were strange. Anybody else at your +time of life, and after what has passed—my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my +pocket handkerchief again—would be glad to leave here, one would +suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should not like to feel,” said Florence, “as if the house +was avoided. I should not like to think that the—his—the rooms +upstairs were quite empty and dreary, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the +present. Oh my brother! oh my brother!” +</p> + +<p> +It was a natural emotion, not to be suppressed; and it would make way even +between the fingers of the hands with which she covered up her face. The +overcharged and heavy-laden breast must some times 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, child!” said Mrs Chick, after a pause “I +wouldn’t on any account say anything unkind to you, and that I’m +sure you know. You will remain here, then, and do exactly as you like. No one +will interfere with you, Florence, or wish to interfere with you, I’m +sure.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence shook her head in sad assent. +</p> + +<p> +“I had no sooner begun to advise your poor Papa that he really ought to +seek some distraction and restoration in a temporary change,” said Mrs +Chick, “than he told me he had already formed the intention of going into +the country for a short time. I’m sure I hope he’ll go very soon. +He can’t go too soon. But I suppose there are some arrangements connected +with his private papers and so forth, consequent on the affliction that has +tried us all so much—I can’t think what’s become of mine: +Lucretia, lend me yours, my dear—that may occupy him for one or two +evenings in his own room. Your Papa’s a Dombey, child, if ever there was +one,” said Mrs Chick, drying both her eyes at once with great care on +opposite corners of Miss Tox’s handkerchief “He’ll make an +effort. There’s no fear of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there nothing, aunt,” said Florence, trembling, “I might +do to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, my dear child,” interposed Mrs Chick, hastily, “what +are you talking about? If your Papa said to Me—I have given you his exact +words, ‘Louisa, I want nothing; I am better by myself’—what +do you think he’d say to you? You mustn’t show yourself to him, +child. Don’t dream of such a thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt,” said Florence, “I will go and lie down on my +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +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 upstairs +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 favour to +be won by it. +</p> + +<p> +And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan, to uphold the striving heart +in its anguish? Was there no other neck to clasp; no other face to turn to? no +one else to say a soothing word to such deep sorrow? Was Florence so alone in +the bleak world that nothing else remained to her? Nothing. Stricken motherless +and brotherless at once—for in the loss of little Paul, that first and +greatest loss fell heavily upon her—this was the only help she had. Oh, +who can tell how much she needed help at first! +</p> + +<p> +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 ensued 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. +</p> + +<p> +But it is not in the nature of pure love to burn so fiercely and unkindly long. +The flame that in its grosser composition has the taint of earth may prey upon +the breast that gives it shelter; but the fire from heaven is as gentle in the +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 +tranquilly, and courted the remembrance. +</p> + +<p> +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 eye fixed upon it as it ebbed away. +It was not very long before that room again knew her, often; sitting there +alone, as patient and as mild as when she had watched beside the little bed. +When any sharp sense of its being empty smote upon her, she could kneel beside +it, and pray GOD—it was the pouring out of her full heart—to let +one angel love her and remember her. +</p> + +<p> +It was not very long before, in the midst of the dismal house so wide and +dreary, her low voice in the twilight, 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 request on that last night, +than the reality repeated. But it was repeated, often—very often, in the +shadowy solitude; and broken murmurs of the strain still trembled on the keys, +when the sweet voice was hushed in tears. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work to where the rosy children +lived? They were not immediately suggestive of her loss; for they were all +girls: four little sisters. But they were motherless like her—and had a +father. +</p> + +<p> +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 on +the balcony; and when he appeared, her expectant face lighted up with joy, +while the others at the high window, and always on the watch too, clapped their +hands, and drummed them on the sill, and called to him. The elder child would +come down to the hall, and put her hand in his, and lead him up the stairs; and +Florence would see her 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 like +her mother that was dead. Florence would sometimes look no more at this, and +bursting into tears would hide behind the curtain as if she were frightened, or +would hurry from the window. Yet she could not help returning; and her work +would soon fall unheeded from her hands again. +</p> + +<p> +It was the house that had been empty, years ago. It had remained so for a long +time. At last, and while she had been away 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 different from its old self. But she never thought of +the house. The children and their father were all in all. +</p> + +<p> +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 upstairs 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 the +balcony; and then Florence would hide herself quickly, lest it should check +them in their joy, to see her in her black dress, sitting there alone. +</p> + +<p> +The elder child remained with her father when 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 companion, though she was some years younger than +Florence; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And did that breast of Florence—Florence, so ingenuous and true—so +worthy of the love that he had borne her, and had whispered in his last faint +words—whose guileless heart was mirrored in the beauty of her face, and +breathed in every accent of her gentle voice—did that young breast hold +any other secret? Yes. One more. +</p> + +<p> +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 the +staircase, and approach her father’s door. Against it, scarcely +breathing, she would rest her face and head, and press her lips, in the +yearning of her love. She crouched upon the cold stone floor outside it, every +night, to listen even for his breath; and in her one absorbing wish to be +allowed to show him some affection, to be a consolation to him, to win him over +to the endurance of some tenderness from her, his solitary child, she would +have knelt down at his feet, if she had dared, in humble supplication. +</p> + +<p> +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 inquired for her. Perhaps he did not even know +that she was in the house. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A visitor! To me, Susan!” said Florence, looking up in +astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is a wonder, ain’t it now, Miss Floy?” said Susan; +“but I wish you had a many visitors, I do, indeed, for you’d be all +the better for it, and it’s my opinion that the sooner you and me goes +even to them old Skettleses, Miss, the better for both, I may not wish to live +in crowds, Miss Floy, but still I’m not a oyster.” +</p> + +<p> +To do Miss Nipper justice, she spoke more for her young mistress than herself; +and her face showed it. +</p> + +<p> +“But the visitor, Susan,” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +Susan, with an hysterical explosion that was as much a laugh as a sob, and as +much a sob as a laugh, answered, +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Toots!” +</p> + +<p> +The smile that appeared on Florence’s face passed from it in a moment, +and her eyes filled with tears. But at any rate it was a smile, and that gave +great satisfaction to Miss Nipper. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan Nipper involuntarily proceeded to do the like again on the spot. In the +meantime Mr Toots, who had come upstairs after her, all unconscious of the +effect he produced, announced himself with his knuckles on the door, and walked +in very briskly. +</p> + +<p> +“How d’ye do, Miss Dombey?” said Mr Toots. “I’m +very well, I thank you; how are you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots—than whom there were few better fellows in the world, though +there may have been one or two brighter spirits—had laboriously invented +this long burst of discourse with the view of relieving the feelings both of +Florence and himself. But finding that he had run through his property, as it +were, in an injudicious 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. +</p> + +<p> +“How d’ye do, Miss Dombey?” said Mr Toots. “I’m +very well, I thank you; how are you?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence gave him her hand, and said she was very well. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very well indeed,” said Mr Toots, taking a chair. +“Very well indeed, I am. I don’t remember,” said Mr Toots, +after reflecting a little, “that I was ever better, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very kind of you to come,” said Florence, taking up her +work, “I am very glad to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots responded with a chuckle. Thinking that might be too lively, he +corrected it with a sigh. Thinking that might be too melancholy, he corrected +it with a chuckle. Not thoroughly pleasing himself with either mode of reply, +he breathed hard. +</p> + +<p> +“You were very kind to my dear brother,” said Florence, obeying her +own natural impulse to relieve him by saying so. “He often talked to me +about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh it’s of no consequence,” said Mr Toots hastily. +“Warm, ain’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is beautiful weather,” replied Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“It agrees with me!” said Mr Toots. “I don’t think I +ever was so well as I find myself at present, I’m obliged to you. +</p> + +<p> +After stating this curious and unexpected fact, Mr Toots fell into a deep well +of silence. +</p> + +<p> +“You have left Dr Blimber’s, I think?” said Florence, trying +to help him out. +</p> + +<p> +“I should hope so,” returned Mr Toots. And tumbled in again. +</p> + +<p> +He remained at the bottom, apparently drowned, for at least ten minutes. At the +expiration of that period, he suddenly floated, and said, +</p> + +<p> +“Well! Good morning, Miss Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going?” asked Florence, rising. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, though. No, not just at present,” said Mr +Toots, sitting down again, most unexpectedly. “The fact is—I say, +Miss Dombey!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be afraid to speak to me,” said Florence, with a quiet +smile, “I should be very glad if you would talk about my brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you, though?” retorted Mr Toots, with sympathy in every +fibre of his otherwise expressionless face. “Poor Dombey! I’m sure +I never thought that Burgess and Co.—fashionable tailors (but very dear), +that we used to talk about—would make this suit of clothes for such a +purpose.” Mr Toots was dressed in mourning. “Poor Dombey! I say! +Miss Dombey!” blubbered Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes! oh yes” cried Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Dombey! So do I,” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great difficulty in getting beyond this +point, and had nearly tumbled into the well again. But a chuckle saved him on +the brink. +</p> + +<p> +“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 ain’t a +lady’s dog, you know,” said Mr Toots, “but you won’t +mind that, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +In fact, Diogenes was at that moment, as they presently ascertained from +looking down into the street, staring through the window of a hackney +cabriolet, into which, for conveyance to that spot, he had been ensnared, on a +false pretence of rats among the straw. Sooth to say, he was as unlike a +lady’s dog as might be; and in his gruff anxiety to get out, presented an +appearance sufficiently unpromising, as he gave short yelps out of one side of +his mouth, and overbalancing himself by the 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. +</p> + +<p> +But though Diogenes was as ridiculous a dog as one would meet with on a +summer’s day; a blundering, ill-favoured, clumsy, bullet-headed dog, +continually acting on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the +neighbourhood, 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 dearer to +Florence, in virtue of that parting remembrance of him, and that request that +he might be taken care of, than the most valuable and beautiful of his kind. So +dear, indeed, was this same ugly Diogenes, and so welcome to her, that she took +the jewelled hand of Mr Toots and kissed it in her gratitude. And when +Diogenes, released, came tearing up the stairs and bouncing into the room (such +a business as there was, first, to get him out of the cabriolet!), dived under +all the 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 he 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 corner all his life and had never seen yet; Florence was as pleased +with him as if he had been a miracle of discretion. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots was so overjoyed by the success of his present, and was so delighted +to see Florence bending down over Diogenes, smoothing his coarse back with her +little 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 +exactly seeing his way to the end of these demonstrations, and sensible that +they placed the pantaloons constructed by the art of Burgess and Co. in +jeopardy, Mr Toots, with chuckles, lapsed out at the door: by which, after +looking in again two or three times, without any object at all, and being on +each occasion greeted with a fresh run from Diogenes, he finally took himself +off and got away. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0241m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +Diogenes the man did not speak plainer to Alexander the Great than Diogenes the +dog spoke to Florence. He subscribed to the offer of his little mistress +cheerfully, and devoted himself to her 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 +his great head against her heart, and wagged his tail till he was tired. +Finally, Diogenes coiled himself up at her feet and went to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Although Miss Nipper was nervous in regard of dogs, and felt it necessary to +come into the room with her skirts carefully collected about her, as if she +were crossing a brook on stepping-stones; also to utter little screams and +stand up on chairs when Diogenes stretched himself, 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 ante-chamber outside his mistress’s door, +she said hurriedly to Florence, before leaving her for the night: +</p> + +<p> +“Your Pa’s a going off, Miss Floy, tomorrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow morning, Susan?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss; that’s the orders. Early.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know,” asked Florence, without looking at her, “where +Papa is going, Susan?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Susan!” urged Florence gently. +</p> + +<p> +“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 was a Christian, although humble, I would have +natural-coloured friends, or none.” +</p> + +<p> +It appeared from what she added and had gleaned downstairs, that Mrs Chick had +proposed the Major for Mr Dombey’s companion, and that Mr Dombey, after +some hesitation, had invited him. +</p> + +<p> +“Talk of him being a change, indeed!” observed Miss Nipper to +herself with boundless contempt. “If he’s a change, give me a +constancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Susan,” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, my darling dear Miss Floy.” +</p> + +<p> +Her tone of commiseration smote the chord so often roughly touched, but never +listened to while she or anyone 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. +</p> + +<p> +It was a wet night; and the melancholy rain fell pattering and dropping with a +weary 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +wandering love, indeed, and castaway—but turning always to her father. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing in the dropping of the rain, the moaning of the wind, the +shuddering of the trees, the striking of the solemn clocks, that shook this one +thought, or diminished its interest. Her recollections of the dear dead +boy—and they were never absent—were itself, the same thing. And oh, +to be shut out: to be so lost: never to have looked into her father’s +face or touched him, since that hour! +</p> + +<p> +She could not go to bed, poor child, and never had gone yet, since then, +without making her nightly pilgrimage to his door. It would have been a strange +sad sight, to see her now, stealing lightly down the stairs through the thick +gloom, and stopping at it with a beating heart, and blinded eyes, and hair that +fell down loosely and unthought of; and touching it outside with her wet cheek. +But the night covered it, and no one knew. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 doorway, and falling in a thread upon the marble floor. She +turned back, hardly knowing what she did, but urged on by the love within her, +and the trial they had undergone together, but not shared: and with her hands a +little raised and trembling, glided in. +</p> + +<p> +Her father sat at his old table in the middle room. He had been arranging some +papers, and destroying others, and the latter lay in fragile ruins before him. +The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes in the outer room, where he had +so often watched poor Paul, a baby; and the low complainings of the wind were +heard without. +</p> + +<p> +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 surrounding him, there was an appeal to Florence that struck home. +</p> + +<p> +“Papa! Papa! speak to me, dear Papa!” +</p> + +<p> +He started at her voice, and leaped up from his seat. She was close before him +with extended arms, but he fell back. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” he said, sternly. “Why do you come +here? What has frightened you?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it. There was not one gleam of +interest, parental recognition, or relenting in it. There was a change in it, +but not of that kind. The old indifference and cold constraint had given place +to something: what, she never thought and did not dare to think, and yet she +felt it in its force, and knew it well without a name: that as it looked upon +her, seemed to cast a shadow on her head. +</p> + +<p> +Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, in health and life? Did +he look upon his own successful rival in that son’s affection? Did a mad +jealousy and withered pride, poison sweet remembrances that should have +endeared and made her precious to him? 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask you, Florence, are you frightened? Is there anything the matter, +that you come here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I came, Papa—” +</p> + +<p> +“Against my wishes. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +She saw he knew why: it was written broadly on his face: and dropped her head +upon her hands with one prolonged low cry. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +He took her by the arm. His hand was cold, and loose, and scarcely closed upon +her. +</p> + +<p> +“You are tired, I daresay,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +The dream she had had, was over then, God help her! and she felt that it could +never more come back. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered “Good-night, dear +Papa,” and silently ascended. Once she looked back as if she would have +returned to him, but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopeless 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. +</p> + +<p> +Let him remember it in that room, years to come. The rain that falls upon the +roof: the wind that mourns outside the door: may have foreknowledge in their +melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, years to come! +</p> + +<p> +The last time he had watched her, from the same place, winding up those stairs, +she had had her brother in her arms. It did not move his heart towards her now, +it steeled it: but he went into his room, and locked his door, and sat down in +his chair, and cried for his lost boy. +</p> + +<p> +Diogenes was broad awake upon his post, and waiting for his little mistress. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Di! Oh, dear Di! Love me for his sake!” +</p> + +<p> +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 ante-chamber, 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /> +Walter goes away</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +wooden Midshipman at the Instrument-maker’s 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 parlour was +on the decline. With his quadrant at his round black knob of an eye, and his +figure in its old attitude of indomitable alacrity, the Midshipman displayed +his elfin small-clothes to the best advantage, and, absorbed in scientific +pursuits, had no sympathy with worldly concerns. He was so far the creature of +circumstances, that a dry day covered him with dust, and a misty day peppered +him with little bits of soot, and a wet day brightened up his tarnished uniform +for the moment, and a very hot day blistered him; but otherwise he was a +callous, obdurate, 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. +</p> + +<p> +Such a Midshipman he seemed to be, at least, in the then position of domestic +affairs. Walter eyed him kindly many a time in passing in and out; and poor old +Sol, when Walter was not there, would come and lean against the doorpost, +resting his weary wig as near the shoe-buckles of the guardian genius of his +trade and shop as he could. But no fierce idol with a mouth from ear to ear, +and a murderous visage made of parrot’s feathers, was ever more +indifferent to the appeals of its savage votaries, than was the Midshipman to +these marks of attachment. +</p> + +<p> +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 close his acquaintance with it, perhaps for ever. Dismantled of +his little stock of books and pictures, it looked coldly and reproachfully on +him for his desertion, and had already a foreshadowing upon it of its coming +strangeness. “A few hours more,” thought Walter, “and no +dream I ever had here when I was a schoolboy will be so little mine as this old +room. The dream may come back in my sleep, and I may return waking to this +place, it may be: but the dream at least will serve no other master, and the +room may have a score, and every one of them may change, neglect, misuse +it.” +</p> + +<p> +But his Uncle was not to be left alone in the little back parlour, where he was +then sitting by himself; for Captain Cuttle, considerate in his roughness, +stayed away against his will, purposely that they should have some talk +together unobserved: so Walter, newly returned home from his last day’s +bustle, descended briskly, to bear him company. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle,” he said gaily, laying his hand upon the old man’s +shoulder, “what shall I send you home from Barbados?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I will, Uncle: I have enough and to spare, and I’ll not be +chary of it! And as to lively turtles, and limes for Captain Cuttle’s +punch, and preserves for you on Sundays, and all that sort of thing, why +I’ll send you ship-loads, Uncle: when I’m rich enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Sol wiped his spectacles, and faintly smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right, Uncle!” cried Walter, merrily, and clapping +him half a dozen times more upon the shoulder. “You cheer up me! +I’ll cheer up you! We’ll be as gay as larks to-morrow morning, +Uncle, and we’ll fly as high! As to my anticipations, they are singing +out of sight now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wally, my dear boy,” returned the old man, “I’ll do my +best, I’ll do my best.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your best, Uncle,” said Walter, with his pleasant laugh, +“is the best best that I know. You’ll not forget what you’re +to send me, Uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I’ll tell you what, Uncle,” said Walter, after a +moment’s hesitation, “I have just been up there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, ay?” murmured the old man, raising his eyebrows, and his +spectacles with them. +</p> + +<p> +“Not to see her,” said Walter, “though I could have seen her, +I daresay, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his Uncle, rousing himself from a +temporary abstraction. +</p> + +<p> +“So I saw her,” pursued Walter, “Susan, I mean: and I told +her I was off and away to-morrow. And I said, Uncle, that you had always had an +interest in 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 +least: I thought I might say that, you know, under the circumstances. +Don’t you think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his Uncle, in the tone as before. +</p> + +<p> +“And I added,” pursued Walter, “that if she—Susan, I +mean—could ever let you know, either through herself, or Mrs Richards, or +anybody else who might be coming this way, 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 +scarcely 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.” +</p> + +<p> +His honest voice and manner corroborated what he said, and quite established +its ingenuousness. +</p> + +<p> +“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 young lady’s: only 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 night—and took them away with me as a remembrance!” +</p> + +<p> +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; and wheeled them away +under the very eye of the insensible Midshipman before their owner had well +finished speaking. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +More than this, they passed into the shop, and passed in at the parlour 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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0249m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“Why, Uncle!” exclaimed Walter. “What’s the +matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Solomon replied, “Miss Dombey!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it possible?” cried Walter, looking round and starting up in +his turn. “Here!” +</p> + +<p> +Why, It was so possible and so actual, that, while the words were on his lips, +Florence hurried past him; took Uncle Sol’s snuff-coloured lapels, one in +each hand; kissed him on the cheek; and turning, gave her hand to Walter with a +simple truth and earnestness that was her own, and no one else’s in the +world! +</p> + +<p> +“Going away, Walter?” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss Dombey,” he replied, but not so hopefully as he +endeavoured: “I have a voyage before me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +With that Miss Nipper untied her bonnet strings, and after looking vacantly for +some moments into a little black teapot 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. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime Florence had turned again to the Instrument-maker, who was as +full of admiration as surprise. “So grown!” said old Sol. “So +improved! And yet not altered! Just the same!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye—yes,” returned old Sol, rubbing his hands slowly, and +considering the matter half aloud, as something pensive in the bright eyes +looking at him arrested his attention. “Yes, that expression was in the +younger face, too!” +</p> + +<p> +“You remember me,” said Florence with a smile, “and what a +little creature I was then?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear young lady,” returned the Instrument-maker, “how +could I forget you, often as I have thought of you and heard of you since! At +the very moment, indeed, when you came in, Wally was talking about you to me, +and leaving messages for you, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 and so faithfully that Walter +held it for some moments in his own, and could not bear to let it go. +</p> + +<p> +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 serener air. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I am afraid I must call you Walter’s Uncle, Sir,” +said Florence to the old man, “if you’ll let me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear young lady,” cried old Sol. “Let you! Good +gracious!” +</p> + +<p> +“We always knew you by that name, and talked of you,” said +Florence, glancing round, and sighing gently. “The nice old parlour! Just +the same! How well I recollect it!” +</p> + +<p> +Old Sol looked first at her, then at his nephew, and then rubbed his hands, and +rubbed his spectacles, and said below his breath, “Ah! time, time, +time!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a short silence; during which Susan Nipper skilfully impounded two +extra cups and saucers from the cupboard, and awaited the drawing of the tea +with a thoughtful air. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +I couldn’t do, but to be his true friend and help him if I ever can while +Walter is away, I shall be very much obliged to him indeed. Will you? May I, +Walter’s Uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You will let me come to see you,” said Florence, “when I +can; and you will tell me everything about yourself and Walter; and you will +have no secrets from Susan when she comes and I do not, but 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?” +</p> + +<p> +The sweet face looking into his, the gentle pleading eyes, the soft voice, and +the light touch on his arm made the more winning by a child’s respect and +honour for his age, that gave to all an air of graceful doubt and modest +hesitation—these, and her natural earnestness, so overcame the poor old +Instrument-maker, that he only answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Wally! say a word for me, my dear. I’m very grateful.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Walter,” returned Florence with her quiet smile. “Say +nothing for him, if you please. I understand him very well, and we must learn +to talk together without you, dear Walter.” +</p> + +<p> +The regretful tone in which she said these latter words, touched Walter more +than all the rest. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Florence,” he replied, with an effort to recover the cheerful +manner he had preserved while talking with his Uncle, “I know no more +than my Uncle, what to say in acknowledgment of such kindness, I am sure. But +what could I say, after all, if I had the power of talking for an hour, except +that it is like you?” +</p> + +<p> +Susan Nipper began upon a new part of her bonnet string, and nodded at the +skylight, in approval of the sentiment expressed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! but, Walter,” said Florence, “there is something that I +wish to say to you before you go away, and you must call me Florence, if you +please, and not speak like a stranger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like a stranger!” returned Walter, “No. I couldn’t +speak so. I am sure, at least, I couldn’t feel like one.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 I have +none on earth, I’ll be your sister all my life, and think of you like one +wherever we may be! This is what I wished to say, dear Walter, but I cannot say +it as I would, because my heart is full.” +</p> + +<p> +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 moment, every shadow of doubt or agitation +passed away from Walter’s soul. It seemed to him that he responded to her +innocent appeal, beside the dead child’s bed: and, in the solemn presence +he had seen there, pledged himself to cherish and protect her very image, in +his banishment, with brotherly regard; to garner up her simple faith, +inviolate; and hold himself degraded if he breathed upon it any thought that +was not in her own breast when she gave it to him. +</p> + +<p> +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 table, and took tea under that young lady’s +active superintendence; and the presence of Florence in the back parlour, +brightened the Tartar frigate on the wall. +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour ago Walter, for his life, would have hardly called her by her +name. But he could do so now when she entreated him. He could think of her +being there, without a lurking misgiving that it would have been better if she +had not come. He could calmly think how beautiful she was, how full of promise, +what a home some happy man would find in such a heart one day. He could reflect +upon his own place in that heart, with pride; and with a brave determination, +if not to deserve it—he still thought that far above him—never to +deserve it less. +</p> + +<p> +Some fairy influence must surely have hovered round the hands of Susan Nipper +when she made the tea, engendering the tranquil air that reigned in the back +parlour during its discussion. Some counter-influence must surely have hovered +round the hands of Uncle Sol’s chronometer, and moved them faster than +the Tartar frigate ever went before the wind. Be this as it may, the visitors +had a coach in waiting at a quiet corner not far off; and the chronometer, on +being incidentally 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 unimpeachable authority. If Uncle Sol had been going to be +hanged by his own time, he never would have allowed that the chronometer was +too fast, by the least fraction of a second. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Walter,” said Florence by the way, “I have been afraid to +ask before your Uncle. Do you think you will be absent very long?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Walter, “I don’t know. I fear so. Mr +Dombey signified as much, I thought, when he appointed me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it a favour, Walter?” inquired Florence, after a moment’s +hesitation, and looking anxiously in his face. +</p> + +<p> +“The appointment?” returned Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Walter would have given anything to have answered in the affirmative, but his +face answered before his lips could, and Florence was too attentive to it not +to understand its reply. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you have scarcely been a favourite with Papa,” she +said, timidly. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no reason,” replied Walter, smiling, “why I should +be.” +</p> + +<p> +“No reason, Walter!” +</p> + +<p> +“There was no reason,” said Walter, understanding what she meant. +“There are many people employed in the House. Between Mr Dombey and a +young man like me, there’s a wide space of separation. If I do my duty, I +do what I ought, and do no more than all the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +Had Florence any misgiving of which she was hardly conscious: any misgiving +that had sprung into an indistinct and undefined existence since that recent +night when she had gone down to her father’s room: that Walter’s +accidental interest in her, and early knowledge of her, might have involved him +in that powerful displeasure and dislike? Had Walter any such idea, or any +sudden thought that it was in her mind at that moment? Neither of them hinted +at it. Neither of them spoke at all, for some short time. Susan, walking on the +other side of Walter, eyed them both sharply; and certainly Miss Nipper’s +thoughts travelled in that direction, and very confidently too. +</p> + +<p> +“You may come back very soon,” said Florence, “perhaps, +Walter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may come back,” said Walter, “an old man, and find you an +old lady. But I hope for better things.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 much I wish to see you back again, and ask +him to recall you for my sake.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a touching modulation in these words about her father, that Walter +understood too well. +</p> + +<p> +The coach being close at hand, he would have left her without speaking, for now +he felt what parting was; but Florence held his hand when she was seated, and +then he found there was a little packet in her own. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of her request, he could not help opening the packet that night when +he went to bed. It was a little purse: and there was money in it. +</p> + +<p> +Bright rose the sun next morning, from his absence in strange countries and up +rose Walter with it to receive the Captain, who was already at the door: having +turned out earlier than was necessary, in order to get under weigh while Mrs +MacStinger was still 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. +</p> + +<p> +“And, Wal”r,” said the Captain, when they took their seats at +table, if your Uncle’s the man I think him, he’ll bring out the +last bottle of the Madeira on the present occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Ned,” returned the old man. “No! That shall be +opened when Walter comes home again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well said!” cried the Captain. “Hear him!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear him!” cried the Captain. “Good morality! Wal”r, +my lad. Train up a fig-tree in the way it should go, and when you are old sit +under the shade on it. Overhaul the—Well,” said the Captain on +second thoughts, “I ain’t quite certain where that’s to be +found, but when found, make a note of. Sol Gills, heave ahead again!” +</p> + +<p> +“But there or somewhere, it shall lie, Ned, until Wally comes back to +claim it,” said the old man. “That’s all I meant to +say.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 terribly +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 +there being always three together. This terror on the part of the Captain, +reduced him to such ingenious evasions as running to the door, when Solomon +went to put his coat on, under pretence of having seen an extraordinary +hackney-coach pass: and darting out into the road when Walter went upstairs to +take leave of the lodgers, on a feint of smelling fire in a neighbouring +chimney. These artifices Captain Cuttle deemed inscrutable by any uninspired +observer. +</p> + +<p> +Walter was coming down from his parting expedition upstairs, and was crossing +the shop to go back to the little parlour, when he saw a faded face he knew, +looking in at the door, and darted towards it. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Carker!” cried Walter, pressing the hand of John Carker the +Junior. “Pray come in! This is kind of you, to be here so early to say +good-bye to me. You knew how glad it would make me to shake hands with you, +once, before going away. I cannot say how glad I am to have this opportunity. +Pray come in.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not likely that we may ever meet again, Walter,” returned +the other, gently resisting his invitation, “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 your frank approaches, +Walter, any more.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Mr Carker!” returned Walter. “Why did you resist them? +You could have done me nothing but good, I am very sure.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. “If there were any good,” he said, “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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Mr Carker, and make acquaintance with my good old Uncle,” +urged Walter. “I have often talked to him about you, and he will be glad +to tell you all he hears from me. I have not,” said Walter, noticing his +hesitation, and speaking with embarrassment himself: “I have not told him +anything about our last conversation, Mr Carker; not even him, believe me. +</p> + +<p> +The grey Junior pressed his hand, and tears rose in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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 consideration. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 most towards you, and was fullest of you. Walter, good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Mr Carker. Heaven be with you, Sir!” cried Walter with +emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“If,” said the other, retaining his hand while he spoke; “if +when you come back, you miss me from my old corner, and should hear from anyone +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 time is coming on, +that some one like my former self may stand there, for a moment, and remember +me with pity and forgiveness! Walter, good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The relentless chronometer at last announced that Walter must turn his back +upon the wooden Midshipman: and away they went, himself, his Uncle, and the +Captain, in a hackney-coach to a wharf, where they were to take steam-boat for +some Reach down the river, the name of which, as the Captain gave it out, was a +hopeless mystery to the ears of landsmen. Arrived at this 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 Captain out some mile and a +half off, and had been exchanging unintelligible roars with him ever since. +Becoming the lawful prize of this personage, who was frightfully hoarse and +constitutionally in want of shaving, they were all three put aboard the Son and +Heir. And the Son and Heir was in a pretty state of confusion, with sails lying +all bedraggled on the wet decks, loose ropes tripping people up, men in red +shirts running barefoot to and fro, casks blockading every foot of space, and, +in the thickest of the fray, a black cook in a black caboose up to his eyes in +vegetables and blinded with smoke. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r,” said the Captain, handing it over, and shaking him +heartily by the hand, “a parting gift, my lad. Put it back half an hour +every morning, and about another quarter towards the arternoon, and it’s +a watch that’ll do you credit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Cuttle! I couldn’t think of it!” cried Walter, +detaining him, for he was running away. “Pray take it back. I have one +already.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Wal”r,” said the Captain, suddenly diving into one 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I couldn’t indeed!” cried Walter, “a thousand +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 I should like to have it. +There! Good-bye, Captain Cuttle! Take care of my Uncle! Uncle Sol, God bless +you!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +gesticulating hopefully with the teaspoons and sugar-tongs. Catching sight of +Walter, Captain Cuttle dropped the property into the bottom of the boat with +perfect unconcern, being evidently oblivious of its existence, and pulling off +the glazed hat hailed him lustily. The glazed hat made quite a show in the sun +with its glistening, and the Captain continued to wave it until he could be +seen no longer. Then the confusion on board, which had been rapidly increasing, +reached its height; two or three other boats went away with a cheer; the sails +shone bright and full above, as Walter watched them spread their surface to the +favourable breeze; the water flew in sparkles from the prow; and off upon her +voyage went the Son and Heir, as hopefully and trippingly as many another son +and heir, gone down, had started on his way before her. +</p> + +<p> +Day after day, old Sol and Captain Cuttle kept her reckoning in the little back +parlour and worked out her course, with the chart spread before them on the +round table. At night, when old Sol climbed upstairs, 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 meanwhile, undisturbed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /> +Mr Dombey goes upon a Journey</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span> r +Dombey, Sir,” said Major Bagstock, “Joey” B. is not in +general a man of sentiment, for Joseph is tough. But Joe has his feelings, Sir, +and when they are awakened—Damme, Mr Dombey,” cried the Major with +sudden ferocity, “this is weakness, and I won’t submit to +it!” +</p> + +<p> +Major Bagstock delivered himself of these expressions on receiving Mr Dombey as +his guest at the head of his own staircase in Princess’s Place. Mr Dombey +had come to breakfast with the Major, previous to their setting forth on their +trip; and the ill-starved Native had already undergone a world of misery +arising out of the muffins, while, in connexion with the general question of +boiled eggs, life was a burden to him. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not for an old soldier of the Bagstock breed,” observed the +Major, relapsing into a mild state, “to deliver himself up, a prey to his +own emotions; but—damme, Sir,” cried the Major, in another spasm of +ferocity, “I condole with you!” +</p> + +<p> +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 Dombey for a thousand pounds a side and +the championship of England. With a rotatory motion of his head, and a wheeze +very like the cough of a horse, the Major then 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey,” said the Major, “I’m glad to see you. +I’m proud to see you. There are not many men in Europe to whom J. +Bagstock would say that—for Josh is blunt. Sir: it’s his +nature—but Joey B. is proud to see you, Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Major,” returned Mr Dombey, “you are very obliging.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir,” said the Major, “Devil a bit! That’s not my +character. If that had been Joe’s character, Joe might have been, by this +time, Lieutenant-General Sir Joseph Bagstock, K.C.B., and might have received +you in very different quarters. You don’t know old Joe yet, I find. But +this occasion, being special, is a source of pride to me. By the Lord, +Sir,” said the Major resolutely, “it’s an honour to +me!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, in his estimation of himself and his money, felt that this was very +true, and therefore did not dispute the point. But the instinctive recognition +of such a truth by the Major, and his plain avowal of it, were very able. It +was a confirmation to Mr Dombey, if he had required any, of his not being +mistaken in the Major. It was an assurance to him that his power extended +beyond his own immediate sphere; and that the Major, as an officer and a +gentleman, had a no less becoming sense of it, than the beadle of the Royal +Exchange. +</p> + +<p> +And if it were ever consolatory to know this, or the like of this, it was +consolatory then, when the impotence of his will, the instability of his hopes, +the feebleness of wealth, had been so direfully impressed upon him. What could +it do, his boy had asked him. Sometimes, thinking of the baby question, he +could hardly forbear inquiring, himself, what could it do indeed: what had it +done? +</p> + +<p> +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 disposed 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. Altogether the +Major was a creditable companion, well accustomed to a life of leisure, and to +such places as that they were about to visit, and having an air of gentlemanly +ease about him that mixed well enough with his own City character, and did not +compete with it at all. If Mr Dombey had any lingering idea that the Major, as +a man accustomed, in the way of his calling, to make light of the ruthless hand +that had lately crushed his hopes, might unconsciously impart some useful +philosophy to him, and scare away his weak regrets, he hid it from himself, and +left it lying at the bottom of his pride, unexamined. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is my scoundrel?” said the Major, looking wrathfully round +the room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You villain!” said the choleric Major, “where’s the +breakfast?” +</p> + +<p> +The dark servant disappeared in search of it, and was quickly heard reascending +the stairs in such a tremulous state, that the plates and dishes on the tray he +carried, trembling sympathetically as he came, rattled again, all the way up. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey,” said the Major, glancing at the Native as 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 savoury pie, a dish of kidneys, and +so forth. Pray sit down. Old Joe can give you nothing but camp fare, you +see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very excellent fare, Major,” replied his guest; and not in mere +politeness either; for the Major always took the best possible care of himself, +and indeed ate rather more of rich meats than was good for him, insomuch that +his Imperial complexion was mainly referred by the faculty to that +circumstance. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been looking over the way, Sir,” observed the Major. +“Have you seen our friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean Miss Tox,” retorted Mr Dombey. “No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Charming woman, Sir,” said the Major, with a fat laugh rising in +his short throat, and nearly suffocating him. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe,” replied Mr +Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +The haughty coldness of the reply seemed to afford Major Bagstock infinite +delight. He swelled and swelled, exceedingly: and even laid down his knife and +fork for a moment, to rub his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Joe, Sir,” said the Major, “was a bit of a favourite in +that quarter once. But Joe has had his day. J. Bagstock is +extinguished—outrivalled—floored, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should have supposed,” Mr Dombey replied, “that the +lady’s day for favourites was over: but perhaps you are jesting, +Major.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you are jesting, Dombey?” was the Major’s rejoinder. +</p> + +<p> +There never was a more unlikely possibility. It was so clearly expressed in Mr +Dombey’s face, that the Major apologised. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I see you are in earnest. I +tell you what, Dombey.” The Major paused in his eating, and looked +mysteriously indignant. “That’s a de-vilish ambitious woman, +Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey said “Indeed?” with frigid indifference: mingled perhaps +with some contemptuous incredulity as to Miss Tox having the presumption to +harbour such a superior quality. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Major accompanied this with such a look, and, between 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. +</p> + +<p> +“That ridiculous old spectacle, Sir,” pursued the Major, +“aspires. She aspires sky-high, Sir. Matrimonially, Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry for her,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say that, Dombey,” returned the Major in a warning +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I not, Major?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +The Major gave no answer but the horse’s cough, and went on eating +vigorously. +</p> + +<p> +“She has taken an interest in your household,” said the Major, +stopping short again, “and has been a frequent visitor at your house for +some time now.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—may I say +encouraged—to repeat her visits with my sister, and gradually 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 struggle against all kinds of apoplectic +symptoms, “we knew each other through your boy.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey seemed touched, as it is not improbable the Major designed he should +be, by this allusion. He looked down and sighed: and the Major, rousing himself +fiercely, again said, in reference to the state of mind into which he felt +himself in danger of falling, that this was weakness, and nothing should induce +him to submit to it. +</p> + +<p> +“Our friend had a remote connexion 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 ambition is a piece +of monstrous impudence. If it only made yourself ridiculous, +Ma’am,” said the Major, rolling his head at the unconscious Miss +Tox, while his starting eyes appeared to make a leap towards her, “you +might do that to 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 generous, unsuspicious people too, as a repayment for their condescension, +you stir the blood of old Joe in his body.” +</p> + +<p> +“Major,” said Mr Dombey, reddening, “I hope you do not hint +at anything so absurd on the part of Miss Tox as—” +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey,” returned the Major, “I hint at nothing. But Joey B. +has 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 devilish +artful and ambitious woman over the way.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey involuntarily glanced over the way; and an angry glance he sent in +that direction, too. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all on such a subject that shall pass the lips of Joseph +Bagstock,” said the Major firmly. “Joe is not a tale-bearer, but +there are times when he must speak, when he will speak!—confound your +arts, Ma’am,” cried the Major, again apostrophising his fair +neighbour, with great ire,—“when the provocation is too strong to +admit of his remaining silent.” +</p> + +<p> +The emotion of this outbreak threw the Major into a paroxysm of horse’s +coughs, which held him for a long time. On recovering he added: +</p> + +<p> +“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 +Leamington, command him in any way you please, and he is wholly yours. I +don’t know, Sir,” said the Major, wagging his double chin with a +jocose air, “what it is you people see in Joe to make you hold him in +such great request, all of you; but this I know, Sir, that if he wasn’t +pretty tough, and obstinate in his refusals, you’d kill him among you +with your invitations and so forth, in double-quick time.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, in a few words, expressed his sense of the preference he received +over those other distinguished members of society who were clamouring for the +possession of Major Bagstock. But the Major cut him short by giving him to +understand that he followed his own 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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Major being by this time in a state of repletion, with essence of savoury +pie oozing out at the corners of his eyes, and devilled grill and kidneys +tightening his cravat: and the time moreover approaching for the departure of +the railway train to Birmingham, by which they were to leave town: the Native +got him into his great-coat with immense difficulty, and buttoned him up until +his face looked staring and gasping, over the top of that garment, as if he +were in a barrel. The Native then handed him separately, and with a decent +interval between each supply, his washleather gloves, his thick stick, and his +hat; which latter article the Major wore with a rakish air on one side of his +head, by way of toning down his remarkable visage. The Native had previously +packed, in all possible and impossible parts of Mr Dombey’s chariot, +which was in waiting, an unusual quantity of carpet-bags and small +portmanteaus, no less 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 believed to be a prince in his own country), when he took +his seat in the rumble by the side of Mr Towlinson, a pile of the Major’s +cloaks and great-coats was hurled upon him by the landlord, who aimed at him +from the pavement with those great missiles like a Titan, and so covered him +up, that he proceeded, in a living tomb, to the railroad station. +</p> + +<p> +But before the carriage moved away, and while the Native was in the act of +sepulture, Miss Tox appearing at her window, waved a lilywhite handkerchief. Mr +Dombey received this parting salutation very coldly—very coldly even for +him—and honouring her with the slightest possible inclination of his +head, leaned back in the carriage with a very discontented look. His marked +behaviour seemed to afford the Major (who was all politeness in his recognition +of Miss Tox) unbounded satisfaction; and he sat for a long time afterwards, +leering, and choking, like an over-fed Mephistopheles. +</p> + +<p> +During the bustle of preparation at the railway, Mr Dombey and the Major walked +up and down the platform side by side; the former taciturn and gloomy, and the +latter entertaining him, or entertaining himself, with a variety of anecdotes +and reminiscences, in most of which Joe Bagstock was the principal performer. +Neither of the two observed that in the course of these walks, they attracted +the attention of a working man who was standing near the engine, and who +touched his hat every time they passed; for Mr Dombey habitually looked over +the vulgar herd, not at them; and the Major was looking, at the time, into the +core of one of his stories. At length, however, this man stepped before them as +they turned round, and pulling his hat off, and keeping it off, ducked his head +to Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg your pardon, Sir,” said the man, “but I hope +you’re a doin’ pretty well, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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, in short, he was Mr Toodle, +professionally clothed. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall have the honour of stokin’ of you down, Sir,” said +Mr Toodle. “Beg your pardon, Sir.—I hope you find yourself a coming +round?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey looked at him, in return for his tone of interest, as if a man like +that would make his very eyesight dirty. +</p> + +<p> +“’Scuse the liberty, Sir,” said Toodle, seeing he was not +clearly remembered, “but my wife Polly, as was called Richards in your +family—” +</p> + +<p> +A change in Mr Dombey’s face, which seemed to express recollection of +him, and so it did, but it expressed in a much stronger degree an angry sense +of humiliation, stopped Mr Toodle short. +</p> + +<p> +“Your wife wants money, I suppose,” said Mr Dombey, putting his +hand in his pocket, and speaking (but that he always did) haughtily. +</p> + +<p> +“No thank’ee, Sir,” returned Toodle, “I can’t say +she does. I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey was stopped short now in his turn: and awkwardly: with his hand in +his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey would have rubbed on to his own carriage, though in so doing he had +rubbed the stoker underneath the wheels; but his attention was arrested by +something in connexion with the cap still going slowly round and round in the +man’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“We lost one babby,” observed Toodle, “there’s no +denyin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lately,” added Mr Dombey, looking at the cap. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir, up’ard of three years ago, but all the rest is hearty. +And in the matter o readin’, Sir,” said Toodle, ducking again, as +if to remind Mr Dombey of what had passed between them on that subject long +ago, “them boys o’ mine, they learned me, among ’em, arter +all. They’ve made a wery tolerable scholar of me, Sir, them boys.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Major!” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg your pardon, Sir,” resumed Toodle, taking a step before them +and deferentially stopping them again, still cap in hand: “I +wouldn’t have troubled you with such a pint except as a way of +gettin’ in the name of my son Biler—christened Robin—him as +you was so good as to make a Charitable Grinder on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, man,” said Mr Dombey in his severest manner. “What +about him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Sir,” returned Toodle, shaking his head with a face of great +anxiety and distress, “I’m forced to say, Sir, that he’s gone +wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has gone wrong, has he?” said Mr Dombey, with a hard kind of +satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“He has fell into bad company, you see, genelmen,” pursued the +father, looking wistfully at both, and evidently taking the Major into the +conversation with the hope of having his sympathy. “He has got into bad +ways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but he’s on the wrong +track now! You could hardly be off hearing of it somehow, Sir,” said +Toodle, again addressing Mr Dombey individually; “and it’s better I +should out and say my boy’s gone rather wrong. Polly’s dreadful +down about it, genelmen,” said Toodle with the same dejected look, and +another appeal to the Major. +</p> + +<p> +“A son of this man’s whom I caused to be educated, Major,” +said Mr Dombey, giving him his arm. “The usual return!” +</p> + +<p> +“Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate that sort of people, +Sir,” returned the Major. “Damme, Sir, it never does! It always +fails!” +</p> + +<p> +The simple father was beginning to submit that he hoped his son, the quondam +Grinder, huffed and cuffed, and flogged and badged, and taught, as parrots are, +by a brute jobbed into his place of schoolmaster with as much fitness for it as +a hound, might not have been educated on quite a right plan in some +undiscovered respect, when Mr Dombey angrily repeating “The usual +return!” led the Major away. And the Major being heavy to hoist into Mr +Dombey’s carriage, elevated in mid-air, and having to stop and swear that +he would flay the Native alive, and break every bone in his skin, and visit +other physical torments upon him, every time he couldn’t get his foot on +the step, and fell back on that dark exile, had barely time before they started +to repeat hoarsely that it would never do: that it always failed: and that if +he were to educate “his own vagabond,” he would certainly be +hanged. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey assented bitterly; but there was something more in his bitterness, +and in his moody way of falling back in the carriage, and looking with knitted +brows at the changing objects without, than the failure of that noble +educational system administered by the Grinders’ Company. He had seen +upon the man’s rough cap a piece of new crape, and he had assured +himself, from his manner and his answers, that he wore it for <i>his</i> son. +</p> + +<p> +So! from high to low, at home or abroad, from Florence in his great house to +the coarse churl who was feeding the fire then smoking before them, everyone +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! +</p> + +<p> +To think of this presumptuous raker among coals and ashes going on before +there, with his sign of mourning! To think that he dared to enter, even by a +common show like that, into the trial and disappointment of a proud +gentleman’s secret heart! To think that this lost child, who was to have +divided with him his riches, and his projects, and his power, and allied with +whom he was to have shut out all the world as with a double door of gold, +should have let in such a herd to insult him with their 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! +</p> + +<p> +He found no pleasure or relief in the journey. Tortured by these thoughts he +carried monotony with him, through the rushing landscape, and hurried headlong, +not through a rich and varied country, but a wilderness of blighted plans and +gnawing jealousies. The very speed at which the train was whirled along, mocked +the swift course of the young life that had been borne away so steadily and so +inexorably to its foredoomed 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, booming on in darkness and +heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so bright and wide; away, with +a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, through the fields, through the woods, +through the corn, through the hay, through the chalk, through the 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! +</p> + +<p> +Through the hollow, on the height, by the heath, by the orchard, by the park, +by the garden, over the canal, across the river, where the sheep are feeding, +where the 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 vapour: +like as in the track of the remorseless monster, Death! +</p> + +<p> +Breasting the wind and light, the shower and sunshine, away, and still away, it +rolls and roars, fierce and rapid, smooth and certain, and great works and +massive bridges crossing up above, fall like a beam of shadow an inch broad, +upon the eye, and then are lost. Away, and still away, onward and onward ever: +glimpses of cottage-homes, of houses, mansions, rich estates, of husbandry and +handicraft, of people, of old roads and paths that look deserted, small, and +insignificant as they are left behind: and so they do, and what else is there +but such glimpses, in the track of the indomitable monster, Death! +</p> + +<p> +Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, plunging down into the earth +again, and working on in such a storm of energy and perseverance, that amidst +the darkness and whirlwind the motion seems reversed, and to tend furiously +backward, until a ray of light upon the wet wall shows its surface flying past +like a fierce 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! +</p> + +<p> +Louder and louder yet, it shrieks and cries as it comes tearing on resistless +to the goal: and now its way, still like the way of Death, is strewn with ashes +thickly. Everything around is blackened. There are dark pools of water, muddy +lanes, and miserable habitations far below. There are jagged walls and falling +houses close at hand, and through the battered roofs and broken windows, +wretched rooms are seen, where want and fever hide themselves in many wretched +shapes, while smoke and crowded gables, and distorted chimneys, and deformity +of brick and mortar 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 ruinous and dreary. +</p> + +<p> +So, pursuing the one course of thought, he had the 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 everywhere. There was a remorseless +triumph going on about him, and it galled and stung him in his pride and +jealousy, whatever form it took: though most of all when it divided with him +the love and memory of his lost boy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 plainly, 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 colours of his own mind, and +making it a ruin and a picture of decay, instead of hopeful change, and promise +of better things, that life had quite as much to do with his complainings as +death. One child was gone, and one child left. Why was the object of his hope +removed instead of her? +</p> + +<p> +The sweet, calm, gentle presence in his fancy, moved him to no reflection but +that. She had been unwelcome to him from the first; she was an aggravation of +his bitterness now. If his son had been his only child, and the same blow had +fallen on him, it would have been heavy to bear; but infinitely lighter than +now, when it might have fallen on her (whom he could have lost, or he believed +it, without a pang), and had not. Her loving and innocent face rising before +him, had no softening or winning influence. He rejected the angel, and took up +with the tormenting spirit crouching in his bosom. Her patience, goodness, +youth, devotion, love, were as so many atoms in the ashes upon which he set his +heel. He saw her image in the 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? +</p> + +<p> +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 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 friends by informing him that the +post-horses were harnessed and the carriage ready. +</p> + +<p> +“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, Dombey, to be thoughtful. In your position, Sir, +you’re far above that kind of thing.” +</p> + +<p> +The Major even in his friendly remonstrances, thus consulting the dignity and +honour of Mr Dombey, and showing a lively sense of their importance, Mr Dombey +felt more than ever disposed to defer to a gentleman possessing so much good +sense and such a well-regulated mind; accordingly he made an effort to listen +to the Major’s stories, as they trotted along the turnpike road; and the +Major, finding both the pace and the road a great deal better adapted to his +conversational powers than the mode of travelling they had just relinquished, +came out of his entertainment. +</p> + +<p> +But still the Major, blunt and tough as he was, and as he so very often said he +was, administered some palatable catering to his companion’s appetite. He +related, or rather suffered it to escape him, accidentally, and as one might +say, grudgingly and against his will, how there was great curiosity and +excitement at the club, in regard of his friend Dombey. How he was suffocated +with questions, Sir. How old Joe Bagstock was a greater man than ever, there, +on the strength of Dombey. How they said, “Bagstock, your friend Dombey +now, what is the view he takes of such and such a question? Though, by the +Rood, Sir,” said the Major, with a broad stare, “how they +discovered that J. B. ever came to know you, is a mystery!” +</p> + +<p> +In this flow of spirits and conversation, only interrupted 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 +tailor’s art, long where they ought to be short, short where they ought +to be long, tight where they ought to be loose, and loose where they ought to +be tight—and to which he imparted a new grace, whenever the Major +attacked him, by shrinking into them like a shrivelled nut, or a cold +monkey—in this flow of spirits and conversation, the Major continued 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 choking, appeared to be in the box under the rumble, +or in some neighbouring hay-stack. Nor did the Major improve it at the Royal +Hotel, where rooms and dinner had been ordered, and where he so oppressed his +organs of speech by eating and drinking, that when he retired to bed he had no +voice at all, except to cough with, and could only make himself intelligible to +the dark servant by gasping at him. +</p> + +<p> +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 to 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 parted until +dinner-time. Mr Dombey retired to nurse his wholesome thoughts in his own way. +The Major, attended by the Native carrying a camp-stool, a great-coat, and an +umbrella, swaggered up and down through all the public places: looking into +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 Dombey wherever he went. There never was a man who stood by a friend +more staunchly than the Major, when in puffing him, he puffed himself. +</p> + +<p> +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 subjects in connexion with them, on +which his opinion had recently been sought by persons of such power and might, +that they were only to be obscurely hinted at. Mr Dombey, who had been so long +shut up within himself, and who had rarely, at any time, overstepped the +enchanted circle within which the operations of Dombey and Son were conducted, +began to think this an improvement on his solitary life; and in place of +excusing himself for another day, as he had thought of doing when alone, walked +out with the Major arm-in-arm. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /> +New Faces</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +MAJOR, more blue-faced and staring—more over-ripe, as it were, than +ever—and giving vent, every now and then, to one of the horse’s +coughs, not so much of necessity as in a spontaneous explosion of 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 wagging 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, but he merely shook his fingers at them as +he passed, and led Mr Dombey on: pointing out the localities as they went, and +enlivening the walk with any current scandal suggested by them. +</p> + +<p> +In this manner the Major and Mr Dombey were walking arm-in-arm, much to their +own satisfaction, when they beheld advancing towards them, a wheeled chair, in +which a lady was seated, indolently steering her carriage by a kind of rudder +in front, while it was propelled by some unseen power in the rear. Although the +lady was not young, she was very blooming in the face—quite +rosy—and her dress and attitude were perfectly juvenile. Walking by the +side of the chair, and carrying her gossamer parasol with a proud and weary +air, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what the devil have we here, Sir!” cried the Major, stopping +as this little cavalcade drew near. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest Edith!” drawled the lady in the chair, “Major +Bagstock!” +</p> + +<p> +The Major no sooner heard the voice, than he relinquished 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 other 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Joe Bagstock,” said the Major to both ladies, “is a proud +and happy man for the rest of his life.” +</p> + +<p> +“You false creature!” said the old lady in the chair, insipidly. +“Where do you come from? I can’t bear you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then suffer old Joe to present a friend, Ma’am,” said the +Major, promptly, “as a reason for being tolerated. Mr Dombey, Mrs +Skewton.” The lady in the chair was gracious. “Mr Dombey, Mrs +Granger.” The lady with the parasol was faintly conscious of Mr +Dombey’s taking off his hat, and bowing low. “I am delighted, +Sir,” said the Major, “to have this opportunity.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0272m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +The Major seemed in earnest, for he looked at all the three, and leered in his +ugliest manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Skewton, Dombey,” said the Major, “makes havoc in the +heart of old Josh.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey signified that he didn’t wonder at it. +</p> + +<p> +“You perfidious goblin,” said the lady in the chair, “have +done! How long have you been here, bad man?” +</p> + +<p> +“One day,” replied the Major. +</p> + +<p> +“And can you be a day, or even a minute,” returned the lady, +slightly settling her false curls and false eyebrows with her fan, and showing +her false teeth, set off by her false complexion, “in the garden of +what’s-its-name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eden, I suppose, Mama,” interrupted the younger lady, scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“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, “of her +artless breath, you creature!” +</p> + +<p> +The discrepancy between Mrs Skewton’s fresh enthusiasm of words, and +forlornly faded manner, was hardly less observable than that between her age, +which was about seventy, and her dress, which would have been youthful for +twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled chair (which she never varied) was +one in which she had been taken in a barouche, some fifty years before, by a +then fashionable artist who had appended to his published sketch the name of +Cleopatra: in consequence of a discovery made by the critics of the time, that +it bore an exact resemblance to that Princess as she reclined on board her +galley. Mrs Skewton was a beauty then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their +heads by dozens in her honour. The beauty and the barouche had both passed +away, but she still preserved the attitude, and for this reason expressly, +maintained the wheeled chair and the butting page: there being nothing +whatever, except the attitude, to prevent her from walking. +</p> + +<p> +“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 connexions. +</p> + +<p> +“My friend Dombey, Ma’am,” returned the Major, “may be +devoted to her in secret, but a man who is paramount in the greatest city in +the universe—” +</p> + +<p> +“No one can be a stranger,” said Mrs Skewton, “to Mr +Dombey’s immense influence.” +</p> + +<p> +As Mr Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a bend of his head, the younger +lady glancing at him, met his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You reside here, Madam?” said Mr Dombey, addressing her. +</p> + +<p> +“No, we have been to a great many places. To Harrogate and Scarborough, +and into Devonshire. We have been visiting, and resting here and there. Mama +likes change.” +</p> + +<p> +“Edith of course does not,” said Mrs Skewton, with a ghastly +archness. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not found that there is any change in such places,” was the +answer, delivered with supreme indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“They libel me. There is only one change, Mr Dombey,” observed Mrs +Skewton, with a mincing sigh, “for which I really care, and that I fear I +shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But seclusion and +contemplation are my what-his-name—” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean Paradise, Mama, you had better say so, to render yourself +intelligible,” said the younger lady. +</p> + +<p> +“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 intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows are my +passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and +live entirely surrounded by cows—and china.” +</p> + +<p> +This curious association of objects, suggesting a remembrance 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +conventionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully +artificial.” +</p> + +<p> +We were, indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“In short,” said Mrs Skewton, “I want Nature everywhere. It +would be so extremely charming.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nature is inviting us away now, Mama, if you are ready,” said the +younger lady, curling her handsome lip. At this hint, the wan page, who had +been surveying the party over the top of the chair, vanished behind it, as if +the ground had swallowed him up. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The Major was staying at the Royal Hotel, with his friend Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“You may come and see us any evening when you are good,” lisped Mrs +Skewton. “If Mr Dombey will honour us, we shall be happy. Withers, go +on!” +</p> + +<p> +The Major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the fingers that were +disposed on the ledge of the wheeled chair with careful carelessness, after the +Cleopatra model: and Mr Dombey bowed. The elder lady honoured them both with a +very gracious smile and a girlish wave of her hand; the younger lady with the +very slightest inclination of her head that common courtesy allowed. +</p> + +<p> +The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother, with that patched colour +on it which the sun made infinitely more haggard and dismal than any want of +colour could have been, and of the proud beauty of the daughter with her +graceful figure and erect deportment, engendered such an involuntary +disposition on the part of both the Major and Mr Dombey to look after them, +that they both turned at the same moment. The Page, nearly as much aslant as +his own shadow, was toiling after the chair, uphill, like a slow battering-ram; +the top of Cleopatra’s bonnet was fluttering in exactly the same corner +to the inch as before; and the Beauty, loitering by herself a little in +advance, expressed in all her elegant form, from head to foot, the same supreme +disregard of everything and everybody. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you what, Sir,” said the Major, as they resumed their walk +again. “If Joe Bagstock were a younger man, there’s not a woman in +the world whom he’d prefer for Mrs Bagstock to that woman. By George, +Sir!” said the Major, “she’s superb!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean the daughter?” inquired Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Joey B. a turnip, Dombey,” said the Major, “that he +should mean the mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“You were complimentary to the mother,” returned Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“An ancient flame, Sir,” chuckled Major Bagstock. “Devilish +ancient. I humour her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She impresses me as being perfectly genteel,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Genteel, Sir,” said the Major, stopping short, and staring in his +companion’s face. “The Honourable Mrs Skewton, Sir, is sister to +the late Lord Feenix, and aunt to the present Lord. The family are not +wealthy—they’re poor, indeed—and she lives upon a small +jointure; but if you come to blood, Sir!” The Major gave a flourish with +his stick and walked on again, in despair of being able to say what you came +to, if you came to that. +</p> + +<p> +“You addressed the daughter, I observed,” said Mr Dombey, after a +short pause, “as Mrs Granger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Edith Skewton, Sir,” returned the Major, stopping short again, and +punching a mark in the ground with his cane, to represent her, “married +(at eighteen) Granger of Ours;” whom the Major indicated by another +punch. “Granger, Sir,” said the Major, tapping the last ideal +portrait, and rolling his head emphatically, “was Colonel of Ours; a +de-vilish handsome fellow, Sir, of forty-one. He died, Sir, in the second year +of his marriage.” The Major ran the representative of the deceased +Granger through and through the body with his walking-stick, and went on again, +carrying his stick over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“How long is this ago?” asked Mr Dombey, making another halt. +</p> + +<p> +“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, “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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Was there any family?” asked Mr Dombey presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir,” said the Major. “There was a boy.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey’s eyes sought the ground, and a shade came over his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Who was drowned, Sir,” pursued the Major. “When a child of +four or five years old.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” said Mr Dombey, raising his head. +</p> + +<p> +“By the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no business to have +put him,” said the Major. “That’s his history. Edith Granger +is Edith Granger still; but if tough old Joey B., Sir, were a little younger +and a little richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be +Bagstock.” +</p> + +<p> +The Major heaved his shoulders, and his cheeks, and laughed more like an +over-fed Mephistopheles than ever, as he said the words. +</p> + +<p> +“Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose?” said Mr Dombey +coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“By Gad, Sir,” said the Major, “the Bagstock breed are not +accustomed to that sort of obstacle. Though it’s true enough that Edith +might have married twenty times, but for being proud, Sir, proud.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey seemed, by his face, to think no worse of her for that. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +With this tribute to the character of his ally, which seemed to be wrung from +him by the force of circumstances and the irresistible tendency of their +conversation, the Major closed the subject, and glided into a general +exposition of the extent to which he had been beloved and doted on by splendid +women and brilliant creatures. +</p> + +<p> +On the next day but one, Mr Dombey and the Major encountered the Honourable Mrs +Skewton and her daughter in the Pump-room; on the day after, they met them +again very near the place where they had met them first. After meeting them +thus, three or four times in all, it became a point of mere civility to old +acquaintances that the Major should go there one evening. Mr Dombey had not +originally intended to pay visits, but on the Major announcing this intention, +he said he would have the pleasure of accompanying him. So the Major told the +Native to go round before dinner, and say, with his and Mr Dombey’s +compliments, that they would have the honour of visiting the ladies that same +evening, if the ladies were alone. In answer to which message, the Native +brought back a very small note with a very large quantity of scent about it, +indited by the Honourable Mrs Skewton to Major Bagstock, and briefly saying, +“You are a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to forgive you, but +if you are very good indeed,” which was underlined, “you may come. +Compliments (in which Edith unites) to Mr Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +The Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Granger, resided, while at +Leamington, in lodgings that were fashionable enough and dear enough, but +rather limited in point of space and conveniences; so that the Honourable Mrs +Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in the window and her head in the +fireplace, while the Honourable 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 beautiful serpent. Withers, the wan page, slept out of the house +immediately under the tiles at a neighbouring milk-shop; and the wheeled chair, +which was the stone of that young Sisyphus, passed the night in a shed +belonging to the same dairy, where new-laid eggs were produced 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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey and the Major found Mrs Skewton arranged, as Cleopatra, among the +cushions of a sofa: very airily dressed; and certainly not resembling +Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, whom age could not wither. On their way upstairs +they had heard the sound of a harp, but it had ceased on their being announced, +and Edith now stood beside it handsomer and haughtier than ever. It was a +remarkable characteristic of this lady’s beauty that it appeared to vaunt +and assert itself without her aid, and against her will. She knew that she was +beautiful: it was impossible that it could be otherwise: but she seemed with +her own pride to defy her very self. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, Mrs Granger,” said Mr Dombey, advancing a step towards +her, “we are not the cause of your ceasing to play?” +</p> + +<p> +“You! oh no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you not go on then, my dearest Edith?” said Cleopatra. +</p> + +<p> +“I left off as I began—of my own fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +The exquisite indifference of her manner in saying this: an indifference quite +removed from dulness or insensibility, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, Mr Dombey,” said her languishing mother, playing with +a hand-screen, “that occasionally my dearest Edith and myself actually +almost differ—” +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite, sometimes, Mama?” said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“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 movement to meet, “—about these old conventionalities +of manner that are observed in little things? Why are we not more natural? Dear +me! With all those yearnings, and gushings, and impulsive throbbings that we +have implanted in our souls, and which are so very charming, why are we not +more natural?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey said it was very true, very true. +</p> + +<p> +“We could be more natural I suppose if we tried?” said Mrs Skewton. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey thought it possible. +</p> + +<p> +“Devil a bit, Ma’am,” said the Major. “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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You naughty Infidel,” said Mrs Skewton, “be mute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cleopatra commands,” returned the Major, kissing his hand, +“and Antony Bagstock obeys.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 complacently observing the effect of her bare lean arm, +looking upward from the wrist, “how could we possibly 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Withers the Wan, at this period, handing round the tea, Mr Dombey again +addressed himself to Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“There is not much company here, it would seem?” said Mr Dombey, in +his own portentous gentlemanly way. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe not. We see none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why really,” observed Mrs Skewton from her couch, “there are +no people here just now with whom we care to associate.” +</p> + +<p> +“They have not enough heart,” said Edith, with a smile. The very +twilight of a smile: so singularly were its light and darkness blended. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest Edith rallies me, you see!” said her mother, shaking +her head: which shook a little of itself sometimes, as if the palsy twinkled +now and then in opposition to the diamonds. “Wicked one!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been here before, if I am not mistaken?” said Mr Dombey. +Still to Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, several times. I think we have been everywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“A beautiful country!” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is. Everybody says so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your cousin Feenix raves about it, Edith,” interposed her mother +from her couch. +</p> + +<p> +The daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and raising her eyebrows by a +hair’s-breadth, as if her cousin Feenix were of all the mortal world the +least to be regarded, turned her eyes again towards Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am tired of the +neighbourhood,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You have almost reason to be, Madam,” he replied, glancing at a +variety of landscape drawings, of which he had already recognised several as +representing neighbouring points of view, and which were strewn abundantly +about the room, “if these beautiful productions are from your +hand.” +</p> + +<p> +She gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty, quite amazing. +</p> + +<p> +“Have they that interest?” said Mr Dombey. “Are they +yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you play, I already know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And sing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +She answered all these questions with a strange reluctance; and with that +remarkable air of opposition to herself, already noticed as belonging to her +beauty. Yet she was not embarrassed, but wholly self-possessed. Neither did she +seem to wish to avoid the conversation, for she addressed her face, +and—so far as she could—her manner also, to him; and continued to +do so, when he was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“You have many resources against weariness at least,” said Mr +Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever their efficiency may be,” she returned, “you know +them all now. I have no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh certainly! If you desire it!” +</p> + +<p> +She 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 anyone 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Major, who was quite forgiven by this time, had wheeled a little table up +to Cleopatra, and was sitting down to play picquet with her. Mr Dombey, not +knowing the game, sat down to watch them for his edification until Edith should +return. +</p> + +<p> +“We are going to have some music, Mr Dombey, I hope?” said +Cleopatra. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Granger has been kind enough to promise so,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! That’s very nice. Do you propose, Major?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Ma’am,” said the Major. “Couldn’t do +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a barbarous being,” replied the lady, “and my +hand’s destroyed. You are fond of music, Mr Dombey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eminently so,” was Mr Dombey’s answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It’s very nice,” said Cleopatra, looking at her cards. +“So much heart in it—undeveloped recollections of a previous state +of existence—and all that—which is so truly charming. Do you +know,” simpered Cleopatra, reversing the knave of clubs, who had come +into her game with his heels uppermost, “that if anything 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 come back. +</p> + +<p> +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 heard among the +sounding strings some distant music of his own, that tamed the monster of the +iron road, and made it less inexorable. +</p> + +<p> +Cleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at picquet. It glistened like a +bird’s, and did not fix itself upon the game, but pierced the room from +end to end, and gleamed on harp, performer, listener, everything. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /> +A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r +Carker the Manager sat at his desk, smooth and soft as usual, reading those +letters which were reserved for him to open, backing them occasionally with +such memoranda and references as their business purport required, and +parcelling them out into little heaps for distribution through the several +departments of the House. The post had come in heavy that morning, and Mr +Carker the Manager had a good deal to do. +</p> + +<p> +The general action of a man so engaged—pausing to look over a bundle of +papers in his hand, dealing them round in various portions, taking up another +bundle and examining its contents with knitted brows and pursed-out +lips—dealing, and sorting, and pondering by turns—would easily +suggest some whimsical resemblance to a player at cards. The face of 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 himself master of all the strong and weak +points of the game: who registered the cards in his mind as they fell about +him, knew exactly what was on them, what they missed, and what they made: who +was crafty to find out what the other players held, and who never betrayed his +own hand. +</p> + +<p> +The letters were in various languages, but Mr Carker the Manager read them all. +If there had been anything in the offices of Dombey and Son that he could read, +there would have been a card wanting in the pack. He read almost at a glance, +and made combinations of one letter with another and one business with another +as he went on, adding new matter to the heaps—much as a man would know +the cards at sight, and work out their combinations in his mind after they were +turned. Something too deep for a partner, and much too deep for an adversary, +Mr Carker the Manager sat in the rays of the sun that came down slanting on him +through the skylight, playing his game alone. +</p> + +<p> +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 colour at all times, but feebler than +common in the rich sunshine, and more like the coat of a sandy tortoise-shell +cat; with long nails, nicely pared and sharpened; with a natural antipathy to +any speck of dirt, which made him pause sometimes and watch the falling motes +of dust, and rub them 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 rang his bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you answer it?” was his reception of his brother. +</p> + +<p> +“The messenger is out, and I am the next,” was the submissive +reply. +</p> + +<p> +“You are the next?” muttered the Manager. “Yes! Creditable to +me! There!” +</p> + +<p> +Pointing to the heaps of opened letters, he turned disdainfully away, in his +elbow-chair, and broke the seal of that one which he held in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to trouble you, James,” said the brother, gathering +them up, “but—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you have something to say. I knew that. Well?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he repeated sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I am uneasy about Harriet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Harriet who? what Harriet? I know nobody of that name.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is not well, and has changed very much of late.” +</p> + +<p> +“She changed very much, a great many years ago,” replied the +Manager; “and that is all I have to say. +</p> + +<p> +“I think if you would hear me— +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I hear you, Brother John?” returned the Manager, laying +a sarcastic emphasis on those two words, and throwing up his head, but not +lifting his eyes. “I tell you, Harriet Carker made her choice many years +ago between her two brothers. She may repent it, but she must abide by +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mistake me. I do not say she does repent it. It would be +black ingratitude in me to hint at such a thing,” returned the other. +“Though believe me, James, I am as sorry for her sacrifice as you.” +</p> + +<p> +“As I?” exclaimed the Manager. “As I?” +</p> + +<p> +“As sorry for her choice—for what you call her choice—as you +are angry at it,” said the Junior. +</p> + +<p> +“Angry?” repeated the other, with a wide show of his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Displeased. Whatever word you like best. You know my meaning. There is +no offence in my intention.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is offence in everything you do,” replied his brother, +glancing at him with a sudden scowl, which in a moment gave place to a wider +smile than the last. “Carry those papers away, if you please. I am busy. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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 fortunes, and devote herself, in her mistaken affection, to a ruined +brother, because without her he had no one, and was lost; she was young and +pretty. I think if you could see her now—if you would go and see +her—she would move your admiration and compassion.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May I go on?” said John Carker, mildly. +</p> + +<p> +“On your way?” replied his smiling brother. “If you will have +the goodness.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell her nothing of you. We never speak about you. Once a year, on +your birthday, Harriet says always, ‘Let us remember James by name, and +wish him happy,’ but we say no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker the Manager took up the letter again, and waved it with a smile of +mock courtesy towards the door. Unfolding it as his brother withdrew, and +looking darkly after him as he left the room, he once more turned round in his +elbow-chair, and applied himself to a diligent perusal of its contents. +</p> + +<p> +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 passages. “I find myself benefited by the change, and am +not yet inclined to name any time for my return.” “I wish, Carker, +you would arrange to come down once and see me here, and let me know how things +are going on, in person.” “I omitted to speak to you about young +Gay. If not gone per Son and Heir, or if Son and Heir 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Still that passage, which was in a postscript, attracted his attention and his +teeth, once more. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 as if it were the delight +of his life to bow, laid some papers on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you please to be engaged, Sir?” asked Mr Perch, rubbing his +hands, and deferentially putting his head on one side, like a man who felt he +had no business to hold it up in such a presence, and would keep it as much out +of the way as possible. +</p> + +<p> +“Who wants me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 matter of payment, he says: but I mentioned to +him, Sir, that you was engaged several deep; several deep.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Perch coughed once behind his hand, and waited for further orders. +</p> + +<p> +“Anybody else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir,” said Mr Perch, “I wouldn’t of my own self +take the liberty of mentioning, Sir, that there was anybody else; but that same +young lad that was here yesterday, Sir, and last week, has been hanging about +the place; and it looks, Sir,” added Mr Perch, stopping to shut the door, +“dreadful unbusiness-like to see him whistling to the sparrows down the +court, and making of ’em answer him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You said he wanted something to do, didn’t you, Perch?” +asked Mr Carker, leaning back in his chair and looking at that officer. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Sir,” said Mr Perch, coughing behind his hand again, +“his expression certainly were that he was in wants of a sitiwation, and +that he considered something might be done for him about the Docks, being used +to fishing with a rod and line: but—” Mr Perch shook his head very +dubiously indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“What does he say when he comes?” asked Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Sir,” said Mr Perch, coughing another cough behind his +hand, which was always his resource as an expression of humility when nothing +else occurred to him, “his observation generally air that he would humbly +wish to see one of the 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 inviolable nature of his confidence, to give the door a thrust with his +hand and knee, as if that would shut it any more when it was shut 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 never +so!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker grinned at him like a shark, but in an absent, thoughtful manner. +</p> + +<p> +“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 state, that I +could take my affidavit easy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see this fellow, Perch,” said Mr Carker. “Bring him +in!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir. Begging your pardon, Sir,” said Mr Perch, hesitating at +the door, “he’s rough, Sir, in appearance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. If he’s there, bring him in. I’ll see Mr Gills +directly. Ask him to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +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 favourite attitude before the +fire-place, and stood looking at the door; presenting, with his under lip +tucked into the smile that showed his whole row of upper teeth, a singularly +crouching apace. +</p> + +<p> +The messenger was not long in returning, followed by a pair of heavy boots that +came bumping along the passage like boxes. With the unceremonious words +“Come along with you!”—a very unusual form of introduction +from his lips—Mr Perch then ushered into the presence a strong-built lad +of 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, as 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 contrived to utter— +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Sir! You let me alone, will you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let you alone!” said Mr Carker. “What! I have got you, have +I?” There was no doubt of that, and tightly too. “You dog,” +said Mr Carker, through his set jaws, “I’ll strangle you!” +</p> + +<p> +Biler whimpered, would he though? oh no he wouldn’t—and what was he +doing of—and why didn’t he strangle some—body of his own size +and not him: but Biler was quelled by the extraordinary nature of his +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 manhood as to cry. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t done nothing to you, Sir,” said Biler, otherwise +Rob, otherwise Grinder, and always Toodle. +</p> + +<p> +“You young scoundrel!” replied Mr Carker, slowly releasing him, and +moving back a step into his favourite position. “What do you mean by +daring to come here?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Work, young Cain that you are!” repeated Mr Carker, eyeing him +narrowly. “Ain’t you the idlest vagabond in London?” +</p> + +<p> +The impeachment, while it much affected Mr Toodle Junior, attached to his +character so justly, that he could not say a word in denial. He stood looking +at the gentleman, therefore, with a frightened, self-convicted, and remorseful +air. As to his looking at him, it may be observed that he was fascinated by Mr +Carker, and never took his round eyes off him for an instant. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t you a thief?” said Mr Carker, with his hands behind +him in his pockets. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” pleaded Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“You are!” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t indeed, Sir,” whimpered Rob. “I never did such +a thing as thieve, Sir, if you’ll believe me. I know I’ve been a +going wrong, Sir, ever since I took to bird-catching and walking-matching. +I’m sure a cove might think,” said Mr Toodle Junior, with a burst +of penitence, “that singing birds was innocent company, but nobody knows +what harm is in them little creeturs and what they brings you down to.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t been home twenty times since them birds got their will of +me,” said Rob, “and that’s ten months. How can I go home when +everybody’s miserable to see me! I wonder,” said Biler, blubbering +outright, and smearing his eyes with his coat-cuff, “that I haven’t +been and drownded myself over and over again.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a nice young gentleman!” said Mr Carker, shaking his +head at him. “There’s hemp-seed sown for you, my fine +fellow!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure, Sir,” returned the wretched Biler, blubbering +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 I do, exceptin’ wag?” +</p> + +<p> +“Excepting what?” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Wag, Sir. Wagging from school.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going?” said Mr +Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir, that’s wagging, Sir,” returned the quondam +Grinder, much affected. “I was chivied through the streets, Sir, when I +went there, and pounded when I got there. So I wagged, and hid myself, and that +began it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be thankful to be tried, Sir,” returned Toodle Junior, +faintly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker the Manager pushed him backward into a corner—the boy +submitting quietly, hardly venturing to breathe, and never once removing his +eyes from his face—and rang the bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell Mr Gills to come here.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Perch was too deferential to express surprise or recognition of the figure +in the corner: and Uncle Sol appeared immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Gills!” said Carker, with a smile, “sit down. How do you +do? You continue to enjoy your health, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Sir,” returned Uncle Sol, taking out his pocket-book, +and handing over some notes as he spoke. “Nothing ails me in body but old +age. Twenty-five, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are as punctual and exact, Mr Gills,” replied the smiling +Manager, taking a paper from one of his many drawers, and making an endorsement +on it, while Uncle Sol looked over him, “as one of your own chronometers. +Quite right.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 out of her course.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is safe, I trust in Heaven!” said old Sol. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Sol, standing by him, shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“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 anticipation of what the old man was going to +say, “there’s not much business doing there, I know; but you can +make him clean the place out, polish up the instruments; drudge, Mr Gills. +That’s the lad!” +</p> + +<p> +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 least reference +to his proposed master. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you give him house-room, Mr Gills?” said the Manager. +</p> + +<p> +Old Sol, without being quite enthusiastic on the subject, replied that he was +glad of any opportunity, however slight, to oblige Mr Carker, whose wish on +such a point was a command: and that the wooden Midshipman would consider +himself happy to receive in his berth any visitor of Mr Carker’s +selecting. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll dispose of him so, then, Mr Gills,” he answered, +rising, and shaking the old man by the hand, “until I make up my mind +what to do with him, and what he deserves. As I consider myself responsible for +him, Mr Gills,” here he smiled a wide smile at Rob, who shook before it: +“I shall be glad if you’ll look sharply after him, and report his +behaviour to me. I’ll ask a question or two of his parents as I ride home +this afternoon—respectable people—to confirm some particulars in +his own account of himself; and that done, Mr Gills, I’ll send him round +to you to-morrow morning. Goodbye!” +</p> + +<p> +His smile at parting was so full of teeth, that it confused 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 matters. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, boy!” said Mr Carker, putting his hand on young +Toodle’s shoulder, and bringing him out into the middle of the room. +“You have heard me?” +</p> + +<p> +Rob said, “Yes, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you understand,” pursued his patron, “that if you +ever deceive or play tricks with me, you had better have drowned yourself, +indeed, once for all, before you came here?” +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing in any branch of mental acquisition that Rob seemed to +understand better than that. +</p> + +<p> +“If you have lied to me,” said Mr Carker, “in anything, never +come in my way again. If not, you may let me find you waiting for me 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 out of the +room; and Rob, keeping his round eyes fixed upon his patron to the last, +vanished for the time being. +</p> + +<p> +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 Cheapside. +</p> + +<p> +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 carriages, avoiding +whenever he could the wetter and more dirty places in the over-watered road, +and taking infinite pains to keep himself and his steed clean. Glancing at the +passersby while he was thus ambling on his way, he suddenly encountered the +round eyes of the sleek-headed Rob intently fixed upon his 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 go. +</p> + +<p> +This attention, however flattering, being one of an unusual 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 neighbourhood 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 neighbouring gateway to hold his horse, pending his visit to the +buildings that had succeeded Staggs’s Gardens, Rob dutifully held the +stirrup, while the Manager dismounted. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Sir,” said Mr Carker, taking him by the shoulder, “come +along!” +</p> + +<p> +The prodigal son was evidently nervous of visiting the parental abode; but Mr +Carker pushing him on before, he had nothing for it but to open the right door, +and suffer himself to be walked into the midst of his brothers and sisters, +mustered in overwhelming force round the family tea-table. At sight of the +prodigal in the 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +infantine members, unable to control the transports of emotion appertaining to +their time of life, threw themselves 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, “Oh Rob, my poor boy, what have you +done at last!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, mother,” cried Rob, in a piteous voice, “ask the +gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr Carker, “I want to do him +good.” +</p> + +<p> +At this announcement, Polly, who had not cried yet, began to do so. The elder +Toodles, who appeared to have been meditating a rescue, unclenched their fists. +The younger Toodles clustered round their mother’s gown, and peeped from +under their own chubby arms at their desperado brother and his unknown friend. +Everybody blessed the gentleman with the beautiful teeth, who wanted to do +good. +</p> + +<p> +“This fellow,” said Mr Carker to Polly, giving him a gentle shake, +“is your son, eh, Ma’am?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir,” sobbed Polly, with a curtsey; “yes, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“A bad son, I am afraid?” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Never a bad son to me, Sir,” returned Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“To whom then?” demanded Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“He has been a little wild, Sir,” returned Polly, checking 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 his visit. +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband, I take it, is not at home?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir,” replied Polly. “He’s down the line at +present.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said Mr Carker, “I’ll tell you how I have +stumbled on this boy of yours, and who I am, and what I am going to do for +him.” +</p> + +<p> +This Mr Carker did, in his own way; saying that he at first intended to have +accumulated nameless terrors on his presumptuous head, for coming to the +whereabout of Dombey and Son. That he had relented, in consideration of his +youth, his professed contrition, and his friends. That he was afraid he took a +rash step in doing anything for the boy, and one that might expose him to the +censure 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 +connexion with Mr Dombey’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 credit to himself for his goodness, +and receiving no less from all the family then present, Mr Carker signified, +indirectly but still pretty plainly, that Rob’s implicit fidelity, +attachment, and devotion, were for evermore his due, and the least homage he +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. +</p> + +<p> +Polly, who had passed Heaven knows how many sleepless nights on account of this +her dissipated firstborn, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try hard, dear mother, now. Upon my soul I will!” said +Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh do, my dear boy! I am sure you will, for our sakes and your +own!” cried Polly, kissing him. “But you’re coming back to +speak to me, when you have seen the gentleman away?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, mother.” Rob hesitated, and looked down. +“Father—when’s he coming home?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not till two o’clock to-morrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” said Mr Carker, who had heard this. “You have a bad +father, have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir!” returned Rob, amazed. “There ain’t a better +nor a kinder father going, than mine is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you want to see him then?” inquired his patron. +</p> + +<p> +“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 doing 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +saddle steadily into the attentive and watchful face of the boy, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll come to me tomorrow morning, and you shall be shown where +that old gentleman lives; that old gentleman who was with me this morning; +where you are going, as you heard me say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir,” returned Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“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 face brighten when he was told that: “I see you do. I +want to know all about that old gentleman, and how he goes on from day to +day—for I am anxious to be of service to him—and especially who +comes there to see him. Do you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +Rob nodded his steadfast face, and said “Yes, Sir,” again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take care, Sir,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“And take care,” returned his patron, bending forward to advance +his grinning face closer to the boy’s, and pat him on the shoulder with +the handle of his whip: “take care you talk about affairs of mine to +nobody but me.” +</p> + +<p> +“To nobody in the world, Sir,” replied Rob, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“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 turned from +Rob’s eyes, which were nailed upon him as if he had won the boy by a +charm, body and soul, and rode away. But again becoming conscious, after +trotting a short distance, that his devoted henchman, girt as before, was +yielding him the same attendance, to the great amusement of sundry spectators, +he reined up, and ordered him off. To ensure his obedience, he turned in the +saddle and watched him as he retired. It was curious to see that even then Rob +could not keep his eyes wholly averted from his patron’s 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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker the Manager rode on at a foot-pace, with the easy air of one who had +performed all the business of the day in a satisfactory manner, and got it +comfortably off his mind. Complacent and affable as man could be, Mr Carker +picked his way along the streets and hummed a soft tune as he went. He seemed +to purr, he was so glad. +</p> + +<p> +And in some sort, Mr Carker, in his fancy, basked upon a hearth too. Coiled up +snugly at certain feet, he was ready for a spring, Or for a tear, or for a +scratch, or for a velvet touch, as the humour took him and occasion served. Was +there any bird in a cage, that came in for a share of his regards? +</p> + +<p> +“A very young lady!” thought Mr Carker the Manager, 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 daresay she’s +pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +More affable and pleasant yet, and humming his song until his many teeth +vibrated to it, Mr Carker picked his way along, and turned at last into the +shady street where Mr Dombey’s house stood. He had been so busy, winding +webs round good faces, and obscuring them with meshes, that he hardly thought +of being at this point of his ride, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 executors 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 apartments; 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 humanise existence, his chief instructor in which was an +interesting character called the Game Chicken, who was always to be heard of at +the bar of the Black Badger, wore a shaggy white great-coat in the warmest +weather, and knocked Mr Toots about the head three times a week, for the small +consideration of ten and six per visit. +</p> + +<p> +The Game Chicken, who was quite the Apollo of Mr Toots’s Pantheon, had +introduced to him a marker who taught billiards, a Life Guard who taught +fencing, a jobmaster who taught riding, a Cornish gentleman who was up to +anything in the athletic line, and two or three other friends connected no less +intimately with the fine arts. Under whose auspices Mr Toots could hardly fail +to improve apace, and under whose tuition he went to work. +</p> + +<p> +But however it came about, it came to pass, even while these gentlemen had the +gloss of novelty upon them, that Mr Toots felt, he didn’t know how, +unsettled and uneasy. There were husks in his corn, that even Game Chickens +couldn’t peck up; gloomy giants in his leisure, that even Game Chickens +couldn’t knock down. Nothing seemed to do Mr Toots so much good as +incessantly leaving cards at Mr Dombey’s door. No taxgatherer in the +British Dominions—that wide-spread territory on which the sun never sets, +and where the tax-gatherer never goes to bed—was more regular and +persevering in his calls than Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots never went upstairs; and always performed the same ceremonies, richly +dressed for the purpose, at the hall door. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots would then turn round as if to go away; but the man knew him by this +time, and knew he wouldn’t. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Mr Toots would say, as if a thought had +suddenly descended on him. “Is the young woman at home?” +</p> + +<p> +The man would rather think she was, but wouldn’t quite know. Then he +would ring a bell that rang upstairs, and would look up the staircase, and +would say, yes, she was at home, and was coming down. Then Miss Nipper would +appear, and the man would retire. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! How de do?” Mr Toots would say, with a chuckle and a blush. +</p> + +<p> +Susan would thank him, and say she was very well. +</p> + +<p> +“How’s Diogenes going on?” would be Mr Toots’s second +interrogation. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Florence is quite well, Sir,” Susan would add. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s of no consequence, thank’ee,” was the +invariable reply of Mr Toots; and when he had said so, he always went away very +fast. +</p> + +<p> +Now it is certain that Mr Toots had a filmy something in his mind, which led +him to conclude that if he could aspire successfully in the fulness of time, to +the hand of Florence, he would be fortunate and blest. It is certain that Mr +Toots, by some remote and roundabout road, had got to that point, and that +there he made a stand. His heart was wounded; he was touched; he was in love. +He had made a desperate attempt, one night, and had sat up all night for the +purpose, to write an acrostic on Florence, which affected him to tears in the +conception. But he never proceeded in the execution further than the words +“For when I gaze,”—the flow of imagination in which he had +previously written down the initial letters of the other seven lines, deserting +him at that point. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond devising that very artful and politic measure of leaving a card for Mr +Dombey daily, the brain of Mr Toots had not worked much in reference to the +subject that held his feelings prisoner. But deep consideration at length +assured Mr Toots that an important step to gain, was, the conciliation of Miss +Susan Nipper, preparatory to giving her some inkling of his state of mind. +</p> + +<p> +A little light and playful gallantry towards this lady seemed the means to +employ in that early chapter of the history, for winning her to his interests. +Not being able quite to make up his mind about it, he consulted the +Chicken—without taking that gentleman into his confidence; merely +informing him that a friend in Yorkshire had written to him (Mr Toots) for his +opinion on such a question. The Chicken replying that his opinion always was, +“Go in and win,” and further, “When your man’s before +you and your work cut out, go in and do it,” Mr Toots considered this a +figurative way of supporting his own view of the case, and heroically resolved +to kiss Miss Nipper next day. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Everything happened as usual, down to the point where Susan said her young +mistress was well, and Mr Toots said it was of no consequence. To her +amazement, Mr Toots, instead of going off, like a rocket, after that +observation, lingered and chuckled. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you’d like to walk upstairs, Sir!” said Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think I will come in!” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +But instead of walking upstairs, the bold Toots made an awkward plunge at Susan +when the door was shut, and embracing that fair creature, kissed her on the +cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Go along with you!” cried Susan, “or Ill tear your eyes +out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just another!” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Go along with you!” exclaimed Susan, giving him a push +“Innocents like you, too! Who’ll begin next? Go along, Sir!” +</p> + +<p> +Susan was not in any serious strait, for she could hardly speak for laughing; +but Diogenes, on the staircase, hearing a rustling against the wall, and a +shuffling of feet, and seeing through the banisters that there was some +contention going on, and foreign invasion in the house, formed a different +opinion, dashed down to the rescue, and in the twinkling of an eye had Mr Toots +by the leg. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0298m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +Susan screamed, laughed, opened the street-door, and ran downstairs; the bold +Toots tumbled staggering out into the street, 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 entertainment; Diogenes shaken off, rolled +over and over in the dust, got up again, whirled round the giddy Toots and +snapped at him: and all this turmoil Mr Carker, reigning up his horse and +sitting a little at a distance, saw to his amazement, issue from the stately +house of Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker remained watching the discomfited Toots, when Diogenes was called in, +and the door shut: and while that gentleman, taking refuge in a doorway near at +hand, bound up the torn leg of his pantaloons with a costly silk handkerchief +that had formed part of his expensive outfit for the advent. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Mr Carker, riding up, with his most +propitiatory smile. “I hope you are not hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, thank you,” replied Mr Toots, raising his flushed face, +“it’s of no consequence” Mr Toots would have signified, if he +could, that he liked it very much. +</p> + +<p> +“If the dog’s teeth have entered the leg, Sir—” began +Carker, with a display of his own. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you,” said Mr Toots, “it’s all quite right. +It’s very comfortable, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have the pleasure of knowing Mr Dombey,” observed Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you though?” rejoined the blushing Took +</p> + +<p> +“And you will allow me, perhaps, to apologise, in his absence,” +said Mr Carker, taking off his hat, “for such a misadventure, and to +wonder how it can possibly have happened.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As Mr Carker picks his way so softly past the house, looking 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, barks and growls, and makes at him +from that height, as if he would spring down and tear him limb from limb. +</p> + +<p> +Well spoken, Di, so near your Mistress! Another, and another with your head up, +your eyes flashing, and your vexed mouth worrying itself, for want of him! +Another, as he picks his way along! You have a good scent, Di,—cats, boy, +cats! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /> +Florence solitary, and the Midshipman mysterious</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">F</span>lorence 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. +</p> + +<p> +No magic dwelling-place in magic story, shut up in the heart of a thick wood, +was ever more solitary and deserted to the fancy, than was her father’s +mansion in its grim reality, as it stood lowering on the street: always by +night, when lights were shining from neighbouring windows, a blot upon its +scanty brightness; always by day, a frown upon its never-smiling face. +</p> + +<p> +There were not two dragon sentries keeping ward before the gate of this above, +as in magic legend are usually found on duty over the wronged innocence +imprisoned; 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 petrifaction of an +arbour over 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 talismanic characters engraven +on the portal, but the house was now so neglected in appearance, that boys +chalked the railings and the pavement—particularly round the 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 band that came into the street once a week, in +the morning, 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 party of +automaton dancers, waltzing in and out at folding-doors, fell off from it with +one accord, and shunned it as a hopeless place. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 forgotten 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 unwonted 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; spiders, moths, and grubs were heard of every day. An +exploratory blackbeetle now and then was found immovable upon the stairs, or in +an upper room, as wondering how he got there. Rats began to squeak and scuffle +in the night time, through dark galleries they mined behind the panelling. +</p> + +<p> +The dreary magnificence of the state rooms, seen imperfectly by the doubtful +light admitted through closed shutters, would have answered well enough for an +enchanted abode. Such as the tarnished paws of gilded lions, stealthily put out +from beneath their wrappers; the marble lineaments of busts on pedestals, +fearfully revealing themselves through veils; the clocks that never told the +time, or, if 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 +staircases and passages where no one went for weeks together; there were two +closed rooms associated with dead members of the family, and with whispered +recollections of them; and to all the house but Florence, there was a gentle +figure moving through the solitude and gloom, that gave to every lifeless thing +a touch of present human interest and wonder. +</p> + +<p> +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 youth and beauty into +stone. +</p> + +<p> +The grass began to grow upon the 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 withered 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 dark gap in the long monotonous street. +</p> + +<p> +But Florence bloomed there, like the king’s fair daughter in the story. +Her books, her music, and her daily teachers, were her only real 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; sometimes pricking up his head to look with great +significance after some noisy dog in a cart, who was barking his way along, and +sometimes, with an exasperated and unaccountable recollection of his supposed +enemy in the neighbourhood, 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 of a +dog who had done a public service. +</p> + +<p> +So Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, within the circle of her +innocent pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could go down to +her father’s rooms now, and think of him, and suffer her loving heart +humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She could look upon the +objects that had surrounded him in his sorrow, and could nestle near his chair, +and not dread the glance that she so 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 table, changing them as one by +one they withered and he did not come back, preparing something for him every +day, and leaving some timid mark of her presence near his usual seat. Today, +it was a little painted stand for his watch; tomorrow 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 downstairs. 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, +opting that she left her light behind. +</p> + +<p> +Shadowy company attended Florence up and down the echoing house, and sat with +her in the dismantled rooms. As if her life were an enchanted vision, there +arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts, that made it fanciful and +unreal. She imagined so often what her life would have been if her father could +have loved her and she had been a favourite child, that sometimes, for the +moment, she almost believed it was so, and, borne on by the current of that +pensive fiction, seemed to remember how they had watched her brother in his +grave together; how they had freely shared his heart between them; how they +were united in the dear remembrance of him; how they often spoke about him yet; +and her kind father, looking at her gently, told her of their common hope and +trust in God. At other times she pictured to herself her mother yet alive. And +oh the happiness of falling on her neck, and clinging to her with the love and +confidence of all her soul! And oh the desolation of the solitary house again, +with evening coming on, and no one there! +</p> + +<p> +But there was one thought, 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 recognition in the far-off land +between her brother and her mother: of some present consciousness in both of +her: some love and commiseration for her: and some knowledge of her as she went +her way upon the earth. It was a soothing consolation to Florence to give +shelter to these thoughts, until one day—it was soon after she had last +seen her father in his own room, late at night—the fancy came upon her, +that, in weeping for his alienated heart, she might stir the spirits of the +dead against him. Wild, weak, childish, as it may have been to think so, and to +tremble at the half-formed thought, it was the impulse of her loving nature; +and from that hour Florence strove against the cruel wound in her breast, and +tried to think of him whose hand had made it, only with hope. +</p> + +<p> +Her father did not know—she held to it from that time—how much she +loved him. She was very young, and had no mother, and had never learned, by +some fault or misfortune, how to express to him that she loved him. She would +be patient, and would try to gain that art in time, and win him to a better +knowledge of his only child. +</p> + +<p> +This became the purpose of her life. The morning sun shone down upon the faded +house, and found the resolution bright and fresh within the bosom of its +solitary mistress, 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 anything to surprise him when they should become companions. +Sometimes she tried to think if there were any kind of knowledge that would +bespeak his interest more readily than another. Always: at her books, her +music, and her work: in her morning walks, and in her nightly prayers: she had +her engrossing aim in view. Strange study for a child, to learn the road to a +hard parent’s heart! +</p> + +<p> +There were many careless loungers through the street, as the summer evening +deepened into night, who glanced across the road at the sombre house, and saw +the youthful figure at the window, such a contrast to it, looking upward at the +stars as they began to shine, who would have slept the worse if they had known +on what design she mused so steadfastly. The reputation of the mansion as a +haunted house, would not have been the gayer with some humble dwellers +elsewhere, who were struck by its external gloom in passing and repassing on +their 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 understanding that she +loved him, and made no appeal against him in any wandering thought. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one morning, as she folded +and sealed a note she had been writing: and showed in her looks an approving +knowledge of its contents. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Susan,” returned +Florence, with a mild correction of that young lady’s familiar mention of +the family in question, “to repeat their invitation so kindly.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thoroughgoing partisan on the face of the +earth, and who carried her partisanship into all matters great or small, and +perpetually waged war with it against society, screwed up her lips and shook +her head, as a protest against any 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. +</p> + +<p> +“They know what they’re about, if ever people did,” murmured +Miss Nipper, drawing in her breath “oh! trust them Skettleses for +that!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I confess,” said +Florence thoughtfully: “but it will be right to go. I think it will be +better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Much better,” interposed Susan, with another emphatic shake of her +head. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“For which <i>I</i> say, Miss Floy, Oh be joyful!” returned Susan, +“Ah! h—h!” +</p> + +<p> +This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper frequently wound up a sentence, +at about that epoch of time, was supposed below the level of the hall to have a +general reference to Mr Dombey, and to be expressive of a yearning in Miss +Nipper to favour that gentleman with a piece of her mind. But she never +explained it; and it had, in consequence, the charm of mystery, in addition to +the advantage of the sharpest expression. +</p> + +<p> +“How long it is before we have any news of Walter, Susan!” observed +Florence, after a moment’s silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Florence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush overspread her face. +</p> + +<p> +“If I hadn’t,” said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling with +some latent anxiety and alarm, and looking full at her young mistress, while +endeavouring to work herself into a state of resentment with the unoffending Mr +Perch’s image, “if I hadn’t more manliness than that +insipidest of his sex, I’d never take pride in my hair again, but turn it +up behind my ears, and wear coarse caps, without a bit of border, until death +released me from my insignificance. I may not be a Amazon, Miss Floy, and +wouldn’t so demean myself by such disfigurement, but anyways I’m +not a giver up, I hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give up! What?” cried Florence, with a face of terror. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, nothing, Miss,” said Susan. “Good gracious, nothing! +It’s only that wet curl-paper of a man, Perch, that anyone might almost +make away with, with a touch, and really it would be a blessed event for all +parties if someone would take pity on him, and would have the goodness!” +</p> + +<p> +“Does he give up the ship, Susan?” inquired Florence, very pale. +</p> + +<p> +“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 to 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, with aggravated scorn, “puts me out of patience with the man, for +though I can bear a great deal, I am not a camel, neither am I,” added +Susan, after a moment’s consideration, “if I know myself, a +dromedary neither.” +</p> + +<p> +“What else does he say, Susan?” inquired Florence, earnestly. +“Won’t you tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“As if I wouldn’t tell you anything, Miss Floy, and +everything!” said Susan. “Why, nothing 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 anyone could +say that, we knew nearly that before.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must visit Walter’s uncle,” said Florence, hurriedly, +“before I leave home. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk +there, directly, Susan.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Nipper having nothing to urge against the proposal, but being perfectly +acquiescent, they were soon equipped, and in the streets, and on their way +towards the little Midshipman. +</p> + +<p> +The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to Captain Cuttle’s, on +the day when Brogley the broker came into possession, and when there seemed to +him to be an execution in the very steeples, was pretty much the same as that +in which Florence now took her way to Uncle Sol’s; with this difference, +that Florence suffered the added pain of thinking that she had been, perhaps, +the innocent occasion of involving Walter in peril, and all to whom he was +dear, herself included, in an agony of suspense. For the rest, uncertainty and +danger seemed written upon everything. The weathercocks on spires and housetops +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 upon them into a sleep as deep as the +unfathomable waters. When Florence came into the City, and passed gentlemen who +were talking together, she dreaded to hear them speaking of the ship, and +saying it was lost. Pictures and prints of vessels fighting with the rolling +waves filled her with alarm. The smoke and clouds, though moving gently, moved +too fast for her apprehensions, and made her fear there was a tempest blowing +at that moment on the ocean. +</p> + +<p> +Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected similarly, but having her +attention much engaged in struggles with boys, whenever there was any press of +people—for, between that grade of human kind and herself, there was some +natural animosity that invariably broke out, whenever they came +together—it would seem that she had not much leisure on the road for +intellectual operations. +</p> + +<p> +Arriving in good time abreast of the wooden Midshipman on the opposite side of +the way, and waiting for an opportunity to cross the street, they were a little +surprised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker’s door, a round-headed +lad, with his chubby face addressed towards the sky, who, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Richards’s eldest, Miss!” said Susan, “and the +worrit of Mrs Richards’s life!” +</p> + +<p> +As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated prospects of her son and +heir, Florence was prepared for the meeting: so, a favourable moment presenting +itself, they both hastened across, without any further contemplation of Mrs +Richards’s bane. That sporting character, unconscious of their approach, +again whistled with his utmost might, and then yelled in a rapture of +excitement, “Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!” which identification 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 +original intention, they began to wheel and falter; whereupon 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!” +</p> + +<p> +From this transport, he was abruptly recalled to terrestrial objects, by a poke +from Miss Nipper, which sent him into the shop. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Rob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss Nipper when he saw +Florence following, put his knuckles to his hair, in honour of the latter, and +said to the former, that Mr Gills was out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fetch him home,” said Miss Nipper, with authority, “and say +that my young lady’s here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know where he’s gone,” said Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that your penitence?” cried Susan, with stinging sharpness. +</p> + +<p> +“Why how can I go and fetch him when I don’t know where to +go?” whimpered the baited Rob. “How can you be so +unreasonable?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did Mr Gills say when he should be home?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss,” replied Rob, with another application of his knuckles +to his hair. “He said he should be home early in the afternoon; in about +a couple of hours from now, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he very anxious about his nephew?” inquired Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss,” returned Rob, preferring to address himself to +Florence and slighting Nipper; “I should say he was, very much so. He +ain’t indoors, Miss, not a quarter of an hour together. He can’t +settle in one place five minutes. He goes about, like a—just like a +stray,” said 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know a friend of Mr Gills, called Captain Cuttle?” inquired +Florence, after a moment’s reflection. +</p> + +<p> +“Him with a hook, Miss?” rejoined Rob, with an illustrative twist +of his left hand. Yes, Miss. He was here the day before yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has he not been here since?” asked Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Miss,” returned Rob, still addressing his reply to Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps Walter’s Uncle has gone there, Susan,” observed +Florence, turning to her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +Rob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy parchment book on the +shop desk, read the address aloud. +</p> + +<p> +Florence again turned to her maid and took counsel with her in a low voice, +while Rob the round-eyed, mindful of his patron’s secret charge, looked +on and listened. Florence proposed that they could go to Captain Cuttle’s +house; hear from his own lips, what he thought of the absence of any tidings of +the Son and Heir; and bring him, if they could, to comfort Uncle Sol. Susan at +first objected slightly, on the score of distance; but a hackney-coach being +mentioned by her mistress, withdrew that opposition, and gave in her assent. +There were some minutes of discussion between them before they came to this +conclusion, during which the staring Rob paid close attention to both speakers, +and inclined his ear to each by turns, as if he were appointed arbitrator of +the argument. +</p> + +<p> +In time, 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 demeanour; and in order that he might forget +nothing of what had transpired, made notes of it on various small scraps of +paper, with a vast expenditure of ink. There was no danger of these documents +betraying anything, if accidentally lost; for long before a word was dry, it +became as profound a mystery to Rob, as if he had had no part whatever in its +production. +</p> + +<p> +While he was yet busy with these labours, 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, 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. +</p> + +<p> +It happened by evil chance to be one of Mrs MacStinger’s great cleaning +days. On these occasions, Mrs MacStinger was knocked up by the policeman at a +quarter before three in the morning, and rarely succumbed before twelve +o’clock next night. The chief object of this institution appeared to be, +that Mrs 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 ceremonies greatly fluttered those doves the young +MacStingers, 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. +</p> + +<p> +At the moment when Florence and Susan Nipper presented 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 posture on the street pavement: +Alexander being black in the face with holding his breath after punishment, and +a cool paving-stone being usually found to act as a powerful restorative in +such cases. +</p> + +<p> +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 application of the paving-stone, and took no further +notice of the strangers. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mrs MacStinger. +</p> + +<p> +“Not Number Nine?” asked Florence, hesitating. +</p> + +<p> +“Who said it wasn’t Number Nine?” said Mrs MacStinger. +</p> + +<p> +Susan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to inquire what Mrs MacStinger +meant by that, and if she knew whom she was talking to. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs MacStinger in retort, looked at her all over. “What do you want with +Captain Cuttle, I should wish to know?” said Mrs MacStinger. +</p> + +<p> +“Should you? Then I’m sorry that you won’t be +satisfied,” returned Miss Nipper. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who says he don’t live here?” retorted the implacable +MacStinger. “I said it wasn’t Cap’en Cuttle’s +house—and it ain’t his house—and forbid 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs MacStinger pitched her voice for the upper windows 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Since you want Cap’en Cuttle, there he is!” said Mrs +MacStinger, with an angry motion of her hand. On Florence making bold to enter, +without any more parley, and on Susan following, Mrs MacStinger recommenced her +pedestrian exercise in pattens, and Alexander MacStinger (still on the +paving-stone), who had stopped in his crying to attend to the conversation, +began to wail again, entertaining himself during that dismal performance, which +was quite mechanical, with a general survey of the prospect, terminating in the +hackney-coach. +</p> + +<p> +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 +midway in an ocean of soap and water. The Captain’s windows had been +cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, the stove had been cleaned, and everything +the stove excepted, 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 upon his island, looked round on the waste of waters with a +rueful countenance, and seemed waiting for some friendly bark to come that way, +and take him off. +</p> + +<p> +But when the Captain, directing his forlorn visage towards the door, saw +Florence appear with her maid, no words can describe his astonishment. Mrs +MacStinger’s eloquence having rendered all other sounds but imperfectly +distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor than the potboy or the +milkman; wherefore, when Florence appeared, and coming to the confines of the +island, put her hand in his, the Captain stood up, aghast, as if he supposed +her, for the moment, to be some young member of the Flying Dutchman’s +family. +</p> + +<p> +Instantly recovering his self-possession, however, the Captain’s first +care was to place her on dry land, which he happily accomplished, with one +motion of his 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 admiration, raised the hand of Florence to his lips, and +standing off a little (for the island was not large enough for three), beamed +on her from the soap and water like a new description of Triton. +</p> + +<p> +“You are amazed to see us, I am sure,” said Florence, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +The inexpressibly gratified Captain kissed his hook in reply, and growled, as +if a choice and delicate compliment were included in the words, “Stand +by! Stand by!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +At these words Captain Cuttle, as by an involuntary gesture, clapped his hand +to his head, on which the hard glazed hat was not, and looked discomfited. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +sincerity of his reply. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Heart’s-delight,” said Captain Cuttle, “I am not +afeard. Wal”r is a lad as’ll go through a deal o’ hard +weather. Wal”r is a lad as’ll bring as much success to that +“ere brig as a lad is capable on. Wal”r,” said the Captain, +his eyes glistening with the praise of his young friend, and his hook raised to +announce a beautiful quotation, “is what you may call a out’ard and +visible sign of an in’ard and spirited grasp, and when found make a note +of.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence, who did not quite understand this, though the Captain evidently +thought it full of meaning, and highly satisfactory, mildly looked to him for +something more. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not afeard, my Heart’s-delight,” resumed the Captain, +“There’s been most uncommon bad weather in them latitudes, +there’s no denyin’, and they have drove and drove and been beat +off, may be t’other side the world. But the ship’s a good ship, and +the lad’s a good lad; and it ain’t easy, thank the Lord,” the +Captain made a little bow, “to break up hearts of oak, whether +they’re in brigs or buzzums. Here we have ’em both ways, which is +bringing it up with a round turn, and so I ain’t a bit afeard as +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“As yet?” repeated Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit,” returned the Captain, kissing his iron hand; +“and afore I begin to be, my Hearts-delight, Wal”r will have wrote +home from the island, or from some port or another, and made all taut and +ship-shape.” And with regard to old Sol Gills, here the Captain became +solemn, “who I’ll stand by, and not desert until death do us part, +and when the stormy winds do blow, do 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 opinion of a seafaring man as has got a mind equal to any undertaking that +he puts it alongside of, and as was all but smashed in his “prenticeship, +and of which the name is Bunsby, that “ere man shall give him such an +opinion in his own parlour as’ll stun him. Ah!” said Captain +Cuttle, vauntingly, “as much as if he’d gone and knocked his head +again a door!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us take this gentleman to see him, and let us hear what he +says,” cried Florence. “Will you go with us now? We have a coach +here.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the Captain clapped his hand to his head, on which the hard glazed hat +was not, and looked discomfited. But at this instant a most remarkable +phenomenon occurred. The door opening, without any note of preparation, and +apparently of itself, the hard glazed hat in question skimmed into the room +like a 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“You see I should have bore down on Sol Gills yesterday, and this +morning, but she—she took it away and kept it. That’s the long and +short of the subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who did, for goodness sake?” asked Susan Nipper. +</p> + +<p> +“The lady of the house, my dear,” returned the Captain, in a gruff +whisper, and making signals of secrecy. “We had some words about the +swabbing of these here planks, and she—In short,” said the Captain, +eyeing the door, and relieving himself with a long breath, “she stopped +my liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I wish she had me to deal with!” said Susan, reddening with +the energy of the wish. “I’d stop her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you, do you, my dear?” rejoined the Captain, shaking his +head doubtfully, but regarding the desperate courage of the fair aspirant with +obvious admiration. “I don’t know. It’s difficult 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 in a tartar,” said the Captain, with the perspiration +breaking out upon his forehead. There was nothing but a whistle emphatic enough +for the conclusion of the sentence, so the Captain 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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, prepared to cut his way through the enemy. +</p> + +<p> +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 downstairs, they found that exemplary woman +beating the mats on the doorsteps, 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 when Captain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she +beat the harder, and neither by word nor gesture showed any consciousness of +their vicinity. The Captain was so well pleased with this easy +escape—although the effect of the door-mats on him was like a copious +administration of snuff, and made him sneeze until the tears ran down his +face—that he could hardly believe his good fortune; but more than once, +between the door and the hackney-coach, looked over his shoulder, with an +obvious apprehension of Mrs MacStinger’s giving chase yet. +</p> + +<p> +However, they got to the corner of Brig Place without any molestation from that +terrible fire-ship; and the Captain mounting the coach-box—for his +gallantry would not allow him to ride inside with the ladies, though besought +to do so—piloted the driver on his course for Captain Bunsby’s +vessel, which was called the Cautious Clara, and was lying hard by Ratcliffe. +</p> + +<p> +Arrived at the wharf off which this great commander’s ship was jammed in +among some five hundred companions, whose tangled rigging looked like monstrous +cobwebs half swept down, Captain Cuttle appeared at the coach-window, and +invited Florence and Miss Nipper to accompany him on board; observing that +Bunsby was to the last degree soft-hearted in respect of ladies, and that +nothing would so much tend to bring his expansive intellect into a state of +harmony as their presentation to the Cautious Clara. +</p> + +<p> +Florence readily consented; and the Captain, taking her little hand in his +prodigious palm, led her, with a mixed expression of patronage, paternity, +pride, and ceremony, that was pleasant to see, over several very dirty decks, +until, coming to the Clara, they found that cautious craft (which lay outside +the tier) with her gangway removed, and half-a-dozen feet of river interposed +between herself and her nearest neighbour. It appeared, from Captain +Cuttle’s explanation, that the great Bunsby, like himself, was cruelly +treated by his landlady, and that when her usage of him for the time being was +so hard that he could bear it no longer, he set this gulf between them as a +last resource. +</p> + +<p> +“Clara a-hoy!” cried the Captain, putting a hand to each side of +his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“A-hoy!” cried a boy, like the Captain’s echo, tumbling up +from below. +</p> + +<p> +“Bunsby aboard?” cried the Captain, hailing the boy in a stentorian +voice, as if he were half-a-mile off instead of two yards. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay!” cried the boy, in the same tone. +</p> + +<p> +The boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cuttle, who adjusted it carefully, +and led Florence across: returning presently for Miss Nipper. So they stood +upon the deck of the Cautious Clara, in whose standing rigging, divers +fluttering articles of dress were curing, in company with a few tongues and +some mackerel. +</p> + +<p> +Immediately there appeared, coming slowly up above the bulk-head of the cabin, +another bulk-head—human, and very large—with one stationary eye in +the mahogany face, and one revolving one, on the principle of some lighthouses. +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 ornamented near the wearer’s breastbone with some +massive wooden buttons, like backgammon men. As the lower portions of these +pantaloons became revealed, Bunsby stood confessed; his hands in their pockets, +which were of vast size; and his gaze directed, not to Captain Cuttle or the +ladies, but the mast-head. +</p> + +<p> +The profound appearance of this philosopher, who was bulky and strong, and on +whose extremely red face an expression of taciturnity sat enthroned, not +inconsistent with his character, in which that quality was proudly conspicuous, +almost daunted Captain Cuttle, though on familiar terms with him. Whispering to +Florence that Bunsby had never in his life expressed surprise, and was +considered not to know what it meant, the Captain watched him as he eyed his +mast-head, and afterwards swept the horizon; and when the revolving eye seemed +to be coming round in his direction, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Bunsby, my lad, how fares it?” +</p> + +<p> +A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have no connexion 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Bunsby,” said the Captain, striking home at once, “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 opinion, 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 invention, and knows no +law. Bunsby, will you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us?” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0315m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +The great commander, who seemed by expression of his visage to be always on the +look-out for something in the extremest distance, and to have no ocular +knowledge of anything within ten miles, made no reply whatever. +</p> + +<p> +“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 Seamen’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 his opinions in that way, it’s my belief, for there +ain’t nothing like ’em afloat or ashore.” +</p> + +<p> +The stolid commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his elbows, to +express some satisfaction in this encomium; but if his face had been as distant +as his gaze was, it could hardly have enlightened the beholders less in +reference to anything that was passing in his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“Shipmet,” said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look +out under some interposing spar, “what’ll the ladies drink?” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry in connection +with Florence, drew the sage aside, and seeming to explain in his ear, +accompanied him below; where, that he might not take offence, the Captain drank +a dram himself, which Florence and Susan, glancing down the open skylight, saw +the sage, with difficulty finding room for himself between his berth and a very +little brass fireplace, serve out for self and friend. They soon reappeared on +deck, and Captain Cuttle, triumphing in the success of his enterprise, +conducted Florence back to the coach, while Bunsby followed, escorting Miss +Nipper, whom he hugged upon the way (much to that young lady’s +indignation) with his pilot-coated arm, like a blue bear. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much in having secured him, +and having got that mind into a hackney-coach, that he could not refrain from +often peeping in at Florence through the little window behind the driver, and +testifying his delight in smiles, and also in taps upon his forehead, to hint +to her that the brain of Bunsby was hard at it. In the meantime, Bunsby, still +hugging Miss Nipper (for his friend, the Captain, had not exaggerated the +softness of his heart), uniformly preserved his gravity of deportment, and +showed no other consciousness of her or anything. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the door, and ushered them +immediately into the little back parlour: strangely altered by the absence of +Walter. On the table, and about the room, were the charts and maps on which the +heavy-hearted Instrument-maker had again and again tracked the missing vessel +across the sea, and on which, with a pair of compasses that he still had in his +hand, he had been measuring, a minute before, how far she must have driven, to +have driven here or there: and trying to demonstrate that a long time must +elapse before hope was exhausted. +</p> + +<p> +“Whether she can have run,” said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over +the chart; “but no, that’s almost impossible or whether she can +have been forced by stress of weather,—but that’s not reasonably +likely. Or whether there is any hope she so far changed her course as—but +even I can hardly hope that!” With such broken suggestions, poor old +Uncle Sol roamed over the great sheet before him, and could not find a speck of +hopeful probability in it large enough to set one small point of the compasses +upon. +</p> + +<p> +Florence saw immediately—it would have been difficult to help +seeing—that there was a singular, indescribable change in the old man, +and that while his manner was far more restless and unsettled than usual, there +was yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that perplexed her very much. +She fancied once that he spoke wildly, and at random; for on her saying she +regretted not to have seen him when she had been there before that morning, he +at first replied that he had been to see her, and directly afterwards seemed to +wish to recall that answer. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been to see me?” said Florence. “Today?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear young lady,” returned Uncle Sol, looking at her and +away from her in a confused manner. “I wished to see you with my own +eyes, and to hear you with my own ears, once more before—” There he +stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Before when? Before what?” said Florence, putting her hand upon +his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I say ‘before?’” replied old Sol. “If I did, +I must have meant before we should have news of my dear boy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not well,” said Florence, tenderly. “You have been +so very anxious I am sure you are not well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am as well,” returned the old man, shutting up his right hand, +and holding it out to show her: “as well and firm as any man at my time +of life can hope to be. See! It’s steady. Is its master not as capable of +resolution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall +see.” +</p> + +<p> +There was that in his manner more than in his words, though they remained with +her too, which impressed Florence so much, that she would have confided her +uneasiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if the Captain had not seized that +moment for expounding the state of circumstance, on which the opinion of the +sagacious Bunsby was requested, and entreating that profound authority to +deliver the same. +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the half-way +house between London and Gravesend, two or three times put out his rough right +arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration round the fair form of Miss Nipper; +but that young female having withdrawn herself, in displeasure, to the opposite +side of the table, the soft heart of the Commander of the Cautious Clara met +with no response to its impulses. After sundry failures in this wise, the +Commander, addressing himself to nobody, thus spake; or rather the voice within +him said of its own accord, and quite independent of himself, as if he were +possessed by a gruff spirit: +</p> + +<p> +“My name’s Jack Bunsby!” +</p> + +<p> +“He was christened John,” cried the delighted Captain Cuttle. +“Hear him!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what I says,” pursued the voice, after some deliberation, +“I stands to.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whereby,” proceeded the voice, “why not? If so, what odds? +Can any man say otherwise? No. Awast then!” +</p> + +<p> +When it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice stopped, and +rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus: +</p> + +<p> +“Do I believe that this here Son and Heir’s gone down, my lads? +Mayhap. Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen’ +George’s Channel, making for the Downs, what’s right ahead of him? +The Goodwins. He isn’t forced to run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The +bearings of this observation lays in the application on it. That ain’t no +part of my duty. Awast then, keep a bright look-out for’ard, and good +luck to you!” +</p> + +<p> +The voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street, taking the +Commander of the Cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on board again +with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned in, and refreshed +his mind with a nap. +</p> + +<p> +The students of the sage’s precepts, left to their own application of his +wisdom—upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby tripod, as +it is perchance of some other oracular stools—looked upon one another in +a little uncertainty; 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 possible, enhanced by the splendid +manner in which he had justified his reputation and come through this solemn +reference, proceeded to explain that Bunsby meant nothing but confidence; that +Bunsby had no misgivings; and that such an opinion as that man had given, +coming from such a mind as his, was Hope’s own anchor, with good roads to +cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe that the Captain was right; but the +Nipper, with her arms tight folded, shook her head in resolute denial, and had +no more trust in Bunsby than in Mr Perch himself. +</p> + +<p> +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 +discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a whisper in his ear from +Florence, while the old man was absorbed in this pursuit, that Captain Cuttle +laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“What cheer, Sol Gills?” cried the Captain, heartily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest scrutiny upon +his face, the old man stopped and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand by, old friend!” cried the Captain. “Look alive! I +tell you what, Sol Gills; arter I’ve convoyed Heart’s-delight safe +home,” here the Captain kissed his hook to Florence, “I’ll +come back and take you in tow for the rest of this blessed day. You’ll +come and eat your dinner along with me, Sol, somewheres or another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not today, Ned!” said the old man quickly, and appearing to be +unaccountably startled by the proposition. “Not today. I couldn’t +do it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I have so much to do. I—I mean to think of, and arrange. I +couldn’t do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn +my mind to many things today.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and again +at the Instrument-maker. “To-morrow, then,” he suggested, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes. To-morrow,” said the old man. “Think of me +to-morrow. Say to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,” stipulated the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes. The first thing tomorrow morning,” said old Sol; +“and now good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!” +</p> + +<p> +Squeezing both the Captain’s hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said it, +the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put them to his +lips; then hurried her out to the coach with very singular precipitation. +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 inquired of Susan Nipper, unable to +forget her gallant words in reference to Mrs MacStinger, “Would you, do +you think my dear, though?” +</p> + +<p> +When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain’s thoughts +reverted to the old Instrument-maker, and he felt uncomfortable. Therefore, +instead of going home, he walked up and down the street several times, and, +eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a certain angular little +tavern in the City, with a public parlour like a wedge, to which glazed hats +much resorted. The Captain’s principal intention was to pass Sol +Gills’s, after dark, and look in through the window: which he did, The +parlour door stood open, and he could see his old friend writing busily and +steadily at the table within, while the 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /> +The Study of a Loving Heart</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ir +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, among which may be enumerated the +occasional appearance of the river in the drawing-room, and the contemporaneous +disappearance of the lawn and shrubbery. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through an +antique gold snuffbox, and a ponderous silk pocket-kerchief, which he had an +imposing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner and using with both +hands at once. Sir Barnet’s object in life was constantly to extend the +range of his acquaintance. Like a heavy body dropped into water—not to +disparage so worthy a gentleman by the comparison—it was in the nature of +things that Sir Barnet must spread an ever widening circle about him, until +there was no room left. Or, like a sound in air, the vibration of which, +according to the speculation of an ingenious modern philosopher, may go on +travelling for ever through the interminable fields of space, nothing but +coming to the end of his moral tether could stop Sir Barnet Skettles in his +voyage of discovery through the social system. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted with people. He liked the +thing for its own sake, and it advanced his favourite object too. For example, +if Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a law recruit, or a country +gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospitable villa, Sir Barnet would say to +him, on the morning after his arrival, “Now, my dear Sir, is there +anybody you would like to know? Who is there you 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 +answered yes, and mentioned somebody, of whom Sir Barnet had no more personal +knowledge than of Ptolemy the Great. Sir Barnet replied, that nothing on earth +was easier, as he knew him very well: immediately called on the aforesaid +somebody, left his card, wrote a short note,—“My dear +Sir—penalty of your eminent position—friend at my house naturally +desirous—Lady Skettles and myself participate—trust that genius +being superior to ceremonies, you will do us the distinguished favour of giving +us the pleasure,” etc, etc.—and so killed a brace of birds with one +stone, dead as door-nails. +</p> + +<p> +With the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Barnet 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 +present the best compliments of myself and Lady Skettles when you +write—might wish you to know?” it was natural, perhaps, that her +poor head should droop a little, and that her voice should tremble as it softly +answered in the negative. +</p> + +<p> +Skettles Junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and sobered down as to his +spirits, was at home for the holidays, and appeared to feel himself aggrieved +by the solicitude of his excellent mother that he should be attentive to +Florence. Another and a deeper injury under which the soul of young Barnet +chafed, was the company of Dr and Mrs Blimber, who had been invited on a visit +to the paternal roof-tree, and of whom the young gentleman often said he would +have preferred their passing the vacation at Jericho. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anybody you can suggest now, Doctor Blimber?” said Sir +Barnet Skettles, turning to that gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“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? Anyone who is the +parent of a son is interesting to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has Mrs Blimber any wish to see any remarkable person?” asked Sir +Barnet, courteously. +</p> + +<p> +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 their joint confidence in regard to their dear son—here young +Barnet was observed to curl his nose—she asked no more. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances, to content himself for the time +with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that; for she had a study to +pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, and was too precious and +momentous, to yield to any other interest. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 anyone 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 was 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. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! how to gain it! how to know the charm in its beginning! There were +daughters here, who rose up in the morning, and lay down to rest at night, +possessed of fathers’ hearts already. They had no repulse to overcome, no +coldness to dread, no frown to smooth away. As the morning advanced, and the +windows opened one by one, and the dew began to dry upon the flowers and +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! +</p> + +<p> +She remembered well, that even the old woman who had robbed her when a little +child—whose image and whose house, and all she had said and done, were +stamped upon her recollection, with the 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 cloud, through the distance of her mind. +</p> + +<p> +There came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, one beautiful girl, +three or four years younger than she, who was an orphan child, and who was +accompanied by her aunt, a grey-haired lady, who spoke much to Florence, and +who greatly liked (but that they all did) to hear her sing of an evening, and +would always sit near her at that time, with motherly interest. They had only +been two days in the house, when Florence, being in an arbour in the garden one +warm morning, musingly observant of a youthful group upon the turf, through +some intervening boughs,—and wreathing flowers for the head of one little +creature among them who was the pet and plaything of the rest, heard this same +lady and her niece, in pacing up and down a sheltered nook close by, speak of +herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?” said the child. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she in mourning for her poor Mama, now?” inquired the child +quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“No; for her only brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has she no other brother?” +</p> + +<p> +“None.” +</p> + +<p> +“No sister?” +</p> + +<p> +“None,” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very, very sorry!” said the little girl +</p> + +<p> +As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, and had been silent in the +meantime, Florence, who had risen when she heard her name, and had gathered up +her flowers to go and meet them, that they might know of her being within +hearing, resumed her seat and work, expecting to hear no more; but the +conversation recommenced next moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Florence is a favourite with everyone here, and deserves to be, I am +sure,” said the child, earnestly. “Where is her Papa?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He is in England, I hope, aunt?” said the child. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has he ever been here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe not. No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he coming here to see her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?” asked the child. +</p> + +<p> +The flowers that Florence held to her breast began to fall when she heard those +words, so wonderingly spoke. She held them closer; and her face hung down upon +them. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never will!” exclaimed the child. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you never will,” returned the lady. “I can trust you +as myself. I fear then, Kate, that Florence’s father cares little for +her, very seldom sees her, never was kind to her in her life, and now quite +shuns her and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he would suffer her, but +he will not—though for no fault of hers; and she is greatly to be loved +and pitied by all gentle hearts.” +</p> + +<p> +More of the flowers that Florence held fell scattering on the ground; those +that remained were wet, but not with dew; and her face dropped upon her laden +hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Florence! Dear, good Florence!” cried the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know why I have told you this, Kate?” said the lady. +</p> + +<p> +“That I may be very kind to her, and take great care to try to please +her. Is that the reason, aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Partly,” said the lady, “but not all. Though we see her so +cheerful; with a pleasant smile for everyone; ready to oblige us all, and +bearing her part in every amusement here: she can hardly be quite happy, do you +think she can, Kate?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid not,” said the little girl. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear aunt,” said the child, “I understand that very +well. Poor Florence!” +</p> + +<p> +More flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she yet held to her breast +trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them. +</p> + +<p> +“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 children +have—” +</p> + +<p> +“There are none happier, aunt!” exclaimed the child, who seemed to +cling about her. +</p> + +<p> +“—As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not without a parent’s love, aunt, and I never have +been,” said the child, “with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; the empty hands were spread +upon the face; and orphaned Florence, shrinking down upon the ground, wept long +and bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Even in the response she made the orphan child, to whom she was attracted +strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember, Florence was mindful of +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 to this. What +she had overheard was a reason, not for soothing herself, but for saving him; +and Florence did it, in pursuance of the study of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and there were anything in the +story that pointed at an unkind father, she was in pain for their application +of it to him; not for herself. So with any trifle of an interlude that was +acted, or picture that was shown, or game that was played, among them. The +occasions for such tenderness towards him were so many, that her mind misgave +her often, it would indeed be better to go back to the old house, and live +again within the shadow of its dull walls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweet +Florence, in her spring of womanhood, the modest little queen of those small +revels, imagined what a load of sacred care lay heavy in her breast! How few of +those who stiffened in her father’s freezing atmosphere, suspected what a +heap of fiery coals was piled upon his head! +</p> + +<p> +Florence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to acquire the secret of the +nameless grace she sought, among the youthful company who were assembled in the +house, often walked out alone, in the early morning, among the children of the +poor. But still she found them all too far advanced to learn from. They had won +their household places long ago, and did not stand without, as she did, with a +bar across the door. +</p> + +<p> +There was one man whom she several times observed at work very early, and often +with a girl of about her own age seated near him. He was a very poor man, who +seemed to have no regular employment, but now went roaming about the banks of +the river when the tide was low, looking out for bits and scraps in the mud; +and now worked at the unpromising little patch of garden-ground before his +cottage; and now tinkered up a miserable old boat that belonged to him; or did +some job of that kind for a neighbour, as chance occurred. Whatever the +man’s labour, the girl was never employed; but sat, when she was with +him, in a listless, moping state, and idle. +</p> + +<p> +Florence had often wished to speak to this man; yet she had never taken courage +to do so, as he made no movement towards her. But one morning when she happened +to come upon him suddenly, from a by-path among some pollard willows which +terminated in the little shelving piece of stony ground that lay between his +dwelling and the water, where he was bending over a fire he had made to caulk +the old boat which was lying bottom upwards, close by, he raised his head at +the sound of her footstep, and gave her Good morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning,” said Florence, approaching nearer, “you are +at work early.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d be glad to be often at work earlier, Miss, if I had work to +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it so hard to get?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“I find it so,” replied the man. +</p> + +<p> +Florence glanced to where the girl was sitting, drawn together, with her elbows +on her knees, and her chin on her hands, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Is that your daughter?” +</p> + +<p> +He raised his head quickly, and looking towards the girl with a brightened +face, nodded to her, and said “Yes,” Florence looked towards her +too, and gave her a kind salutation; the girl muttered something in return, +ungraciously and sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she in want of employment also?” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +The man shook his head. “No, Miss,” he said. “I work for +both,” +</p> + +<p> +“Are there only you two, then?” inquired Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Only us two,” said the man. “Her mother has been dead these +ten year. Martha!” (he lifted up his head again, and whistled to her) +“won’t you say a word to the pretty young lady?” +</p> + +<p> +The 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 likeness to. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid she’s worse this morning, my poor girl!” +said the man, suspending his work, and contemplating his ill-favoured child, +with a compassion that was the more tender for being rougher. +</p> + +<p> +“She is ill, then!” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! and more than that, John,” said a neighbour, who had come down +to help him with the boat. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the more the time,” pursued the neighbour, “the more +you’ve favoured and humoured her, John, till she’s got to be a +burden to herself, and everybody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to me,” said her father, falling to his work. “Not to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +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 his goodness to the miserable object that he looked upon with +eyes so different from any other man’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Who would favour my poor girl—to call it favouring—if I +didn’t?” said the father. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay,” cried the neighbour. “In reason, John. But you! You +rob yourself to give to her. You bind yourself hand and foot on her account. +You make your life miserable along of her. And what does she care! You +don’t believe she knows it?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Only for that, Miss,” said the neighbour, with a smile, in which +there was more of secret sympathy than he expressed; “only to get that, +he never lets her out of his sight!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence softly put some money near his hand on the old boat, and left him. +</p> + +<p> +And now Florence began to think, if she were to fall ill, if she were to fade +like her dear brother, would he then 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 her, in that changed condition, for not having been able to lay open +her childish heart to him, as to make it easy to relate with what emotions she +had gone out of his room that night; what she had meant to say if she had had +the courage; and how she had endeavoured, afterwards, to learn the way she +never knew in infancy? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The golden water she remembered on the wall, appeared 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 rippling at her feet, she thought with awful +wonder, but not terror, of that river which her brother had so often said was +bearing him away. +</p> + +<p> +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 walking 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 beholding her eldest +son with Florence on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an opposite sentiment on the +subject, and on such occasions 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 complacency and +high gratification. +</p> + +<p> +This was the order of procedure on the afternoon in question; and Florence had +almost succeeded in overruling the present objections of Skettles Junior to his +destiny, when a gentleman on horseback came riding by, looked at them earnestly +as he passed, drew in his rein, wheeled round, and came riding back again, hat +in hand. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My horse is perfectly quiet, I assure you,” said the gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +It was not that, but something in the gentleman himself—Florence could +not have said what—that made her recoil as if she had been stung. +</p> + +<p> +“I have the honour to address Miss Dombey, I believe?” said the +gentleman, with a most persuasive smile. On Florence inclining her head, he +added, “My name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered by Miss +Dombey, except by name. Carker.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0330m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg pardon,” said Mr Carker, “a thousand times! But I am +going down tomorrow morning to Mr Dombey, at Leamington, and if Miss Dombey can +entrust me with any commission, need I say how very happy I shall be?” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would desire to write a letter to +her father, proposed to return, and besought Mr Carker to come home and dine in +his riding gear. Mr Carker had the misfortune to be engaged to dinner, but if +Miss Dombey wished to write, nothing would 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing to send, Miss Dombey?” said the man of teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said Florence, “but my—but my dear +love—if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +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 uncommon +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 Lady +Skettles, took his leave, and rode away: leaving a favourable impression on +that worthy couple. Florence was seized with such a shudder as he went, that +Sir Barnet, adopting the popular superstition, supposed somebody was passing +over her grave. Mr Carker turning a corner, on the instant, looked back, and +bowed, and disappeared, as if he rode off to the churchyard straight, to do it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /> +Strange News of Uncle Sol</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">C</span>aptain Cuttle, though no sluggard, did not turn out so early on +the morning after he had seen Sol Gills, through the shop-window, writing in +the parlour, 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 +elbow, and took a survey of his little chamber. The Captain’s eyes must +have done severe duty, if he usually opened them as wide on awaking as he did +that morning; and were but roughly rewarded for their vigilance, if he +generally rubbed them half as hard. But the occasion was no common one, for Rob +the Grinder had certainly never stood in the doorway of Captain Cuttle’s +room before, and in it he stood then, panting at the Captain, with a flushed +and touzled air of Bed about him, that greatly heightened both his colour and +expression. +</p> + +<p> +“Holloa!” roared the Captain. “What’s the +matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Before Rob could stammer a word in answer, Captain Cuttle turned out, all in a +heap, and covered the boy’s mouth with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, my lad,” said the Captain, “don’t ye speak a +word to me as yet!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, looking at his visitor in great consternation, gently shouldered +him into the next room, after laying this injunction upon him; and disappearing +for a few moments, forthwith returned in the blue suit. Holding up his hand in +token of the injunction not yet being taken off, Captain Cuttle walked up to +the cupboard, and poured himself out a dram; a counterpart of which he handed +to the messenger. The Captain then stood himself up in a corner, against the +wall, as if to forestall the possibility of being knocked backwards by the +communication that was to be made to him; and having swallowed his liquor, with +his eyes fixed on the messenger, and his face as pale as his face could be, +requested him to “heave ahead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean, tell you, Captain?” asked Rob, who had been greatly +impressed by these precautions. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir,” said Rob, “I ain’t got much to tell. But +look here!” +</p> + +<p> +Rob produced a bundle of keys. The Captain surveyed them, remained in his +corner, and surveyed the messenger. +</p> + +<p> +“And look here!” pursued Rob. +</p> + +<p> +The boy produced a sealed packet, which Captain Cuttle stared at as he had +stared at the keys. +</p> + +<p> +“When I woke this morning, Captain,” said Rob, “which was +about a quarter after five, I found these on my pillow. The shop-door was +unbolted and unlocked, and Mr Gills gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone!” roared the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Flowed, Sir,” returned Rob. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain’s voice was so tremendous, and he came out of his corner with +such way on him, that Rob retreated before him into another corner: holding out +the keys and packet, to prevent himself from being run down. +</p> + +<p> +“‘For Captain Cuttle,’ Sir,” cried Rob, “is on +the keys, and on the packet too. Upon my word and honour, Captain Cuttle, I +don’t know anything more about it. I wish I may die if I do! Here’s +a sitiwation for a lad that’s just got a sitiwation,” cried the +unfortunate Grinder, screwing his cuff into his face: “his master bolted +with his place, and him blamed for it!” +</p> + +<p> +These lamentations had reference to Captain Cuttle’s gaze, or rather +glare, which was full of vague suspicions, threatenings, and denunciations. +Taking the proffered packet from his hand, the Captain opened it and read as +follows:— +</p> + +<p> +“‘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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never see it,” whimpered Rob. “Don’t keep on +suspecting an innocent lad, Captain. I never touched the Testament.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle shook his head, implying that somebody must be made answerable +for it; and gravely proceeded: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Which don’t break open for a year, or until you have +decisive intelligence of my dear Walter, who is dear to you, Ned, too, I am +sure.’” The Captain paused and shook his head in some emotion; +then, as a re-establishment of his dignity in this trying position, looked with +exceeding sternness at the Grinder. “‘If you should never hear of +me, or see me more, Ned, remember an old friend as he will remember you to the +last—kindly; and at least until the period I have mentioned has expired, +keep a home in the old place for Walter. There are no debts, the loan from +Dombey’s House is paid off and all my keys I send with this. Keep this +quiet, and make no inquiry for me; it is useless. So no more, dear Ned, from +your true friend, Solomon Gills.’” The Captain took a long breath, +and then read these words written below: “‘The boy Rob, well +recommended, as I told you, from Dombey’s House. If all else should come +to the hammer, take care, Ned, of the little Midshipman.’” +</p> + +<p> +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 determined to go down to posterity, and have never got +there. At first the Captain was too much confounded and distressed to think of +anything but the letter itself; and even when his thoughts began to glance upon +the various attendant facts, they might, 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 so clearly expressed in his visage, that Rob +remonstrated. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t, Captain!” cried the Grinder. “I wonder how +you can! what have I done to be looked at, like that?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lad,” said Captain Cuttle, “don’t you sing out +afore you’re hurt. And don’t you commit yourself, whatever you +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t been and committed nothing, Captain!” answered +Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep her free, then,” said the Captain, impressively, “and +ride easy.” +</p> + +<p> +With a deep sense of the responsibility imposed upon him, and the necessity of +thoroughly fathoming this mysterious affair as became a man in his relations +with the parties, Captain Cuttle resolved to go down and examine the premises, +and to keep the Grinder with him. Considering that youth as under arrest at +present, the Captain was in some doubt whether it might not be expedient to +handcuff him, or tie his ankles together, or attach a weight to his legs; but +not being clear as to the legality of such formalities, the Captain decided +merely to hold him by the shoulder all the way, and knock him down if he made +any objection. +</p> + +<p> +However, he made none, and consequently got to the Instrument-maker’s +house without being placed under any more stringent restraint. As the shutters +were not yet taken down, the Captain’s first care was to have the shop +opened; and when the daylight was freely admitted, he proceeded, with its aid, +to further investigation. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain’s first care was to establish himself in a chair in the shop, +as President of the solemn tribunal that was sitting within him; and to require +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 off to Brig Place—cautiously preventing the latter +imitation from being carried farther than the threshold—and so on to the +end of the chapter. When all this had been done several times, the Captain +shook his head and seemed to think the matter had a bad look. +</p> + +<p> +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 cobwebs. Mounting up to the old +man’s bed-room, they found that he had not been in bed on the previous +night, but had merely lain down on the coverlet, as was evident from the +impression yet remaining there. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” said the Captain, mysteriously. “Why so, my lad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” returned Rob, looking about, “I don’t see his +shaving tackle. Nor his brushes, Captain. Nor no shirts. Nor yet his +shoes.” +</p> + +<p> +As each of these articles was mentioned, Captain Cuttle took particular notice +of the corresponding department of the Grinder, lest he should appear to have +been in recent use, or should prove to be in present possession thereof. But +Rob had no occasion to shave, was not brushed, and wore the clothes he had on +for a long time past, beyond all possibility of a mistake. +</p> + +<p> +“And what should you say,” said the Captain—“not +committing yourself—about his time of sheering off? Hey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I think, Captain,” returned Rob, “that he must have +gone pretty soon after I began to snore.” +</p> + +<p> +“What o’clock was that?” said the Captain, prepared to be +very particular about the exact time. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell, Captain!” answered Rob. “I only know that +I’m a heavy sleeper at first, and a light one towards morning; and if Mr +Gills had come through the shop near daybreak, though ever so much on tiptoe, +I’m pretty sure I should have heard him shut the door at all +events.” +</p> + +<p> +On mature consideration of this evidence, Captain Cuttle began to think that +the Instrument-maker must have vanished of his own accord; to which logical +conclusion he was assisted by the letter addressed to himself, which, as being +undeniably 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. +</p> + +<p> +Remembering the old man’s curious manner, and the farewell he had taken +of him; unaccountably fervent at the time, but quite intelligible now: a +terrible apprehension strengthened on the Captain, that, overpowered by his +anxieties and regrets for Walter, he had been driven to 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 violently strained misgiving, but only too probable. +</p> + +<p> +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? As to his carrying some apparel with 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 language, and condensed within a small compass, was +the final result and substance of Captain Cuttle’s deliberations: which +took a long time to arrive at this pass, and were, like some more public +deliberations, very discursive and disorderly. +</p> + +<p> +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 honourable 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 Captain, taking Rob with him, issued forth upon a dismal quest after the +mortal remains of Solomon Gills. +</p> + +<p> +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 people +in all the newspapers and handbills, and went forth on expeditions at all hours +of the day to identify Solomon Gills, in poor little ship-boys who had fallen +overboard, and in tall foreigners with dark beards who had taken +poison—“to make sure,” Captain Cuttle said, “that it +wam’t him.” It is a sure thing that it never was, and that the good +Captain had no other satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle at last abandoned these attempts as hopeless, and set himself to +consider what was to be done next. After several new perusals of his poor +friend’s letter, he considered that the maintenance of “a home in +the old place for Walter” was the primary duty imposed upon him. +Therefore, the Captain’s decision was, that he would keep house on the +premises of Solomon Gills himself, and would go into the instrument-business, +and see what came of it. +</p> + +<p> +But as this step involved the relinquishment of his apartments at Mrs +MacStinger’s, and he knew that resolute woman would never hear of his +deserting them, the Captain took the desperate determination of running away. +</p> + +<p> +“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’rhaps. But you +keep watch till you hear me knock, and the moment you do, turn-to, and open the +door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, Captain,” said Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +hear me knock to-morrow night, whatever time it is, turn-to and show yourself +smart with the door.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be sure to do it, Captain,” replied Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you understand,” resumed the Captain, coming back again to +enforce this charge upon his mind, “there may be, for anything I can say, +a chase; and I might be took while I was waiting, if you didn’t show +yourself smart with the door.” +</p> + +<p> +Rob again assured the Captain that he would be prompt and wakeful; and the +Captain having made this prudent arrangement, went home to Mrs +MacStinger’s for the last time. +</p> + +<p> +The sense the Captain had of its being the last time, and of the awful purpose +hidden beneath his blue waistcoat, inspired him with such a mortal dread of Mrs +MacStinger, that the sound of that lady’s foot downstairs at any time of +the day, was sufficient to throw him into a fit of trembling. It fell out, too, +that Mrs MacStinger was in a charming temper—mild and placid as a +house—lamb; and Captain Cuttle’s conscience suffered terrible +twinges, when she came up to inquire if she could cook him nothing for his +dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“A nice small kidney-pudding now, Cap’en Cuttle,” said his +landlady: “or a sheep’s heart. Don’t mind my trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“No thank’ee, Ma’am,” returned the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“No thank’ee, Ma’am,” returned the Captain very humbly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure you’re out of sorts, and want to be +stimulated,” said Mrs MacStinger. “Why not have, for once in a way, +a bottle of sherry wine?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +favour, Ma’am,” said the Captain, torn to pieces by his conscience, +“to accept a quarter’s rent ahead?” +</p> + +<p> +“And why so, Cap’en Cuttle?” retorted Mrs +MacStinger—sharply, as the Captain thought. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was frightened to dead “If you would Ma’am,” he +said with submission, “it would oblige me. I can’t keep my money +very well. It pays itself out. I should take it kind if you’d +comply.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Cap’en Cuttle,” said the unconscious MacStinger, +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And would you, Ma’am,” said the Captain, taking down the tin +canister in which he kept his cash, from the top shelf of the cupboard, +“be so good as offer eighteen-pence a-piece to the little 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +favourite, was insupportable to the Captain; the voice of Juliana MacStinger, +who was the picture of her mother, made a coward of him. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle kept up appearances, nevertheless, tolerably 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 execution. +</p> + +<p> +In the silence of night, the Captain packed up his heavier property in a chest, +which he locked, intending to leave it there, in all probability for ever, but +on the forlorn chance of one day finding a man sufficiently bold and desperate +to come and ask for it. Of his lighter necessaries, the Captain made a bundle; +and disposed his plate about his person, ready for flight. At the hour of +midnight, when Brig Place was buried in slumber, and Mrs 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. +</p> + +<p> +Pursued by the image of Mrs MacStinger springing out of bed, and, regardless of +costume, following and bringing him back; pursued also by a consciousness of +his enormous crime; Captain Cuttle held on at a great pace, and allowed no +grass to grow under his feet, between Brig Place and the +Instrument-maker’s door. It opened when he knocked—for Rob was on +the watch—and when it was bolted and locked behind him, Captain Cuttle +felt comparatively safe. +</p> + +<p> +“Whew!” cried the Captain, looking round him. “It’s a +breather!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing the matter, is there, Captain?” cried the gaping Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” said Captain Cuttle, after changing colour, 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 known, nor never +heard of here; observe them orders, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take care, Captain,” returned Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“You might say—if you liked,” hesitated the Captain, +“that you’d read in the paper that a Cap’en of that name was +gone to Australia, emigrating, along with a whole ship’s complement of +people as had all swore never to come back no more.” +</p> + +<p> +Rob nodded his understanding of these instructions; and Captain Cuttle +promising to make a man of him, if he obeyed orders, dismissed him, yawning, to +his bed under the counter, and went aloft to the chamber of Solomon Gills. +</p> + +<p> +What the Captain suffered next day, whenever a bonnet 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 attendant on this means of +self-preservation, the Captain curtained the glass door of communication +between the shop and parlour, on the inside; fitted a key to it from the bunch +that had been sent to him; and cut a small hole of espial in the wall. The +advantage of this fortification is obvious. On a bonnet appearing, the Captain +instantly slipped into his garrison, locked himself up, and took a secret +observation of the enemy. Finding it a false alarm, the Captain instantly +slipped out again. And the bonnets in the street were so very numerous, and +alarms were so inseparable from their appearance, that the Captain was almost +incessantly slipping in and out all day long. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle found time, however, in the midst of this fatiguing service to +inspect the stock; in connexion with which he had the general idea (very +laborious to 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 of the public. +</p> + +<p> +After effecting these improvements, Captain Cuttle, surrounded by the +instruments, began to feel scientific: and looked up at the stars at night, +through the skylight, when he was smoking his pipe in the little back parlour +before going to bed, as if he had established a kind of property in them. As a +tradesman in the City, too, he began to have an interest in the Lord Mayor, and +the Sheriffs, and in Public Companies; and felt bound to read the quotations of +the Funds every day, though he was unable to make out, on any principle of +navigation, what the figures meant, and could have very well dispensed with the +fractions. Florence, the Captain waited on, 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 MacStinger herself, as among the things that had been. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /> +Shadows of the Past and Future</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span> our +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am infinitely obliged, Carker,” explained Mr Dombey, “to +Major Bagstock, for his company and conversation. Major Bagstock has rendered +me great service, Carker.” +</p> + +<p> +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 his heart for having +effected so great an Improvement in Mr Dombey’s looks and spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“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 nature.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker snapped at the expression. In his moral nature. Exactly. The very +words he had been on the point of suggesting. +</p> + +<p> +“But when my friend Dombey, Sir,” added the Major, “talks to +you of Major Bagstock, I must crave leave to set him and you right. He means +plain Joe, Sir—Joey B.—Josh. Bagstock—Joseph—rough and +tough Old J., Sir. At your service.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Sir,” said the Major, “you and Dombey have the +devil’s own amount of business to talk over.” +</p> + +<p> +“By no means, Major,” observed Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +With that, the Major, greatly swollen as to his face, withdrew; but immediately +putting in his head at the door again, said: +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon. Dombey, have you any message to ’em?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey in some embarrassment, and not without a glance at the courteous +keeper of his business confidence, entrusted the Major with his compliments. +</p> + +<p> +“By the Lord, Sir,” said the Major, “you must make it +something warmer than that, or old Joe will be far from welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“Regards then, if you will, Major,” returned Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Damme, Sir,” said the Major, shaking his shoulders and his great +cheeks jocularly: “make it something warmer than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What you please, then, Major,” observed Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Our friend is sly, Sir, sly, Sir, de-vilish sly,” said the Major, +staring round the door at Carker. “So is Bagstock.” But stopping in +the midst of a chuckle, and drawing himself up to his full height, the Major +solemnly exclaimed, as he struck himself on the chest, “Dombey! I envy +your feelings. God bless you!” and withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +“You must have found the gentleman a great resource,” said Carker, +following him with his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Very great indeed,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“He has friends here, no doubt,” pursued Carker. “I perceive, +from what he has said, that you go into society here. Do you know,” +smiling horribly, “I am so very glad that you go into society!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You were formed for society,” said Carker. “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’s +length so long!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have had my reasons, Carker. I have been alone, and indifferent to it. +But you have great social qualifications yourself, and are the more likely to +have been surprised.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I!” returned the other, with ready self-disparagement. +“It’s quite another matter in the case of a man like me. I +don’t come into comparison with you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey put his hand to his neckcloth, settled his chin in it, coughed, and +stood looking at his faithful friend and servant for a few moments in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ladies among them, I presume?” insinuated the smooth Manager. +</p> + +<p> +“They are all—that is to say, they are both—ladies,” +replied Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Only two?” smiled Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“They are only two. I have confined my visits to their residence, and +have made no other acquaintance here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sisters, perhaps?” quoth Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother and daughter,” replied Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +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. As Mr Dombey raised his eyes, it changed back, +no less quickly, to its old expression, and showed him every gum of which it +stood possessed. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind,” said Carker, “I shall be delighted to +know them. Speaking of daughters, I have seen Miss Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sudden rush of blood to Mr Dombey’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“I took the liberty of waiting on her,” said Carker, “to +inquire if she could charge me with any little commission. I am not so +fortunate as to be the bearer of any but her—but her dear love.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“What business intelligence is there?” inquired the latter +gentleman, after a silence, during which Mr Carker had produced some memoranda +and other papers. +</p> + +<p> +“There is very little,” returned Carker. “Upon the whole we +have not had our usual good fortune of late, but that is of little moment to +you. At Lloyd’s, they give up the Son and Heir for lost. Well, she was +insured, from her keel to her masthead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Carker,” said Mr Dombey, taking a chair near him, “I cannot +say that young man, Gay, ever impressed me favourably—” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor me,” interposed the Manager. +</p> + +<p> +“—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 confidence between Miss Dombey and myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mr Dombey, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt,” returned Mr Carker, after an impressive pause, +“that wherever Gay is, he is much better where he is, than at home here. +If I were, or could be, in your place, I should be satisfied of that. I am +quite satisfied of it myself. Miss Dombey is confiding and young—perhaps +hardly proud enough, for your daughter—if she have a fault. Not that that +is much though, I am sure. Will you check these balances with me?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey leaned back in his chair, instead of bending over the papers that +were laid before him, and looked the Manager steadily in the face. The Manager, +with his eyelids slightly raised, affected to be glancing at his figures, and +to await the leisure of his principal. He showed that he affected this, as if +from great delicacy, and with a design to spare Mr Dombey’s feelings; and +the latter, as he looked at him, was cognizant of his intended consideration, +and felt that but for it, this confidential Carker would have said a great deal +more, which he, Mr Dombey, was too proud to ask for. It was his way in +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 impressed it on his great chief more and more. +</p> + +<p> +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 midday when the Major reached the bower of Cleopatra, he had +the good fortune to find his Princess on her usual sofa, languishing over a cup +of coffee, with the room so darkened and shaded for her more luxurious repose, +that Withers, who was in attendance on her, loomed like a phantom page. +</p> + +<p> +“What insupportable creature is this, coming in?” said Mrs Skewton, +“I cannot hear it. Go away, whoever you are!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have not the heart to banish J. B., Ma’am!” said the +Major halting midway, to remonstrate, with his cane over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh it’s you, is it? On second thoughts, you may enter,” +observed Cleopatra. +</p> + +<p> +The Major entered accordingly, and advancing to the sofa pressed her charming +hand to his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down,” said Cleopatra, listlessly waving her fan, “a +long way off. Don’t come too near me, for I am frightfully faint and +sensitive this morning, and you smell of the Sun. You are absolutely +tropical.” +</p> + +<p> +“By George, Ma’am,” said the Major, “the time has been +when Joseph Bagstock has been grilled and blistered by the Sun; then time was, +when he was forced, Ma’am, into such full blow, by high hothouse heat in +the West Indies, that he was known as the Flower. A man never heard of +Bagstock, Ma’am, in those days; he heard of the Flower—the Flower +of Ours. The Flower may have faded, more or less, Ma’am,” observed +the Major, dropping into a much nearer chair than had been indicated by his +cruel Divinity, “but it is a tough plant yet, and constant as the +evergreen.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the Major, under cover of the dark room, shut up one eye, rolled his head +like a Harlequin, and, in his great self-satisfaction, perhaps went nearer to +the confines of apoplexy than he had ever gone before. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Mrs Granger?” inquired Cleopatra of her page. +</p> + +<p> +Withers believed she was in her own room. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Mrs Skewton. “Go away, and shut the door. I +am engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +As Withers disappeared, Mrs Skewton turned her head languidly towards the +Major, without otherwise moving, and asked him how his friend was. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey, Ma’am,” returned the Major, with a facetious +gurgling in his throat, “is as well as a man in his condition can be. His +condition is a desperate one, Ma’am. He is touched, is Dombey! +Touched!” cried the Major. “He is bayonetted through the +body.” +</p> + +<p> +Cleopatra cast a sharp look at the Major, that contrasted forcibly with the +affected drawl in which she presently said: +</p> + +<p> +“Major Bagstock, although I know but little of the world,—nor can I +really regret my experience, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bluntness, Ma’am,” returned the Major, “has ever been +the characteristic of the Bagstock breed. You are right. Joe admits it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that allusion,” pursued Cleopatra, “would involve one of +the most—if not positively the most—touching, and thrilling, and +sacred emotions of which our sadly-fallen nature is susceptible, I +conceive.” +</p> + +<p> +The Major laid his hand upon his lips, and wafted a kiss to Cleopatra, as if to +identify the emotion in question. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel that I am weak. I feel that I am wanting in that energy, which +should sustain a Mama: not to say a parent: on such a subject,” said Mrs +Skewton, trimming her lips with the laced edge of her pocket-handkerchief; +“but I can hardly approach a topic so excessively momentous to my dearest +Edith without a feeling of faintness. Nevertheless, bad man, as you have boldly +remarked upon it, and as it has occasioned me great anguish:” Mrs Skewton +touched her left side with her fan: “I will not shrink from my +duty.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey,” said Mrs Skewton, when she at length resumed, +“was obliging enough, now many weeks ago, to do us the honour of visiting +us here; in company, my dear Major, with yourself. I acknowledge—let me +be open—that it is my failing to be the creature of impulse, and to wear +my heart as it were, outside. I know my failing full well. My enemy cannot know +it better. But I am not penitent; I would rather not be frozen by the heartless +world, and am content to bear this imputation justly.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton arranged her tucker, pinched her wiry throat to give it a soft +surface, and went on, with great complacency. +</p> + +<p> +“It gave me (my dearest Edith too, I am sure) infinite pleasure to +receive Mr Dombey. As a friend of yours, my dear Major, we were naturally +disposed to be prepossessed in his favour; and I fancied that I observed an +amount of Heart in Mr Dombey, that was excessively refreshing.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is devilish little heart in Dombey now, Ma’am,” said +the Major. +</p> + +<p> +“Wretched man!” cried Mrs Skewton, looking at him languidly, +“pray be silent.” +</p> + +<p> +“J. B. is dumb, Ma’am,” said the Major. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey,” pursued Cleopatra, smoothing the rosy hue upon her +cheeks, “accordingly repeated his visit; and possibly finding some +attraction in the simplicity and primitiveness of our tastes—for there is +always a charm in nature—it is so very sweet—became one of our +little circle every evening. Little did I think of the awful responsibility +into which I plunged when I encouraged Mr Dombey—to”— +</p> + +<p> +“To beat up these quarters, Ma’am,” suggested Major Bagstock. +</p> + +<p> +“Coarse person!” said Mrs Skewton, “you anticipate my +meaning, though in odious language.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The agony I have endured,” she said mincingly, “as the truth +has by degrees dawned upon me, has been too exceedingly terrific to dilate +upon. My whole existence is bound up in my sweetest Edith; and to see her +change from day to day—my beautiful pet, who has positively garnered up +her heart since the death of that most delightful creature, Granger—is +the most affecting thing in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton’s world was not a very trying one, if one might judge of it +by the influence of its most affecting circumstance upon her; but this by the +way. +</p> + +<p> +“Edith,” simpered Mrs Skewton, “who is the perfect pearl of +my life, is said to resemble me. I believe we are alike.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is one man in the world who never will admit that anyone resembles +you, Ma’am,” said the Major; “and that man’s name is +Old Joe Bagstock.” +</p> + +<p> +Cleopatra made as if she would brain the flatterer with her fan, but relenting, +smiled upon him and proceeded: +</p> + +<p> +“If my charming girl inherits any advantages from me, wicked one!”: +the Major was the wicked one: “she inherits also my foolish nature. She +has great force of character—mine has been said to be immense, though I +don’t believe it—but once moved, she is susceptible and sensitive +to the last extent. What are my feelings when I see her pining! They destroy +me. +</p> + +<p> +The Major advancing his double chin, and pursing up his blue lips into a +soothing expression, affected the profoundest sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +“The confidence,” said Mrs Skewton, “that has subsisted +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“J. B.“s own sentiment,” observed the Major, “expressed +by J. B. fifty thousand times!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not interrupt, rude man!” said Cleopatra. “What are my +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Major left his chair, and took one nearer to the little table. +</p> + +<p> +“From day to day I see this, my dear Major,” proceeded Mrs Skewton. +“From day to day I feel this. From hour to hour I reproach myself for +that excess of faith and trustfulness which has led to such distressing +consequences; and almost from minute to minute, I hope that Mr Dombey may +explain himself, and relieve the torture I undergo, which is extremely wearing. +But nothing happens, my dear Major; I am the slave of remorse—take care +of the coffee-cup: you are so very awkward—my darling Edith is an altered +being; and I really don’t see what is to be done, or what good creature I +can advise with.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Advise with Joe, Ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, you aggravating monster,” said Cleopatra, giving one hand to +the Major, and tapping his knuckles 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?” +</p> + +<p> +The Major laughed, and kissed the hand she had bestowed upon him, and laughed +again immensely. +</p> + +<p> +“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 would you advise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, Ma’am?” chuckled the +Major, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“Mysterious creature!” returned Cleopatra, bringing her fan to bear +upon the Major’s nose. “How can we marry him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, Ma’am, I say?” chuckled +the Major again. +</p> + +<p> +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 exceedingly 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey, Ma’am,” said the Major, “is a great +catch.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mercenary wretch!” cried Cleopatra, with a little shriek, +“I am shocked.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Dombey, Ma’am,” pursued the Major, thrusting forward his +head, and distending his eyes, “is in earnest. Joseph says it; Bagstock +knows it; J. B. keeps him to the mark. Leave Dombey to himself, Ma’am. +Dombey is safe, Ma’am. Do as you have done; do no more; and trust to J. +B. for the end.” +</p> + +<p> +“You really think so, my dear Major?” returned Cleopatra, who had +eyed him very cautiously, and very searchingly, in spite of her listless +bearing. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure of it, Ma’am,” rejoined the Major. “Cleopatra the +peerless, and her Antony Bagstock, will often speak of this, triumphantly, when +sharing the elegance and wealth of Edith Dombey’s establishment. +Dombey’s right-hand man, Ma’am,” said the Major, stopping +abruptly in a chuckle, and becoming serious, “has arrived.” +</p> + +<p> +“This morning?” said Cleopatra. +</p> + +<p> +“This morning, Ma’am,” returned the Major. “And +Dombey’s anxiety for his arrival, Ma’am, is to be +referred—take J. B.“s word for this; for Joe is devilish +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A charming quality,” lisped Mrs Skewton; “reminding one of +dearest Edith.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Ma’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 +Castle, and to Kenilworth, to-morrow, to be preceded by a breakfast with us. I +undertook the delivery of this invitation. Will you honour us so far, +Ma’am?” said the Major, swelling with shortness of breath and +slyness, as he produced a note, addressed to the Honourable Mrs Skewton, by +favour 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 recalled to the remembrance of Mrs Granger. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” said Cleopatra, suddenly, “Edith!” +</p> + +<p> +The loving mother can scarcely be described as resuming her insipid and +affected air when she made this exclamation; for she had never cast it off; nor +was it likely that she ever would or could, in any other place than in the +grave. But hurriedly dismissing whatever shadow of earnestness, or faint +confession of a purpose, laudable or wicked, that her face, or voice, or +manner: had, for the moment, betrayed, she lounged upon the couch, her most +insipid and most languid self again, as Edith entered the room. +</p> + +<p> +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 from a window, and sat down there, looking out. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest Edith,” said Mrs Skewton, “where on earth have +you been? I have wanted you, my love, most sadly.” +</p> + +<p> +“You said you were engaged, and I stayed away,” she answered, +without turning her head. +</p> + +<p> +“It was cruel to Old Joe, Ma’am,” said the Major in his +gallantry. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Major Bagstock, my darling Edith,” drawled her mother, “who +is generally the most useless and disagreeable creature in the world: as you +know—” +</p> + +<p> +“It is surely not worthwhile, Mama,” said Edith, looking round, +“to observe these forms of speech. We are quite alone. We know each +other.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling girl,” she began again. +</p> + +<p> +“Not woman yet?” said Edith, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“How very odd you are today, my dear! Pray let me say, my love, that +Major Bagstock has brought the kindest of notes from Mr Dombey, proposing that +we should breakfast with him to-morrow, and ride to Warwick and Kenilworth. +Will you go, Edith?” +</p> + +<p> +“Will I go!” she repeated, turning very red, and breathing quickly +as she looked round at her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you would, my own, observed the latter carelessly. “It is, +as you say, quite a form to ask. Here is Mr Dombey’s letter, +Edith.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. I have no desire to read it,” was her answer. +</p> + +<p> +“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 movement, and no answer, Mrs Skewton begged the Major to wheel +her little table nearer, and to set open the desk it contained, and to take out +pen and paper for her; all which congenial offices of gallantry the Major +discharged, with much submission and devotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Your regards, Edith, my dear?” said Mrs Skewton, pausing, pen in +hand, at the postscript. +</p> + +<p> +“What you will, Mama,” she answered, without turning her head, and +with supreme indifference. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton wrote what she would, without seeking for any more explicit +directions, and handed her letter to the Major, who receiving it as a precious +charge, made a show of laying it near his heart, but was fain to put it in the +pocket of his pantaloons on account of the insecurity of his waistcoat. The +Major then took a very polished and chivalrous farewell of both ladies, which +the elder one acknowledged in her usual manner, while the younger, sitting with +her face addressed to the window, bent her head so slightly that it would have +been a greater compliment to the Major to have made no sign at all, and to have +left him to infer that he had not been heard or thought of. +</p> + +<p> +“As to alteration in her, Sir,” mused the Major on his way back; on +which expedition—the afternoon being sunny and hot—he ordered the +Native and the light baggage to the front, and walked in the shadow of that +expatriated prince: “as to alteration, Sir, and pining, and so forth, +that won’t go down with Joseph Bagstock, None of that, Sir. It +won’t do here. But as to there being something of a division between +’em—or a gulf as the mother calls it—damme, Sir, that seems +true enough. And it’s odd enough! Well, Sir!” panted the Major, +“Edith Granger and Dombey are well matched; let ’em fight it out! +Bagstock backs the winner!” +</p> + +<p> +The Major, by saying these latter words aloud, in the vigour of his thoughts, +caused the unhappy Native to stop, and turn round, in the belief that he was +personally addressed. Exasperated to the last degree by this act of +insubordination, the Major (though he was swelling with enjoyment of his own +humour), at the moment of its occurrence instantly thrust his cane among the +Native’s ribs, and continued to stir him up, at short intervals, all the +way to the hotel. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was the Major less exasperated as he dressed for dinner, during which +operation the dark servant underwent the pelting of a shower of miscellaneous +objects, varying in size from a boot to a hairbrush, and including everything +that came within his master’s reach. For the Major plumed himself on +having the Native in a perfect state of drill, and visited the least departure +from strict discipline with this kind of fatigue duty. Add to this, that he +maintained the Native about his person as a counter-irritant against the gout, +and all other vexations, mental as well as bodily; and the Native would appear +to have earned his pay—which was not large. +</p> + +<p> +At length, the Major having disposed of all the missiles 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 being dressed, and finding himself in +a brisk flow of spirits after this exercise, went downstairs to enliven +“Dombey” and his right-hand man. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir!” said the Major. “How have you passed the time +since I had the happiness of meeting you? Have you walked at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“A saunter of barely half an hour’s duration,” returned +Carker. “We have been so much occupied.” +</p> + +<p> +“Business, eh?” said the Major. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +communicative,” he said, breaking off, and speaking in a charming tone of +frankness—“but I feel quite confidential with you, Major +Bagstock.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do me honour, Sir,” returned the Major. “You may +be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, then,” pursued Carker, “that I have not found +my friend—our friend, I ought rather to call him—” +</p> + +<p> +“Meaning Dombey, Sir?” cried the Major. “You see me, Mr +Carker, standing here! J. B.?” +</p> + +<p> +He was puffy enough to see, and blue enough; and Mr Carker intimated the he had +that pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you see a man, Sir, who would go through fire and water to serve +Dombey,” returned Major Bagstock. +</p> + +<p> +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 today, as usual?” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” observed the delighted Major. +</p> + +<p> +“I have found him a little abstracted, and with his attention disposed to +wander,” said Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, Sir,” cried the Major, “there’s a lady in the +case.” +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +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 ears in love with her, Sir, and that it would be a good match on both +sides; for she had beauty, blood, and talent, and Dombey had fortune; and what +more could any couple have? Hearing Mr Dombey’s footsteps without, the +Major cut himself short by saying, that Mr Carker would see her tomorrow +morning, and would judge for himself; and between his mental excitement, and +the exertion of saying all this in wheezy whispers, the Major sat gurgling in +the throat and watering at the eyes, until dinner was ready. +</p> + +<p> +The Major, like some other noble animals, exhibited himself to great advantage +at feeding-time. On this occasion, he shone resplendent at one end of the +table, supported by the milder lustre of Mr Dombey at the other; while Carker +on one side lent his ray to either light, or suffered it to merge into both, as +occasion arose. +</p> + +<p> +During the first course or two, the Major was usually grave; for the Native, in +obedience to general orders, secretly issued, collected every sauce and cruet +round him, and gave him a great deal to do, in taking out the stoppers, and +mixing up the contents in his plate. Besides which, the Native had private +zests and flavours on a side-table, with which the Major daily scorched +himself; to say nothing of strange machines out of which he spirited unknown +liquids into the Major’s drink. But on this occasion, Major Bagstock, +even amidst these many occupations, found time to be social; and his sociality +consisted in excessive slyness for the behoof of Mr Carker, and the betrayal of +Mr Dombey’s state of mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey,” said the Major, “you don’t eat; what’s +the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” returned the gentleman, “I am doing very well; I +have no great appetite today.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 today at luncheon. I +can answer for one of ’em, at least: I won’t say which.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the Major winked at Carker, and became so frightfully sly, that his dark +attendant was obliged to pat him on the back, without orders, or he would +probably have disappeared under the table. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“To angelic Edith!” cried the smiling Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Edith, by all means,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +The entrance of the waiters with new dishes caused the Major to be slyer yet, +but in a more serious vein. “For though among ourselves, Joe Bagstock +mingles jest and earnest on this subject, Sir,” said the Major, laying +his finger on his lips, and speaking half apart to Carker, “he holds that +name too sacred to be made the property of these fellows, or of any fellows. +Not a word, Sir, while they are here!” +</p> + +<p> +This was respectful and becoming on the Major’s part, and Mr Dombey +plainly felt it so. Although embarrassed in his own frigid way, by the +Major’s allusions, Mr Dombey had no objection to such rallying, it was +clear, but rather courted it. Perhaps the Major had been pretty near the truth, +when he had divined that morning that the great man who was too haughty +formally to consult with, or confide in his prime minister, on such a matter, +yet wished him to be fully possessed of it. Let this be how it may, he often +glanced at Mr Carker while the Major plied his light artillery, and seemed +watchful of its effect upon him. +</p> + +<p> +But the Major, having secured an attentive listener, and a smiler who had not +his match in all the world—“in short, a devilish intelligent and +able fellow,” as he often afterwards declared—was not going to let +him off with a little slyness personal to Mr Dombey. Therefore, on the removal +of the cloth, the Major developed himself as a choice spirit in the broader and +more comprehensive range of narrating regimental stories, and cracking +regimental jokes, which he did with such prodigal exuberance, that Carker was +(or feigned to be) quite exhausted with laughter and admiration: while Mr +Dombey looked on over his starched cravat, like the Major’s proprietor, +or like a stately showman who was glad to see his bear dancing well. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I play picquet a little,” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Backgammon, perhaps?” observed the Major, hesitating. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I play backgammon a little too,” replied the man of teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Carker plays at all games, I believe,” said Mr Dombey, laying +himself on a sofa like a man of wood, without a hinge or a joint in him; +“and plays them well.” +</p> + +<p> +In sooth, he played the two in question, to such perfection, that the Major was +astonished, and asked him, at random, if he played chess. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0352m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Gad, Sir!” said the Major, staring, “you are a contrast +to Dombey, who plays nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was a faint blur on the surface of the mirror in Mr Carker’s +chamber, and its reflection was, perhaps, a false one. But it showed, that +night, the image of a man, who saw, in his fancy, a crowd of people slumbering +on the ground at his feet, like the poor Native at his master’s door: who +picked his way among them: looking down, maliciously enough: but trod upon no +upturned face—as yet. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br /> +Deeper Shadows</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r +Carker the Manager rose with the lark, 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 +reverie, and looked round with a sudden smile, as courteous and as soft as if +he had had numerous observers to propitiate; nor did he relapse, after being +thus awakened; but clearing his face, like one who bethought himself that it +might otherwise wrinkle and tell tales, went smiling on, as if for practice. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps with an eye to first impressions, Mr Carker was very carefully and +trimly dressed, that morning. Though always somewhat formal, in his dress, in +imitation of the great man whom he served, he stopped short of the extent of Mr +Dombey’s stiffness: at once perhaps because he knew it to be ludicrous, +and because in doing so he found another means of expressing his sense of the +difference and distance between them. Some people quoted him indeed, in this +respect, as a pointed commentary, and not a flattering one, on his icy +patron—but the world is prone to misconstruction, and Mr Carker was not +accountable for its bad propensity. +</p> + +<p> +Clean and florid: with his light complexion, fading as it were, in the sun, and +his dainty step enhancing the softness of the turf: Mr Carker the Manager +strolled about meadows, and green lanes, and glided among avenues of trees, +until it was time to return to breakfast. Taking a nearer way back, Mr Carker +pursued it, airing his teeth, and said aloud as he did so, “Now to see +the second Mrs Dombey!” +</p> + +<p> +He had strolled beyond the town, and re-entered it by a pleasant walk, where +there was a deep shade of leafy trees, and where there were a few benches here +and there for those who chose to rest. It not being a place of general resort +at any hour, and wearing at that time of the still morning the air of being +quite deserted and retired, Mr Carker had it, or thought he had it, all to +himself. So, with the whim of an idle man, to whom there yet remained twenty +minutes for reaching a destination easily able 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. +</p> + +<p> +But he found he was mistaken in supposing there was no one in the grove, for as +he softly rounded the trunk of one large tree, on which the obdurate bark was +knotted and overlapped like the hide of a rhinoceros or some kindred monster of +the ancient days before the Flood, he saw an unexpected figure sitting on a +bench near at hand, about which, in another moment, he would have wound the +chain he was making. +</p> + +<p> +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 +raging. For as she sat looking down, she held a corner of her under lip within +her mouth, her bosom heaved, her nostril quivered, her head trembled, indignant +tears were on her cheek, and her foot was set upon the moss as though she would +have crushed it into nothing. And yet almost the self-same glance that showed +him this, showed him the self-same 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. +</p> + +<p> +A withered and very ugly old woman, dressed not so much like a gipsy 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady,” said the old woman, +munching with her jaws, as if the Death’s Head beneath her yellow skin +were impatient to get out. +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell it for myself,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +“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 your +face.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” returned the lady, passing her with a dark smile, and a +proud step. “I knew it before. +</p> + +<p> +“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 to tell it, then? Give me something, or I’ll call +it after you!” croaked the old woman, passionately. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You give me something then, or I’ll call it after her!” +screamed the old woman, throwing up her arms, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“After me, old lady!” returned the Manager, putting his hand in his +pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the woman, steadfast in her scrutiny, and holding out +her shrivelled hand. “I know!” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you know?” demanded Carker, throwing her a shilling. +“Do you know who the handsome lady is?” +</p> + +<p> +Munching like that 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 shilling up, and going backwards, like a crab, or like a heap of crabs: for +her alternately expanding and contracting hands might have represented two of +that species, and her creeping face, some half-a-dozen more: crouched on the +veinous root of an old tree, pulled out a short black pipe from within the +crown of her bonnet, lighted it with a match, and smoked in silence, looking +fixedly at her questioner. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker laughed, and turned upon his heel. +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” said the old woman. “One child dead, and one child +living: one wife dead, and one wife coming. Go and meet her!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What was that you said, Bedlamite?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +The woman mumbled, and chattered, and smoked, and still pointed before him; but +remained silent Muttering a farewell 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Preparations for a choice repast were completed, he found, at the hotel; and Mr +Dombey, and the Major, and the breakfast, were awaiting the ladies. Individual +constitution has much to do with the development of such facts, no doubt; but +in this case, appetite carried it 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 was thrown open by the Native, +and, after a pause, occupied by her languishing along the gallery, a very +blooming, but not very youthful lady, appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mr Dombey,” said the lady, “I am afraid we are late, +but Edith has been out already looking for a favourable point of view for a +sketch, and kept me waiting for her. Falsest of Majors,” giving him her +little finger, “how do you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Skewton,” said Mr Dombey, “let me gratify my friend +Carker:” Mr Dombey unconsciously emphasised the word friend, as saying +‘no really; I do allow him to take credit for that distinction:’ +“by presenting him to you. You have heard me mention Mr Carker.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am charmed, I am sure,” said Mrs Skewton, graciously. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“Why, where, for Heaven’s sake, is Edith?” exclaimed 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”— +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey was already gone to seek her. Next moment he returned, bearing on his +arm the same elegantly dressed and very handsome lady whom Mr Carker had +encountered underneath the trees. +</p> + +<p> +“Carker—” began Mr Dombey. But their recognition of each +other was so manifest, that Mr Dombey stopped surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“I am obliged to the gentleman,” said Edith, with a stately bend, +“for sparing me some annoyance from an importunate beggar just +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am obliged to my good fortune,” said Mr Carker, bowing low, +“for the opportunity of rendering so slight a service to one whose +servant I am proud to be.” +</p> + +<p> +As her eye rested on him for an instant, and then lighted on the ground, he saw +in its bright and searching glance a suspicion that he had not come up at the +moment of his interference, but had secretly observed her sooner. As he saw +that, she saw in his eye that her distrust was not without foundation. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Edith designed no revision of this extraordinary quotation from the Koran, but +Mr Dombey felt it necessary to offer a few polite remarks. +</p> + +<p> +“It gives me great pleasure,” said Mr Dombey, with cumbrous +gallantry, “that a gentleman so nearly connected with myself as Carker +is, should have had the honour and happiness of rendering the least assistance +to Mrs Granger.” Mr Dombey bowed to her. “But it gives me some +pain, and it occasions me to be really envious of Carker;” he +unconsciously laid stress on these words, as sensible that they must appear to +involve a very surprising proposition; “envious of Carker, that I had not +that honour and that happiness myself.” Mr Dombey bowed again. Edith, +saving for a curl of her lip, was motionless. +</p> + +<p> +“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 honour and happiness of +shooting all such beggars through the head without being brought to book for +it. But here’s an arm for Mrs Granger if she’ll do J. B. the honour +to accept it; and the greatest service Joe can render you, Ma’am, just +now, is, to lead you into table!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 today. It is the most +enchanting expedition!” +</p> + +<p> +“Any expedition would be enchanting in such society,” returned +Carker; “but I believe it is, in itself, full of interest.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 exquisite. Don’t you dote upon the +Middle Ages, Mr Carker?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very much, indeed,” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Such charming times!” cried Cleopatra. “So full of faith! So +vigorous and forcible! So picturesque! So perfectly removed from commonplace! +Oh dear! If they would only leave us a little more of the poetry of existence +in these terrible days!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We are dreadfully real, Mr Carker,” said Mrs Skewton; “are +we not?” +</p> + +<p> +Few people had less reason to complain of their reality than Cleopatra, who had +as much that was false about her as could well go to the composition of anybody +with a real individual existence. But Mr Carker commiserated our reality +nevertheless, and agreed that we were very hardly used in that regard. +</p> + +<p> +“Pictures at the Castle, quite divine!” said Cleopatra. “I +hope you dote upon pictures?” +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, Mrs Skewton,” said Mr Dombey, with solemn +encouragement of his Manager, “that Carker has a very good taste for +pictures; quite a natural power of appreciating them. He is a very creditable +artist himself. He will be delighted, I am sure, with Mrs Granger’s taste +and skill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Damme, Sir!” cried Major Bagstock, “my opinion is, that +you’re the admirable Carker, and can do anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” smiled Carker, with humility, “you are much too +sanguine, Major Bagstock. I can do very little. But Mr Dombey is so generous in +his estimation of any trivial accomplishment a man like myself may find it +almost necessary to acquire, and to which, in his very different sphere, he is +far superior, that—” Mr Carker shrugged his shoulders, deprecating +further praise, and said no more. +</p> + +<p> +All this time, Edith never raised her eyes, unless to glance towards her mother +when that lady’s fervent spirit shone forth in words. But as Carker +ceased, she looked at Mr Dombey for a moment. For a moment only; but with a +transient gleam of scornful wonder on her face, not lost on one observer, who +was smiling round the board. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey caught the dark eyelash in its descent, and took the opportunity of +arresting it. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Several times.” +</p> + +<p> +“The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no; not at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest Edith,” said Mrs +Skewton. “He has been to Warwick Castle fifty times, if he has been there +once; yet if he came to Leamington to-morrow—I wish he would, dear +angel!—he would make his fifty-second visit next day.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are all enthusiastic, are we not, Mama?” said Edith, with a +cold smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Too much so, for our peace, perhaps, my dear,” returned her +mother; “but we won’t complain. Our own emotions are our +recompense. If, as your cousin Feenix says, the sword wears out the +what’s-its-name—” +</p> + +<p> +“The scabbard, perhaps,” said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly—a little too fast, it is because it is bright and glowing, +you know, my dearest love.” +</p> + +<p> +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 affection on +her darling child. +</p> + +<p> +Edith had turned her face towards Mr Dombey when he first addressed her, and +had remained in that attitude, while speaking to her mother, and while her +mother spoke to her, as though offering him her attention, if he had anything +more to say. There was something in the manner of this simple courtesy: almost +defiant, and giving it the character of being rendered on compulsion, or as a +matter of traffic to which she was a reluctant party again not lost upon that +same observer who was smiling round the board. It set him thinking of her as he +had first seen her, when she had believed herself to be alone among the trees. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker cantered behind the carriage at the distance of a hundred yards or +so, and watched it, during all the ride, as if he were a cat, indeed, and its +four occupants, mice. Whether he looked to one side of the road, or to the +other—over distant landscape, with its smooth undulations, wind-mills, +corn, grass, bean fields, wild-flowers, farm-yards, hayricks, and the spire +among the wood—or upwards in the sunny air, where 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 onward, where the overhanging trees formed aisles +and arches, dim with the softened light that steeped through leaves—one +corner of his eye was ever on the formal head of Mr Dombey, addressed towards +him, and the feather in the bonnet, drooping so neglectfully and scornfully +between them; much as he had seen the haughty eyelids droop; not least so, when +the face met that now fronting it. Once, and once only, did his wary glance +release these objects; and that was, when a leap over a low hedge, and a gallop +across a field, enabled him to anticipate the carriage coming by the road, and +to be standing ready, at the journey’s end, to hand the ladies out. Then, +and but then, he met her glance for an instant in her first surprise; but when +he touched her, in alighting, with his soft white hand, it overlooked him +altogether as before. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton was bent on taking charge of Mr Carker herself, and showing him the +beauties of the Castle. She was determined to have his arm, and the +Major’s too. It would do that incorrigible creature: who was the most +barbarous infidel in point of poetry: good to be in such company. This chance +arrangement left Mr Dombey at liberty to escort Edith: which he did: stalking +before them through the apartments with a gentlemanly solemnity. +</p> + +<p> +“Those darling byegone times, Mr Carker,” said Cleopatra, +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we have fallen off deplorably,” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +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 Dombey and Edith. With all their conversational endowments, they +spoke somewhat distractedly, and at random, in consequence. +</p> + +<p> +“We have no Faith left, positively,” said Mrs Skewton, advancing +her shrivelled ear; for Mr Dombey was saying something to Edith. “We have +no Faith in the dear old Barons, who were the most delightful +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I admire him very much,” said Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“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 benevolent chin!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +As the smiling gentleman thus spake, he pointed through a doorway to where Mr +Dombey and Edith were standing alone in the centre of another room. +</p> + +<p> +They were not interchanging a word or a look. Standing together, arm in arm, +they had the appearance of being more divided than if seas had 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 of humanity in all creation. He, self-important, unbending, +formal, austere. She, lovely and graceful, in 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 mockery of such a couple coming to God’s altar. Quiet +waters in landscapes, with the sun reflected in their depths, asked, if better +means of escape were not at hand, was there no 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. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, Mrs 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, overhearing, looked round, and +flushed indignant scarlet to her hair. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest Edith knows I was admiring her!” said Cleopatra, +tapping her, almost timidly, on the back with her parasol. “Sweet +pet!” +</p> + +<p> +Again Mr Carker saw the strife he had witnessed so unexpectedly among the +trees. Again he saw the haughty languor and indifference come over it, and hide +it like a cloud. +</p> + +<p> +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 +understand the hint, and advancing quickly, with her two cavaliers, kept near +her daughter from that time. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker now, having nothing to distract his attention, began to discourse +upon the pictures and to select the best, and point them out to Mr Dombey: +speaking with his usual familiar recognition of Mr Dombey’s greatness, +and rendering homage by adjusting his eye-glass for him, or finding out the +right place in his catalogue, or holding his stick, or the like. These services +did not so much originate with Mr Carker, in truth, as with Mr Dombey himself, +who was apt to assert his chieftainship by saying, with subdued authority, and +in an easy way—for him—“Here, Carker, have the goodness to +assist me, will you?” which the smiling gentleman always did with +pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +They made the tour of the pictures, the walls, crow’s nest, and so forth; +and as they were still one little party, and the Major was rather in the shade: +being sleepy during the process of digestion: Mr Carker became communicative +and agreeable. At first, he addressed himself for the most part to Mrs Skewton; +but as that sensitive lady was in such 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 +behaviour very much: deeming it as well that somebody should talk, and thinking +that his remarks, which were, as one might say, a branch of the parent +establishment, might amuse Mrs Granger. Mr Carker, who possessed an excellent +discretion, never took the liberty of addressing that lady, direct; but she +seemed to listen, though she never looked at him; and once or twice, when he +was emphatic in his peculiar humility, the twilight smile stole over her face, +not as a light, but as a deep black shadow. +</p> + +<p> +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 neighbourhood. Mr Dombey +ceremoniously observed of one of these, that a sketch, however slight, from the +fair hand of Mrs Granger, would be a remembrance to him of that agreeable day: +though he wanted no artificial remembrance, he was sure (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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am afraid I trouble you too much,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“By no means. Where would you wish it taken from?” she answered, +turning to him with the same enforced attention as before. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, with another bow, which cracked the starch in his cravat, would beg +to leave that to the Artist. +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather you chose for yourself,” said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose then,” said Mr Dombey, “we say from here. It appears +a good spot for the purpose, or—Carker, what do you think?” +</p> + +<p> +There happened to be in the foreground, at some little distance, a grove of +trees, not unlike that in which Mr Carker had made his chain of footsteps in +the morning, and with a seat under one tree, greatly resembling, in the general +character of its situation, the point where his chain had broken. +</p> + +<p> +“Might I venture to suggest to Mrs Granger,” said Carker, +“that that is an interesting—almost a curious—point of +view?” +</p> + +<p> +She followed the direction of his riding-whip with her eyes, and raised them +quickly to his face. It was the second glance they had exchanged since their +introduction; and would have been exactly like the first, but that its +expression was plainer. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you like that?” said Edith to Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be charmed,” said Mr Dombey to Edith. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My pencils are all pointless,” she said, stopping and turning them +over. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker rode up close to the carriage-door on Mrs Granger’s side, and +letting the rein fall on his horse’s neck, took the pencils from her hand +with a smile and a bow, and sat in the saddle leisurely mending them. Having +done so, he begged to be allowed to hold them, and to hand them to her as they +were required; and thus Mr Carker, with many commendations of Mrs +Granger’s extraordinary skill—especially in +trees—remained—close at her side, looking over the drawing as she +made it. Mr Dombey in the meantime stood bolt upright in the carriage like a +highly respectable ghost, looking on too; while Cleopatra and the Major dallied +as two ancient doves might do. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you satisfied with that, or shall I finish it a little more?” +said Edith, showing the sketch to Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey begged that it might not be touched; it was perfection. +</p> + +<p> +“It is most extraordinary,” said Carker, bringing every one of his +red gums to bear upon his praise. “I was not prepared for anything so +beautiful, and so unusual altogether.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Thinking, perhaps, as he rode, that even this trivial sketch had been made and +delivered to its owner, as if it had been bargained for and bought. Thinking, +perhaps, that although she had assented with such perfect readiness to his +request, her haughty face, bent over the drawing, or glancing at the distant +objects represented in it, had been the face of a proud woman, engaged in a +sordid and miserable transaction. Thinking, 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. +</p> + +<p> +A stroll among the haunted ruins of Kenilworth, and more rides to more points +of view: most of which, Mrs 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 evening, to hear some of Edith’s music; and the +three gentlemen repaired to their hotel to dinner. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 played +by Edith to Mr Dombey’s order, as it were, in the same uncompromising +way. As thus. +</p> + +<p> +“Edith, my dearest love,” said Mrs Skewton, half an hour after tea, +“Mr Dombey is dying to hear you, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey has life enough left to say so for himself, Mama, I have no +doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be immensely obliged,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you wish?” +</p> + +<p> +“Piano?” hesitated Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever you please. You have only to choose.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, she began with the piano. It was the same with the harp; the same +with her singing; the same with the selection of the pieces that she sang and +played. Such frigid and constrained, yet prompt and pointed acquiescence with +the wishes he imposed upon her, and on no one else, was sufficiently remarkable +to penetrate through all the mysteries of picquet, and impress itself on Mr +Carker’s keen attention. Nor did he lose sight of the fact that Mr Dombey +was evidently proud of his power, and liked to show it. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, Mr Carker played so well—some games with the Major, and +some with Cleopatra, whose vigilance of eye in respect of Mr Dombey and Edith +no lynx could have surpassed—that he even heightened his 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 far from being the last +time they would meet. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” said Mr Carker, with an expressive look at the couple +in the distance, as he drew towards the door, following the Major. “I +think so.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, who had taken a stately leave of Edith, bent, or made some approach +to a bend, over Cleopatra’s couch, and said, in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“I have requested Mrs Granger’s permission to call on her to-morrow +morning—for a purpose—and she has appointed twelve o’clock. +May I hope to have the pleasure of finding you at home, Madam, +afterwards?” +</p> + +<p> +Cleopatra was so much fluttered and moved, by hearing this, of course, +incomprehensible speech, that she could only shut her eyes, and shake her head, +and give Mr Dombey her hand; which Mr Dombey, not exactly knowing what to do +with, dropped. +</p> + +<p> +“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 honour of ourselves and Carker.” With this, the Major +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Thus they remained for a long hour, without a word, until Mrs Skewton’s +maid appeared, according to custom, to prepare her gradually for night. At +night, she should have been a skeleton, with dart and hour-glass, rather than a +woman, this attendant; for her touch was as the touch of Death. The painted +object shrivelled underneath her hand; the form collapsed, the hair dropped +off, the arched dark eyebrows changed to scanty tufts of grey; the pale lips +shrunk, the skin became cadaverous and loose; an old, worn, yellow, nodding +woman, with red eyes, alone remained in Cleopatra’s place, huddled up, +like a slovenly bundle, in a greasy flannel gown. +</p> + +<p> +The very voice was changed, as it addressed Edith, when they were alone again. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you tell me,” it said sharply, “that he is +coming here to-morrow by appointment?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you know it,” returned Edith, “Mother.” +</p> + +<p> +The mocking emphasis she laid on that one word! +</p> + +<p> +“You know he has bought me,” she resumed. “Or that he will, +to-morrow. He has considered of his bargain; he has shown it to his friend; he +is even rather proud of it; he thinks that it will suit him, and may be had +sufficiently cheap; and he will buy to-morrow. God, that I have lived for this, +and that I feel it!” +</p> + +<p> +Compress into one handsome face the conscious self-abasement, and the burning +indignation of a hundred women, strong in passion and in pride; and there it +hid itself with two white shuddering arms. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” returned the angry mother. “Haven’t +you from a child—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 display I learnt You gave +birth to a woman. Look upon her. She is in her pride tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +And as she spoke, she struck her hand upon her beautiful bosom, as though she +would have beaten down herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at me,” she said, “who have never known what it is to +have an honest heart, and love. Look at me, taught to scheme and plot when +children play; and married in my youth—an old age of design—to one +for whom I had no feeling but indifference. Look at me, whom he left a widow, +dying before his inheritance descended to him—a judgment on you! well +deserved!—and tell me what has been my life for ten years since.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have been making every effort to endeavour to secure to you a good +establishment,” rejoined her mother. “That has been your life. And +now you have got it.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no slave in a market: there is no horse in a fair: so shown and +offered and examined and paraded, Mother, as I have been, for ten shameful +years,” cried Edith, with a burning brow, and the same bitter emphasis on +the one word. “Is it not so? Have I been made the bye-word of all kinds +of men? Have fools, have profligates, have boys, have dotards, dangled after +me, and one by one rejected me, and fallen off, because you were too plain with +all your cunning: yes, and too true, with all those false pretences: until we +have almost come to be notorious? The licence of look and touch,” she +said, with flashing eyes, “have I submitted to it, in half the places of +resort upon the map of England? Have I been hawked and vended here and there, +until the last grain of self-respect is dead within me, and I loathe myself? +Has been my late childhood? I had none before. Do not tell me that I had, +tonight of all nights in my life!” +</p> + +<p> +“You might have been well married,” said her mother, “twenty +times at least, Edith, if you had given encouragement enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“No! Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as I well deserve to be,” +she answered, raising her head, and trembling in her energy of shame and stormy +pride, “shall take me, as this man does, with no art of mine put forth to +lure him. He sees me at the auction, and he thinks it well to buy me. Let him! +When he came to view me—perhaps to bid—he required to see the roll +of my accomplishments. I gave it to him. When he would have me show one of +them, to justify his purchase to his men, I require of him to say which he +demands, and I exhibit it. I will do no more. He makes the purchase of his own +will, and with his own sense of its worth, and the power of his money; and I +hope it may never disappoint him. I have not vaunted and pressed the bargain; +neither have you, so far as I have been able to prevent you. +</p> + +<p> +“You talk strangely tonight, Edith, to your own Mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems so to me; stranger to me than you,” said Edith. +“But my education was completed long ago. I am too old now, and have +fallen too low, by degrees, to take a new course, and to stop 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, with a curled lip, “So, as we +are genteel and poor, I am content that we should be made rich by these means; +all I say is, I have kept the only purpose I have had the strength to +form—I had almost said the power, with you at my side, Mother—and +have not tempted this man on.” +</p> + +<p> +“This man! You speak,” said her mother, “as if you hated +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you thought I loved him, did you not?” she answered, stopping +on her way across the room, and looking round. “Shall I tell you,” +she continued, with her eyes fixed on her mother, “who already knows us +thoroughly, and reads us right, and before whom I have even less of +self-respect or confidence than before my own inward self; being so much +degraded by his knowledge of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith suddenly let fall her face, as if it had been stung, and while she +pressed her hands upon it, a terrible tremble crept over her whole frame. It +was quickly gone; and with her usual step, she passed out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +The maid who should have been a skeleton, then reappeared, and giving one arm +to her mistress, who appeared to have taken off her manner with her charms, and +to have put on paralysis with her flannel gown, collected the ashes of +Cleopatra, and carried them away in the other, ready for tomorrow’s +revivification. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br /> +Alterations</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span> o +the day has come at length, Susan,” said Florence to the excellent +Nipper, “when we are going back to our quiet home!” +</p> + +<p> +Susan drew in her breath with an amount of expression not easily described, +further relieving her feelings with a smart cough, answered, “Very quiet +indeed, Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.” +</p> + +<p> +“When I was a child,” said Florence, thoughtfully, and after musing +for some moments, “did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the +trouble to ride down here to speak to me, now three times—three times, I +think, Susan?” +</p> + +<p> +“Three times, Miss,” returned the Nipper. “Once when you was +out a walking with them Sket—” +</p> + +<p> +Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper checked herself. +</p> + +<p> +“With Sir Barnet and his lady, I mean to say, Miss, and the young +gentleman. And two evenings since then.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Miss,” returned her maid, after considering, “I really +couldn’t say I ever did. When your poor dear Ma died, Miss Floy, I was +very new in the family, you see, and my element:” the Nipper bridled, as +opining that her merits had been always designedly extinguished by Mr Dombey: +“was the floor below the attics.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure,” said Florence, still thoughtfully; “you are not +likely to have known who came to the house. I quite forgot.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 make unpleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint at little +Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor thing,” observed Susan, +with composed forbearance, “to habits of intoxication, for which she was +required to leave, and did.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +pardon, Miss Floy, he might easy do, for he never minded anybody else. I knew +that, Pitcher as I might have been.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan Nipper, with an injured remembrance of the nurse before Mrs Richards, +emphasised “Pitcher” strongly. +</p> + +<p> +“And that Mr Carker has not fallen off, Miss,” she pursued, +“but has stood his ground, and kept his credit with your Pa, I know from +what is always said among our people by that Perch, whenever he comes to the +house; and though he’s the weakest weed in the world, Miss Floy, and no +one can have a moment’s patience with the man, he knows what goes on in +the City tolerable well, and says that your Pa does nothing without Mr Carker, +and leaves all to Mr Carker, and acts according to Mr Carker, and has Mr Carker +always at his elbow, and I do believe that he believes (that washiest of +Perches!) that after your Pa, the Emperor of India is the child unborn to Mr +Carker.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Susan,” she said, when that young lady had concluded. +“He is in Papa’s confidence, and is his friend, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +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 confidence 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, and 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 to such +address as his; and Florence had none. True, he had said no more to her than +that there was no news of the ship, and that he feared the worst; but how he +came to know that she was interested in the ship, and why he had the right to +signify his knowledge to her, so insidiously and darkly, troubled Florence very +much. +</p> + +<p> +This conduct on the part of Mr Carker, and her habit of often considering it +with wonder and uneasiness, began to invest him with an uncomfortable +fascination in Florence’s thoughts. A more distinct remembrance 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 tendency to dislike and fear him be a part of that +misfortune in her, which had turned her father’s love adrift, and left +her so alone? She dreaded that it might be; sometimes believed it was: then she +resolved that she would try to conquer this wrong feeling; persuaded herself +that she was honoured and encouraged by the notice of her father’s +friend; and hoped that patient observation of him and trust in him would lead +her bleeding feet along that stony road which ended in her father’s +heart. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, with no one to advise her—for she could advise with no one without +seeming to complain against him—gentle Florence tossed on an uneasy sea +of doubt and hope; and Mr Carker, like a scaly monster of the deep, swam down +below, and kept his shining eye upon her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Of Walter she thought often. Ah! how often, when the night was gloomy, and the +wind was blowing round the house! But hope was strong in her breast. It is so +difficult for the young and ardent, even with such experience as hers, to +imagine youth and ardour quenched like a weak flame, and the bright day of life +merging into night, at noon, that hope was strong yet. Her tears fell +frequently for Walter’s sufferings; but rarely for his supposed death, +and never long. +</p> + +<p> +She had written to the old Instrument-maker, but had received no answer to her +note: which indeed required none. Thus matters stood with Florence on the +morning when she was going home, gladly, to her old secluded life. +</p> + +<p> +Doctor and Mrs Blimber, accompanied (much against his will) by their valued +charge, Master Barnet, were already gone back to Brighton, where that young +gentleman and his fellow-pilgrims to Parnassus were then, no doubt, in the +continual resumption of their studies. The holiday time was past and over; most +of the juvenile guests at the villa had taken their departure; and +Florence’s long visit was come to an end. +</p> + +<p> +There was one guest, however, albeit not resident within the house, who had +been very constant in his attentions to the family, and who still remained +devoted to them. This was Mr Toots, who after renewing, some weeks ago, the +acquaintance he had had the happiness of 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 institution of this equipage, Mr Toots +sounded the Chicken on a hypothetical case, as, supposing the Chicken to be +enamoured of a young lady named Mary, and to have conceived the intention of +starting a boat of his own, what would he 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 exercise of much invention, resolved to call his boat The Toots’s +Joy, as a delicate compliment to Florence, of which no man knowing the parties, +could possibly miss the appreciation. +</p> + +<p> +Stretched on a crimson 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 Barnet’s +garden, and had caused his crew to cut across and across the river at sharp +angles, for his better exhibition to any lookers-out from Sir Barnet’s +windows, and had had such evolutions performed by the Toots’s Joy as had +filled all the neighbouring part of the water-side with astonishment. But +whenever he saw anyone in Sir Barnet’s garden on the brink of the river, +Mr Toots always feigned to be passing there, by a combination of coincidences +of the most singular and unlikely description. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, Toots?” Sir Barnet would say, waving his hand from +the lawn, while the artful Chicken steered close in shore. +</p> + +<p> +“How de do, Sir Barnet?” Mr Toots would answer, “What a +surprising thing that I should see you here!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, instead of that being Sir +Barnet’s house, it were some deserted edifice on the banks of the Nile, +or Ganges. +</p> + +<p> +“I never was so surprised!” Mr Toots would exclaim.—“Is +Miss Dombey there?” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon Florence would appear, perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey,” Toots would cry. +“I called to ask this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you very much!” the pleasant voice of Florence would reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come ashore, Toots?” Sir Barnet would say then. +“Come! you’re in no hurry. Come and see us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s of no consequence, thank you!” Mr Toots would +blushingly rejoin. “I thought Miss Dombey might like to know, +that’s all. Good-bye!” And poor Mr Toots, who was dying to accept +the invitation, but hadn’t the courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, +with an aching heart, and away went the Joy, cleaving the water like an arrow. +</p> + +<p> +The Joy was lying in a state of extraordinary splendour, at the garden steps, +on the morning of Florence’s departure. When she went downstairs to take +leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr Toots awaiting her in the +drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind,” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very much obliged to you,” said Florence, hesitating. +“I really am—but I would rather not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mr Toots. “Good +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you wait and see Lady Skettles?” asked Florence, +kindly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, thank you,” returned Mr Toots, “it’s of no +consequence at all.” +</p> + +<p> +So shy was Mr Toots on such occasions, and so flurried! But Lady Skettles +entering at the moment, Mr Toots was suddenly seized with a passion for asking +her how she did, and hoping she was very well; nor could Mr Toots by any +possibility leave off shaking hands with her, until Sir Barnet appeared: to +whom he immediately clung with the tenacity of desperation. +</p> + +<p> +“We are losing, today, Toots,” said Sir Barnet, turning towards +Florence, “the light of our house, I assure you” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s of no conseq—I mean yes, to be sure,” +faltered the embarrassed Mr Toots. “Good morning!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +It was distressing to Florence to receive the commission, for she felt as if +she were imposing on Sir Barnet by allowing him to believe that a kindness +rendered to her, was rendered to her father. As she could not explain, however, +she bowed her head and thanked him; and again she thought that the dull home, +free from such embarrassments, and such reminders of her sorrow, was her +natural and best retreat. +</p> + +<p> +Such of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at the villa, +came running from within, and from the garden, to say good-bye. They were all +attached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of her. Even the household +were sorry for her going, and the servants came nodding and curtseying round +the carriage door. As Florence looked round on the kind faces, and saw among +them those of Sir Barnet and his lady, and of Mr Toots, who was chuckling and +staring at her from a distance, she was reminded of the night when Paul and she +had come from Doctor Blimber’s: and when the carriage drove away, her +face was wet with tears. +</p> + +<p> +Sorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too; for all 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 farewell reminded +her, besides, of her parting with poor Walter: of his looks and words that +night: and of the gracious blending she had noticed in him, of tenderness for +those he left behind, with courage and high spirit. His little history was +associated with the old house too, and gave it a new claim and hold upon her +heart. +</p> + +<p> +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 ain’t much +in it to boast of, but I wouldn’t have it burnt or pulled down, +neither!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be glad to go through the old rooms, won’t you, +Susan?” said Florence, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Miss,” returned the Nipper, softening more and more towards +the house, as they approached it nearer, “I won’t deny but what I +shall, though I shall hate ’em again, to-morrow, very likely.” +</p> + +<p> +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 sanctuary of such remembrances: although it mouldered, rusted, +and decayed about her: than in a new scene, let its gaiety be what it would. +She welcomed back her old enchanted dream of life, and longed for the old dark +door to close upon her, once again. +</p> + +<p> +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 +distance lessened between them and it, she looked out of her window for the +children over the way. +</p> + +<p> +She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from Susan caused her to turn quickly +round. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Gracious me!” cried Susan, breathless, “where’s +our house!” +</p> + +<p> +“Our house!” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust it out again, drew it in +again as the carriage stopped, and stared at her mistress in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round the house, from the +basement to the roof. Loads of bricks and stones, and heaps of mortar, and +piles of wood, blocked up half the width and length of the broad street at the +side. Ladders were raised against the walls; labourers were climbing up and +down; men were at work upon the steps of the scaffolding; painters and +decorators were busy inside; great rolls of ornamental paper were being +delivered from a cart at the door; an upholsterer’s waggon also stopped +the way; no furniture was to be seen through the gaping and broken windows in +any of the rooms; nothing but workmen, and the implements of their several +trades, swarming from the kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike: +bricklayers, painters, carpenters, masons: hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw, +and trowel: all at work together, in full chorus! +</p> + +<p> +Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if it were, or could be the +right house, until she recognised Towlinson, with a sun-burnt face, standing at +the door to receive her. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing the matter?” inquired Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are great alterations going on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss, great alterations,” said Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and hurried upstairs. The garish +light was in the long-darkened drawing-room and there were steps and platforms, +and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her mother’s picture was gone +with the rest of the moveables, and on the mark where it had been, was scrawled +in chalk, “this room in panel. Green and gold.” The staircase was a +labyrinth of posts and planks like the outside of the house, and a whole +Olympus of plumbers and glaziers was reclining in various attitudes, on the +skylight. Her own room was not yet touched within, but there were beams and +boards raised against it without, baulking 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. +</p> + +<p> +It was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in quest of Florence, found her, +and said, would she go downstairs to her Papa, who wished to speak to her. +</p> + +<p> +“At home! and wishing to speak to me!” cried Florence, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Florence 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. +</p> + +<p> +Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it came into his presence. +One instant, and it would have beat against his breast. +</p> + +<p> +But he was not alone. There were two ladies there; and Florence stopped. +Striving so hard with her emotion, that if her brute friend Di had not burst in +and overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome home—at which one of +the ladies gave a little scream, and that diverted her attention from +herself—she would have swooned upon the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Florence,” said her father, putting out his hand: so stiffly that +it held her off: “how do you do?” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0377m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What dog is that?” said Mr Dombey, displeased. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a dog, Papa—from Brighton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” said Mr Dombey; and a cloud passed over his face, for he +understood her. +</p> + +<p> +“He is very good-tempered,” said Florence, addressing herself with +her natural grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. “He is only +glad to see me. Pray forgive him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Skewton,” said her father, turning to the first, and holding +out his hand, “this is my daughter Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Charming, I am sure,” observed the lady, putting up her glass. +“So natural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence having done so, turned towards the other lady, by whom her father +stood waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“Edith,” said Mr Dombey, “this is my daughter Florence. +Florence, this lady will soon be your Mama.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict of +emotions, among which the tears that name awakened, struggled for a moment with +surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of fear. Then she cried +out, “Oh, Papa, may you be happy! may you be very, very happy all your +life!” and then fell weeping on the lady’s bosom. +</p> + +<p> +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 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go on through the rooms,” said Mr Dombey, “and see +how our workmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +Conservatory: +</p> + +<p> +“Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Edith, my dear!” cried Mrs Skewton, “where are you? Looking +for Mr Dombey somewhere, I know. We are here, my love.” +</p> + +<p> +The beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and pressing her lips once +more upon her face, withdrew hurriedly, and joined them. Florence remained +standing in the same place: happy, sorry, joyful, and in tears, she knew not +how, or how long, but all at once: when her new Mama came back, and took her in +her arms again. +</p> + +<p> +“Florence,” said the lady, hurriedly, and looking into her face +with great earnestness. “You will not begin by hating me?” +</p> + +<p> +“By hating you, Mama?” cried Florence, winding her arm round her +neck, and returning the look. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! Begin by thinking well of me,” said the beautiful lady. +“Begin by believing that I will try to make you happy, and that I am +prepared to love you, Florence. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon. Good-bye! +Don’t stay here, now.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new and beautiful +Mama, how to gain her father’s love; and in her sleep that night, in her +lost old home, her own Mama smiled radiantly upon the hope, and blessed it. +Dreaming Florence! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br /> +The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>iss +Tox, all unconscious of any such rare appearances in connexion with Mr +Dombey’s house, as scaffoldings and ladders, and men with their heads +tied up in pocket-handkerchiefs, glaring in at the windows like flying genii or +strange birds,—having breakfasted one morning at about this eventful +period of time, on her customary viands; to wit, one French roll rasped, one +egg new laid (or warranted to be), and one little pot of tea, wherein was +infused one little silver scoopful of that herb on behalf of Miss Tox, and one +little silver scoopful on behalf of the teapot—a flight of fancy in which +good housekeepers delight; went upstairs to set forth the bird waltz on the +harpsichord, to water and arrange the plants, to dust the nick-nacks, and, +according to her daily custom, to make her little drawing-room the garland of +Princess’s Place. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox endued herself with a 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; 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. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox was slow in coming to the plants, this morning. The weather was warm, +the wind southerly; and there was a sigh of the summer-time in Princess’s +Place, that turned Miss Tox’s thoughts upon the country. The pot-boy +attached to the Princess’s Arms had come out with a can and trickled +water, in a flowering pattern, all over Princess’s Place, and it gave the +weedy ground a fresh scent—quite a growing scent, Miss Tox said. There +was a tiny blink of sun peeping in from the great street round the corner, and +the smoky sparrows hopped over it and back again, brightening as they passed: +or bathed in it, like a stream, and became glorified sparrows, unconnected with +chimneys. Legends in praise of 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 fragrance had a long way +to come, and many counter fragrances to contend with among the dwellings of the +poor (may God reward the worthy gentlemen who stickle for the Plague as part +and parcel of the wisdom of our ancestors, and who do their little best to keep +those dwellings miserable!), yet it was wafted faintly into Princess’s +Place, whispering of Nature and her wholesome air, as such things will, even +unto prisoners and captives, and those who are desolate and oppressed, in very +spite of aldermen and knights to boot: at whose sage nod—and how they +nod!—the rolling world stands still! +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox sat down upon the window-seat, and thought of her good Papa +deceased—Mr Tox, of the Customs Department of the public service; and of +her 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. +</p> + +<p> +Sitting on the window-seat, and looking out upon the sparrows and the blink of +sun, Miss Tox thought likewise of her good Mama deceased—sister to the +owner of the powdered head and pigtail—of her virtues and her rheumatism. +And when a man with bulgy 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. +</p> + +<p> +In her pensive mood, Miss Tox’s thoughts went wandering on Mr +Dombey’s track; probably because the Major had returned home to his +lodgings opposite, and had just bowed to her from his window. What other reason +could Miss Tox have for connecting Mr Dombey with her summer days and dandelion +fetters? Was he more cheerful? thought Miss Tox. Was he reconciled to the +decrees of fate? Would he ever marry again? and if yes, whom? What sort of +person now! +</p> + +<p> +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, +and so coming, at last, to the plants, was very busy with them when Mrs Chick +entered the room. +</p> + +<p> +“How is my sweetest friend!” exclaimed Miss Tox, with open arms. +</p> + +<p> +A little stateliness was mingled with Miss Tox’s sweetest friend’s +demeanour, but she kissed Miss Tox, and said, “Lucretia, thank you, I am +pretty well. I hope you are the same. Hem!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick was labouring under a peculiar little monosyllabic cough; a sort of +primer, or easy introduction to the art of coughing. +</p> + +<p> +“You call very early, and how kind that is, my dear!” pursued Miss +Tox. “Now, have you breakfasted?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Lucretia,” said Mrs Chick, “I have. I took an +early breakfast”—the good lady seemed curious on the subject of +Princess’s Place, and looked all round it as she spoke—“with +my brother, who has come home.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is better, I trust, my love,” faltered Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“He is greatly better, thank you. Hem!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough” remarked Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing,” returned Mrs Chick. “It’s merely +change of weather. We must expect change.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of weather?” asked Miss Tox, in her simplicity. +</p> + +<p> +“Of everything,” returned Mrs Chick. “Of course we must. +It’s a world of change. Anyone would surprise me very much, Lucretia, and +would greatly alter my opinion of their understanding, if they attempted to +contradict or evade what is so perfectly evident. Change!” exclaimed Mrs +Chick, with severe philosophy. “Why, my gracious me, what is there that +does <i>not</i> change! even the silkworm, who I am sure might be supposed not +to trouble itself about such subjects, changes into all sorts of unexpected +things continually.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Louisa,” said the mild Miss Tox, “is ever happy in her +illustrations.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure of it,” returned Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, my dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “but have I +caught sight of the manly form of Mr Chick in the carriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is there,” said Mrs Chick, “but pray leave him there. He +has his newspaper, and would be quite contented for the next two hours. Go on +with your flowers, Lucretia, and allow me to sit here and rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Louisa knows,” observed Miss Tox, “that between friends +like ourselves, any approach to ceremony would be out of the question. +Therefore—” Therefore Miss Tox finished the sentence, not in words +but action; and putting on her gloves again, which she had taken off, and +arming herself once more with her scissors, began to snip and clip among the +leaves with microscopic industry. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox assented, without being particular as to the intelligibility of the +proposition. +</p> + +<p> +“If she’s a strange girl,” said Mrs Chick, “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 undergone, then, what is the reply? That he must make an effort. That he +is bound to make an effort. We have always been a family remarkable for effort. +Paul is at the head of the family; almost the only representative of it +left—for what am I—I am of no consequence—” +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest love,” remonstrated Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick dried her eyes, which were, for the moment, overflowing; and +proceeded: +</p> + +<p> +“And consequently he is more than ever bound to make an effort. And +though his having done so, comes upon me with a sort of shock—for mine is +a very weak and foolish nature; which is anything but a blessing I am sure; I +often wish my heart was a marble slab, or a paving-stone—” +</p> + +<p> +“My sweet Louisa,” remonstrated Miss Tox again. +</p> + +<p> +“Still, it is a triumph to me to know that he is so true to himself, and +to his name of Dombey; although, of course, I always knew he would be. I only +hope,” said Mrs Chick, after a pause, “that she may be worthy of +the name too.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “will it be the least +satisfaction to you, if I venture to observe in reference to that remark, that +I, as a humble individual, think your sweet niece in every way most +promising?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Lucretia?” returned Mrs Chick, with increased +stateliness of manner. “To what remark of mine, my dear, do you +refer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Her being worthy of her name, my love,” replied Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +Lucretia—confidently hope—nothing will occur to disturb. Because, +why should I do anything else? There is no reason; it would be absurd. But I +wish to express myself 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” returned Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mrs Chick shortly and decisively. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, my dear,” rejoined her meek friend; “but I cannot +have understood it. I fear I am dull.” +</p> + +<p> +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 elevated eyebrows at the carpet: +</p> + +<p> +“When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the name, I speak of my +brother Paul’s second wife. I believe 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox left her seat in a hurry, and returned to her plants; clipping among +the stems and leaves, with as little favour as a barber working at so many +pauper heads of hair. +</p> + +<p> +“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 myself. If I had been advised +with, I have no doubt my advice would have been cavalierly received, and +therefore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer it as it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among the plants. Mrs Chick, with +energetic shakings of her own head from time to time, continued to hold forth, +as if in defiance of somebody. +</p> + +<p> +“If my brother Paul had consulted with me, which he sometimes +does—or rather, sometimes used to do; for he will naturally do that no +more now, and this is a circumstance which I regard as a relief from +responsibility,” said Mrs Chick, hysterically, “for I thank Heaven +I am not jealous—” here Mrs Chick again shed tears: “if my +brother Paul had come to me, and had said, ‘Louisa, what kind of +qualities would you advise me to look out for, in a wife?’ I should +certainly have answered, ‘Paul, you must have family, you must have +beauty, you must have dignity, you must have connexion.’ Those are the +words I should have used. You might have led me to the block immediately +afterwards,” said Mrs 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 connexion! There is nobody in the world, +not mad, who could dream of daring to entertain such a preposterous +idea!’” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox stopped clipping; and with her head among the plants, listened +attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox thought there was hope in this exordium, and the +warmth of Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have adopted this course of argument,” pursued the +discreet lady, “because I trust I am not a fool. I make no claim to be +considered a person of superior intellect—though I believe some people +have been extraordinary enough to consider me so; one so little humoured as I +am, would very soon be disabused of any such notion; but I trust I am not a +downright fool. And to tell ME,” said Mrs Chick with ineffable disdain, +“that my brother Paul Dombey could ever contemplate the possibility of +uniting himself to anybody—I don’t care who”—she was +more sharp and emphatic in that short clause than in any other part of her +discourse—“not possessing these requisites, would be to insult what +understanding I have 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.” +</p> + +<p> +In the moment’s silence that ensued, Miss Tox’s scissors gave a +feeble clip or two; but Miss Tox’s face was still invisible, and Miss +Tox’s morning gown was agitated. Mrs Chick looked sideways at her, +through the intervening plants, and went on to say, in a tone of bland +conviction, and as one dwelling on a point of fact that hardly required to be +stated: +</p> + +<p> +“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, however +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 desirable in every point of +view. I have no doubt the mother is a most genteel and elegant creature, and I +have no right whatever to dispute the policy of her living with them: which is +Paul’s affair, not mine—and as to Paul’s choice, herself, I +have only seen her picture yet, but that is beautiful indeed. Her name is +beautiful too,” said Mrs Chick, shaking her head with energy, and +arranging herself in her chair; “Edith is at once uncommon, as it strikes +me, and distinguished. Consequently, Lucretia, I have no doubt you 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 +pleasant attention at various times.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox made no verbal answer, but took up the little watering-pot with a +trembling hand, and looked vacantly round as if considering what article of +furniture would be improved by the contents. The room door opening at this +crisis of Miss Tox’s feelings, she started, laughed aloud, and fell into +the arms of the person entering; happily insensible alike of Mrs Chick’s +indignant countenance and of the Major at his window over the way, who had his +double-barrelled eye-glass in full action, and whose face and figure were +dilated with Mephistophelean joy. +</p> + +<p> +Not so the expatriated Native, amazed supporter of Miss Tox’s swooning +form, who, coming straight upstairs, with a polite inquiry touching Miss +Tox’s health (in exact pursuance of the Major’s malicious +instructions), had accidentally arrived in the very nick of time to catch the +delicate burden in his 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 mental and bodily +distress. +</p> + +<p> +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 that poor lady trickled slowly down upon him the very last +sprinklings of the little watering-pot, as if he were a delicate exotic (which +indeed he was), and might be almost expected to blow while the gentle rain +descended. Mrs Chick, at length recovering sufficient presence of mind to +interpose, commanded him to drop Miss Tox upon the sofa and withdraw; and the +exile promptly obeying, she applied herself to promote Miss Tox’s +recovery. +</p> + +<p> +But none of that gentle concern which usually characterises 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 demeanour. 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 the other proved remedies. +And when, at length, Miss Tox opened her eyes, and gradually became restored to +animation 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0387m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“I am foolish to give way to faintness,” Miss Tox faltered. +“I shall be better presently.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will be better presently, Lucretia!” repeated Mrs Chick, with +exceeding scorn. “Do you suppose I am blind? Do you imagine I am in my +second childhood? No, Lucretia! I am obliged to you!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox directed an imploring, helpless kind of look towards her friend, and +put her handkerchief before her face. +</p> + +<p> +“If anyone had told me this yesterday,” said Mrs Chick, with +majesty, “or even half-an-hour ago, I should have been tempted, I almost +believe, to strike them to the earth. Lucretia Tox, my eyes are opened to you +all at once. The scales:” here Mrs Chick cast down an imaginary pair, +such as are commonly used in 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! to what do you allude so cruelly, my love?” asked Miss Tox, +through her tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Lucretia,” said Mrs Chick, “ask your own heart. I must +entreat you not to address me by any such familiar term as you have just used, +if you please. I have some self-respect left, though you may think +otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Louisa!” cried Miss Tox. “How can you speak to me like +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I speak to you like that?” retorted Mrs Chick, who, in +default of having any particular argument to sustain herself upon, relied +principally on such repetitions for her most withering effects. “Like +that! You may well say like that, indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox sobbed pitifully. +</p> + +<p> +“The idea!” said Mrs Chick, “of your having basked at my +brother’s fireside, like a serpent, and wound yourself, through me, +almost into his confidence, Lucretia, that you 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, Louisa,” urged Miss Tox, “do not say such dreadful +things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dreadful things!” repeated Mrs Chick. “Dreadful things! Is +it not a fact, Lucretia, that you have just now been unable to command your +feelings even before me, whose eyes you had so completely closed?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have made no complaint,” sobbed Miss Tox. “I have said +nothing. If I have been a little overpowered by your news, Louisa, and have +ever had any lingering thought that Mr Dombey was inclined to be particular +towards me, surely you will not condemn me.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is going to say,” said Mrs Chick, addressing herself to the +whole of the furniture, in a comprehensive glance of resignation and appeal, +“She is going to say—I know it—that I have encouraged +her!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t wish to exchange reproaches, dear Louisa,” sobbed +Miss Tox. “Nor do I wish to complain. But, in my own +defence—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“In my own defence,” faltered Miss Tox, “and only in my own +defence against your unkind words, my dear Louisa, I would merely ask you if +you haven’t often favoured such a fancy, and even said it might happen, +for anything we could tell?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is a point,” said Mrs Chick, rising, not as if she were +going to stop at the floor, but as if she were about to soar up, high, into her +native skies, “beyond which endurance becomes ridiculous, if not +culpable. I can bear much; but not too much. What spell was on me when I came +into this house this day, I don’t know; but I had a presentiment—a +dark presentiment,” said Mrs Chick, with a shiver, “that something +was going to happen. Well may I have had that foreboding, Lucretia, when my +confidence of many years is destroyed in an instant, when my eyes are opened +all at once, and when I find you revealed in your true colours. Lucretia, I +have been mistaken in you. It is better for us both that this subject should +end here. I wish you well, and I shall ever wish you well. But, as an +individual who desires to be true to herself in her own poor position, whatever +that position may be, or may not be—and as the sister of my +brother—and as the sister-in-law of my brother’s wife—and as +a connexion by marriage of my brother’s wife’s mother—may I +be permitted to add, as a Dombey?—I can wish you nothing else but good +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +otherwise than by stealth. Neither did he offer any consolation whatever. In +short, he sat reading, and humming fag ends of tunes, and sometimes glancing +furtively at her without delivering himself of a word, good, bad, or +indifferent. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime Mrs Chick sat swelling and bridling, and tossing her head, as +if she were still repeating that solemn formula of farewell to Lucretia Tox. At +length, she said aloud, “Oh the extent to which her eyes had been opened +that day!” +</p> + +<p> +“To which your eyes have been opened, my dear!” repeated Mr Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t talk to me!” said Mrs Chic “if you can bear +to see me in this state, and not ask me what the matter is, you had better hold +your tongue for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, my dear?” asked Mr Chick +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 tack yourself, all along, until this morning; and had thought +it would be a convenient thing enough, if it could have been brought +about.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But with Lucretia Tox I have done,” said Mrs 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 favour of one +who, I hope and trust, may be deserving of it, and with whom he has a perfect +right to replace poor Fanny if he chooses; I can bear to be informed, in +Paul’s cool manner, of such a change in his plans, and never to be +consulted until all is settled and determined; but deceit I can not bear, and +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 myself comfortably with her, after this; and I really don’t +know, as Paul is going to be very grand, and these are people of condition, +that she would have been quite presentable, and might not have compromised +myself. There’s a providence in everything; everything works for the +best; I have been tried today but on the whole I do not regret it.” +</p> + +<p> +In which Christian spirit, Mrs Chick dried her eyes and smoothed her lap, and +sat as became a person calm under a great wrong. Mr Chick feeling his +unworthiness no doubt, took an early opportunity of being set down at a street +corner and walking away whistling, with his shoulders very much raised, and his +hands in his pockets. +</p> + +<p> +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 +friendship towards her impeacher and had been truly absorbed and swallowed up +in devotion to the magnificence of Mr Dombey—while poor excommunicated +Miss Tox watered her plants with her tears, and felt that it was winter in +Princess’s Place. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br /> +The interval before the Marriage</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">A</span>lthough the enchanted house was no more, and the working world +had broken into it, and was hammering and crashing and tramping up and down +stairs all day long keeping Diogenes in an incessant paroxysm of barking, from +sunrise to sunset—evidently convinced that his enemy had got the better +of him at last, and was then sacking the premises in triumphant +defiance—there was, at first, no other great change in the method of +Florence’s life. At night, when the workpeople went away, the house was +dreary and deserted again; and Florence, listening to their voices echoing +through the 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. +</p> + +<p> +She welcomed back the evening silence as an old friend, but it came now with an +altered face, and looked more kindly on her. Fresh hope was in it. The +beautiful lady who had soothed and carressed 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 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. Peeping at the rosy +children her neighbours, it was a new and precious sensation to think that they +might soon speak together and know each other; when she would not fear, as of +old, to show herself before them, lest they should be grieved to see her in her +black dress sitting there alone! +</p> + +<p> +In her thoughts of her new mother, and in the love and trust overflowing her +pure heart towards her, Florence loved her own dead mother more and more. She +had no fear of setting up a rival in her breast. The new flower sprang from the +deep-planted and long-cherished root, she knew. Every gentle word that had +fallen from the lips of the beautiful lady, sounded to Florence like an echo of +the voice long hushed and silent. How could she love that memory less for +living tenderness, when it was her memory of all parental tenderness and love! +</p> + +<p> +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, raising her eyes, she saw her standing in the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama!” cried Florence, joyfully meeting her. “Come +again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not Mama yet,” returned the lady, with a serious smile, as she +encircled Florence’s neck with her arm. +</p> + +<p> +“But very soon to be,” cried Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Very soon now, Florence: very soon.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith bent her head a little, so as to press the blooming cheek of Florence +against her own, and for some few moments remained thus silent. There was +something so very tender in her manner, that Florence was even more sensible of +it than on the first occasion of their meeting. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here last?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes!” smiled Florence, hastily. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Di your maid, love?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dog, Mama,” said Florence, laughing. “Susan is my +maid.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I might change them, Mama,” returned Florence; “there is +one upstairs I should like much better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this not high enough, dear girl?” asked Edith, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“The other was my brother’s room,” said Florence, “and +I am very fond of it. I would have spoken to Papa about it when I came home, +and found the workmen here, and everything changing; but—” +</p> + +<p> +Florence dropped her eyes, lest the same look should make her falter again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes intent upon her face, until +Florence raising her own, she, in her turn, withdrew her gaze, and turned it on +the ground. It was then that Florence thought how different this lady’s +beauty was, from what she had supposed. She had thought it of a proud and lofty +kind; yet her manner was so subdued and gentle, that if she had been of +Florence’s own age and character, it scarcely could have invited +confidence more. +</p> + +<p> +Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept over her; and then she +seemed (but Florence hardly understood this, though she could not choose but +notice it, and think about it) as if she were humbled before Florence, and ill +at ease. When she had said that she was not her Mama yet, and when Florence had +called her the mistress of everything there, this change in her was quick and +startling; and now, while the eyes of Florence rested on her face, she sat as +though she would have shrunk and hidden from her, rather than as one about to +love and cherish her, in right of such a near connexion. +</p> + +<p> +She gave Florence her ready promise, about her new room, and said she would +give directions about it herself. She then asked some questions concerning poor +Paul; and when they had sat in conversation for some time, told Florence she +had come to take her to her own home. +</p> + +<p> +“We have come to London now, my mother and I,” said Edith, +“and you shall stay with us until I am married. I wish that we should +know and trust each other, Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind to me,” said Florence, “dear Mama. How +much I thank you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity,” continued +Edith, looking round to see that they were quite alone, and speaking in a lower +voice, “that when I am married, and have gone away for some weeks, I +shall be easier at heart if you will come home here. No matter who invites you +to stay elsewhere. Come home here. It is better to be alone than—what I +would say is,” she added, checking herself, “that I know well you +are best at home, dear Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will come home on the very day, Mama” +</p> + +<p> +“Do so. I rely on that promise. Now, prepare to come with me, dear girl. +You will find me downstairs when you are ready.” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone through the mansion of which she +was so soon to be the lady: and little heed took she of all the elegance and +splendour it began to display. The same indomitable haughtiness of 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 raged and rent themselves. The mimic roses on the walls +and floors were set round with sharp thorns, that tore her breast; in every +scrap of gold so dazzling to the eye, she saw some hateful atom of her +purchase-money; the broad high mirrors showed her, at full length, a woman with +a noble quality yet dwelling in her nature, who was too false to her better +self, and too debased and lost, to save herself. She believed that all this was +so plain, more or less, to all eyes, that she had no resource or power of +self-assertion but in pride: and with this pride, which tortured her own heart +night and day, she fought her fate out, braved it, and defied it. +</p> + +<p> +Was this the woman whom Florence—an innocent girl, strong only in her +earnestness and simple truth—could so impress and quell, that by her side +she was another creature, with her tempest of passion hushed, and her very +pride itself subdued? Was this the woman who now sat beside her in a carriage, +with 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? +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +The Honourable 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 the loan implied his final release and +acquittance from all further loans and gifts to Mrs Skewton and her daughter. +It being necessary for the credit of the family to make a handsome appearance +at such a time, Mrs Skewton, with the assistance of an accommodating tradesman +resident in the parish of Mary-le-bone, who lent out all sorts of articles to +the nobility and gentry, from a service of plate to an army of footmen, clapped +into this house a silver-headed butler (who was charged extra on that account, +as having the appearance of an ancient family retainer), two very tall young +men in livery, and a select staff of kitchen-servants; so that a legend arose, +downstairs, 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 overslept himself at the Leamington +milkman’s, and being still in a celestial dream. A variety of requisites +in plate and china being also conveyed to the same establishment from the same +convenient source, with several miscellaneous articles, including a neat +chariot and a pair of bays, Mrs Skewton cushioned herself on the principal +sofa, in the Cleopatra attitude, and held her court in fair state. +</p> + +<p> +“And how,” said Mrs Skewton, on the entrance of her daughter and +her charge, “is my charming Florence? You must come and kiss me, +Florence, if you please, my love.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in the white part of Mrs +Skewton’s face, when that lady presented her ear, and relieved her of her +difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“Edith, my dear,” said Mrs Skewton, “positively, +I—stand a little more in the light, my sweetest Florence, for a +moment.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence blushingly complied. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t remember, dearest Edith,” said her mother, +“what you were when you were about the same age as our exceedingly +precious Florence, or a few years younger?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have long forgotten, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“For positively, my dear,” said Mrs 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 unfinished state, “what +cultivation will do.” +</p> + +<p> +“It does, indeed,” was Edith’s stern reply. +</p> + +<p> +Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feeling herself on unsafe ground, +said, as a diversion: +</p> + +<p> +“My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you +please, my love.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence complied, of course, and again imprinted her lips on Mrs +Skewton’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it would be very soon,” returned Florence, “but not +exactly when.” +</p> + +<p> +“My darling Edith,” urged her mother, gaily, “is it possible +you have not told Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I tell Florence?” she returned, so suddenly and +harshly, that Florence could scarcely believe it was the same voice. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer diversion, that her father +was coming to dinner, and 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 execution of which, according to Mrs +Skewton’s expectation, 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 +return home, without involving her father in her explanation, she would have +hurried back on foot, bareheaded, breathless, and alone, rather than incur the +risk of meeting his displeasure. +</p> + +<p> +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 upstairs 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 fears; she was +sitting by Cleopatra’s couch, endeavouring to understand and to reply to +the bald discourse of that lady, when she heard his foot upon the stair. +</p> + +<p> +“I hear him now!” cried Florence, starting. “He is +coming!” +</p> + +<p> +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 Florence behind her couch, and dropped a shawl over her, preparatory to +giving Mr Dombey a rapture of surprise. It was so quickly done, that in a +moment Florence heard his awful step in the room. +</p> + +<p> +He saluted his intended mother-in-law, and his intended bride. The strange +sound of his voice thrilled through the whole frame of his child. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Dombey,” said Cleopatra, “come here and tell me how +your pretty Florence is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Florence is very well,” said Mr Dombey, advancing towards the +couch. +</p> + +<p> +“At home?” +</p> + +<p> +“At home,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Dombey,” returned Cleopatra, with bewitching vivacity; +“now are you sure you are not deceiving me? I don’t know what my +dearest Edith will say to me when I make such a declaration, but upon my honour +I am afraid you are the falsest of men, my dear Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Though he had been; and had been detected on the spot, in the most enormous +falsehood that was ever said or done; he could hardly have been more +disconcerted than he was, when Mrs Skewton plucked the shawl away, and +Florence, pale and trembling, rose before him like a ghost. He had not yet +recovered his presence of mind, when Florence had run up to him, clasped her +hands round his neck, kissed his face, and hurried out of the room. He looked +round as if to refer the matter to somebody else, but Edith had gone after +Florence, instantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, confess, my dear Dombey,” said Mrs Skewton, giving him her +hand, “that you never were more surprised and pleased in your +life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never was more surprised,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor pleased, my dearest Dombey?” returned Mrs Skewton, holding up +her fan. +</p> + +<p> +“I—yes, I am exceedingly glad to meet Florence here,” said Mr +Dombey. He appeared to consider gravely about it for a moment, and then said, +more decidedly, “Yes, I really am very glad indeed to meet Florence +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wonder how she comes here?” said Mrs Skewton, +“don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Edith, perhaps—” suggested Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! wicked guesser!” replied Cleopatra, shaking her head. +“Ah! cunning, cunning man! One shouldn’t tell these things; your +sex, my dear Dombey, are so vain, and so apt to abuse our weakness; but you +know my open soul—very well; immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +This was addressed to one of the very tall young men who announced dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“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 today to fetch our darling Florence. +Well, how excessively charming that is!” +</p> + +<p> +As she waited for an answer, Mr Dombey answered, “Eminently so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you, my dear Dombey, for that proof of heart!” cried +Cleopatra, squeezing his hand. “But I am growing too serious! Take me +downstairs, like an angel, and let us see what these people intend to give us +for dinner. Bless you, dear Dombey!” +</p> + +<p> +Cleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable briskness, after the last +benediction, Mr Dombey took her arm in his and led her ceremoniously +downstairs; one of the very tall young men on hire, whose organ of veneration +was imperfectly developed, thrusting his tongue into his cheek, for the +entertainment of the other very tall young man on hire, as the couple turned +into the dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +Florence and Edith were already there, and sitting side by side. Florence would +have risen when her father entered, to resign her chair to him; but Edith +openly put her hand upon her arm, and Mr Dombey took an opposite place at the +round table. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“And so your preparations are nearly finished at last, my dear +Dombey?” said Cleopatra, when the dessert was put upon the table, and the +silver-headed butler had withdrawn. “Even the lawyers” +preparations!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madam,” replied Mr Dombey; “the deed of settlement, the +professional gentlemen inform me, is now ready, and as I was mentioning to you, +Edith has only to do us the favour to suggest her own time for its +execution.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith sat like a handsome statue; as cold, as silent, and as still. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest love,” said Cleopatra, “do you hear what Mr +Dombey says? Ah, my dear Dombey!” aside to that gentleman, “how her +absence, as the time approaches, reminds me of the days, when that most +agreeable of creatures, her Papa, was in your situation!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you please,” said +Edith, scarcely looking over the table at Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow?” suggested Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or would next day,” said Mr Dombey, “suit your engagements +better?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no engagements. I am always at your disposal. Let it be when you +like.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 appointments with all sorts of trades-people!” +</p> + +<p> +“They are of your making,” returned Edith, turning on her with a +slight contraction of her brow. “You and Mr Dombey can arrange between +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very true indeed, my love, and most considerate of you!” said +Cleopatra. “My darling Florence, you must really come and kiss me once +more, if you please, my dear!” +</p> + +<p> +Singular coincidence, that these gushes of interest in Florence hurried +Cleopatra away from almost every dialogue in which Edith had a share, however +trifling! Florence had certainly never undergone so much embracing, and perhaps +had never been, unconsciously, so useful in her life. +</p> + +<p> +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 honours of his house, and chilling his guests after his own manner. +The dignity of Dombey and Son would be heightened and maintained, indeed, in +such hands. +</p> + +<p> +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 scant +and gloomy state that pervaded the room, in colour a dark brown, with black +hatchments of pictures blotching the walls, and twenty-four black chairs, with +almost as many nails in them as so many coffins, waiting like mutes, upon the +threshold of the Turkey carpet; and two exhausted negroes holding up two +withered branches of candelabra on the sideboard, and a musty smell prevailing +as if the ashes of ten thousand dinners were entombed in the sarcophagus below +it. The owner of the house lived much abroad; the air of England seldom agreed +long with a member of the Feenix family; and the room had gradually put itself +into deeper and still deeper mourning for him, until it was become so funereal +as to want nothing but a body in it to be quite complete. +</p> + +<p> +No bad representation of the body, for the nonce, in his unbending form, if not +in his attitude, Mr Dombey looked down into the cold depths of the dead sea of +mahogany on which the fruit dishes and decanters lay at anchor: as if the +subjects of his thoughts were rising towards the 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 she left the room; and Edith’s eyes upon her, and +Edith’s hand put out protectingly. A little figure in a low arm-chair +came springing next into the light, and looked upon him wonderingly, with its +bright eyes and its old-young face, gleaming as in the flickering of an evening +fire. Again came Florence close upon it, and absorbed his whole attention. +Whether as a fore-doomed difficulty and disappointment to him; whether as a +rival who had crossed him in his way, and might again; whether as his child, of +whom, in his successful wooing, he could stoop to think as claiming, at such a +time, to be no more estranged; or whether as a hint to him that the mere +appearance of caring for his own blood should be maintained in his new +relations; he best knew. Indifferently 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 upstairs to escape them. +</p> + +<p> +It was quite late at night before candles were brought; for at present they +made Mrs Skewton’s head ache, she complained; and in the meantime +Florence and Mrs Skewton talked together (Cleopatra being very anxious to keep +her close to herself), or Florence touched the piano softly for Mrs +Skewton’s delight; to make no mention of a few occasions in the course of +the evening, when that affectionate lady was impelled to solicit another kiss, +and which always happened after Edith had said anything. They were not many, +however, for Edith sat apart by an open window during the whole time (in spite +of her mother’s fears that she would 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 some other poor deserted girl who +was to be pitied for her sorrow; and in her pity, sobbed herself to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +The week fled fast. There were drives to milliners, dressmakers, jewellers, +lawyers, florists, pastry-cooks; and Florence was always of the party. Florence +was to go to the wedding. Florence was to cast off her mourning, and to wear a +brilliant dress on the occasion. The milliner’s intentions on the subject +of this dress—the milliner was a Frenchwoman, and greatly resembled Mrs +Skewton—were so chaste and elegant, that Mrs Skewton bespoke one like it +for herself. The milliner said it would become her to admiration, and that all +the world would take her for the young lady’s sister. +</p> + +<p> +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; sometimes, 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 indifference 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 window looking out into the street; Mr Dombey and Cleopatra were +talking softly on the sofa. It was growing late; and Florence, being fatigued, +had gone to bed. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Dombey,” said Cleopatra, “you will leave me Florence +to-morrow, when you deprive me of my sweetest Edith.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey said he would, with pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +“To have her about me, here, while you are both at Paris, and to think at +her age, I am assisting in the formation of her mind, my dear Dombey,” +said Cleopatra, “will be a perfect balm to me in the extremely shattered +state to which I shall be reduced.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence in such admirable guardianship. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Dombey,” returned Cleopatra, “a thousand thanks for +your good opinion. I feared you were going, with malice aforethought, as the +dreadful lawyers say—those horrid prosers!—to condemn me to utter +solitude.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Because my charming Florence tells me so positively she must go home +tomorrow, returned Cleopatra, that I began to be afraid, my dearest Dombey, you +were quite a Bashaw.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Dombey,” replied Cleopatra, what a courtier you are! +Though I’ll not say so, either; for courtiers have no heart, and yours +pervades your farming life and character. And are you really going so early, my +dear Dombey!” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, indeed! it was late, and Mr Dombey feared he must. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this a fact, or is it all a dream!” lisped Cleopatra. +“Can I believe, my dearest Dombey, that you are coming back tomorrow +morning to deprive me of my sweet companion; my own Edith!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, who was accustomed to take things literally, reminded Mrs Skewton +that they were to meet first at the church. +</p> + +<p> +“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 dearest Edith!” she +cried archly. “Somebody is going, pet.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith, who had turned her head again towards the window, and whose interest in +their conversation had ceased, rose up in her place, but made no advance +towards him, and said nothing. Mr Dombey, with a lofty gallantry adapted to his +dignity and the occasion, betook his creaking boots towards her, put her hand +to his lips, said, “Tomorrow morning I shall have the happiness of +claiming this hand as Mrs Dombey’s,” and bowed himself solemnly +out. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton rang for candles as soon as the house-door had closed upon him. +With the candles appeared her 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 older and more hideous than her greasy +flannel gown. But Mrs Skewton tried it on with mincing satisfaction; smirked at +her cadaverous self in the glass, as she thought of its killing effect upon the +Major; and suffering her maid to take it off again, and to prepare her for +repose, tumbled into ruins like a house of painted cards. +</p> + +<p> +All this time, Edith remained at the dark window looking out into the street. +When she and her mother were at last left alone, she moved from it for the +first time that evening, and came opposite to her. The yawning, shaking, +peevish figure of the mother, with her eyes raised to confront the proud erect +form of the daughter, whose glance of fire was bent downward upon her, had a +conscious air upon it, that no levity or temper could conceal. +</p> + +<p> +“I am tired to death,” said she. “You can’t be trusted +for a moment. You are worse than a child. Child! No child would be half so +obstinate and undutiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 return.” +</p> + +<p> +“Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return!” repeated her +mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow to witness what I do, +so falsely: and so shamefully, I swear I will refuse the hand of this man in +the church. If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement!” +</p> + +<p> +The mother answered with a look of quick alarm, in no degree diminished by the +look she met. +</p> + +<p> +“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 undermined, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the leisure of +a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Florence must go home.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are an idiot, Edith,” cried her angry mother. “Do you +expect there can ever be peace for you in that house, till she is married, and +away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask me, or ask yourself, if I ever expect peace in that house,” +said her daughter, “and you know the answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“And am I to be told tonight, after all my pains and labour, and when +you are going, through me, to be rendered independent,” her mother almost +shrieked in her passion, while her palsied head shook like a leaf, “that +there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am not fit company for a +girl! What are you, pray? What are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 different I might have been!” +</p> + +<p> +Sensible that any show of anger was useless here, her mother restrained +herself, and fell a whimpering, and bewailed that she had lived too long, and +that her only child had cast her off, and that duty towards parents was +forgotten in these evil days, and that she had heard unnatural taunts, and +cared for life no longer. +</p> + +<p> +“If one is to go on living through continual scenes like this,” she +whined, “I am sure it would be much better for me to think of some means +of putting an end to my existence. Oh! The idea of your being my daughter, +Edith, and addressing me in such a strain!” +</p> + +<p> +“Between us, mother,” returned Edith, mournfully, “the time +for mutual reproaches is past.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why do you revive it?” whimpered her mother. “You know +that you are lacerating me in the cruellest manner. You know how sensitive I am +to unkindness. At such a 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 Florence must go home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let her go!” cried the afflicted and affrighted parent, hastily. +“I am sure I am willing she should go. What is the girl to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had proposed it in a filial manner, Edith,” whined her +mother, “perhaps not; very likely not. But such extremely cutting +words—” +</p> + +<p> +“They are past and at an end between us now,” said Edith. +“Take your own way, mother; share as you please in what you have gained; +spend, enjoy, make much of it; and be as happy as you will. The object of our +lives is won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. My lips are closed upon the +past from this hour. I forgive you your part in to-morrow’s wickedness. +May God forgive my own!” +</p> + +<p> +Without a tremor in her voice, or frame, and passing onward with a foot that +set itself upon the neck of every soft emotion, she bade her mother good-night, +and repaired to her own room. +</p> + +<p> +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 companionship. Thus, +in the dead time of the night before her bridal, Edith Granger wrestled with +her unquiet spirit, tearless, friendless, silent, proud, and uncomplaining. +</p> + +<p> +At length it happened that she touched the open door which led into the room +where Florence lay. +</p> + +<p> +She started, stopped, and looked in. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Drawn nearer, nearer, nearer yet; at last, drawn so near, that stooping down, +she pressed her lips to the gentle hand that lay outside the bed, and put it +softly to her neck. Its touch was like the prophet’s rod of old upon the +rock. Her tears sprung forth beneath it, as she sunk upon her knees, and laid +her aching head and streaming hair upon the pillow by its side. +</p> + +<p> +Thus Edith Granger passed the night before her bridal. Thus the sun found her +on her bridal morning. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br /> +The Wedding</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>awn +with its passionless blank face, steals shivering 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 pavement, and broods, sombre and +heavy, in nooks and corners of the building. The steeple-clock, perched up +above the houses, emerging from beneath another of the countless ripples in the +tide of time that regularly roll and break on the eternal shore, is greyly +visible, like a stone beacon, recording how the sea flows on; but within doors, +dawn, at first, can only peep at night, and see that it is there. +</p> + +<p> +Hovering feebly round the church, and looking in, dawn moans and weeps for its +short reign, and its tears trickle on the window-glass, and the trees against +the church-wall 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 the spire, and drying up the tears of dawn, +and stifling its complaining; and the 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A vinegary face has Mrs Miff, and a mortified bonnet, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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’t got a sixpence wherewithal to bless herself. Mrs Miff remembers, +like wise, 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, against the +company arrive. Mr Sownds the Beadle, who is sitting in the sun upon the church +steps all this time (and seldom does anything else, except, in cold weather, +sitting by the fire), approves of Mrs Miff’s discourse, and asks if Mrs +Miff has heard it said, that the lady is 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. +</p> + +<p> +In Mr Dombey’s house, at this same time, there is great stir and bustle, +more especially among the women: not one of whom has had a wink of sleep since +four o’clock, and all of whom were fully dressed before six. Mr Towlinson +is an object of greater consideration than usual to the housemaid, and the cook +says at breakfast time that one wedding makes many, which the housemaid +can’t believe, and don’t think true at all. Mr Towlinson reserves +his sentiments on this question; being rendered something gloomy by the +engagement of a foreigner with whiskers (Mr Towlinson is whiskerless himself), +who has been hired to accompany the happy pair to Paris, and who is busy +packing the new chariot. In respect of this personage, Mr Towlinson admits, +presently, that he never knew of any good that ever come of foreigners; and +being charged by the ladies with prejudice, says, look at Bonaparte who was at +the head of ’em, and see what he was always up to! Which the housemaid +says is very true. +</p> + +<p> +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 failing in himself; and informs his comrade that it’s his +“exciseman.” The very tall young man would say excitement, but his +speech is hazy. +</p> + +<p> +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 +settlement near Battlebridge; the second, put themselves in communication, +through their chief, with Mr Towlinson, to whom they offer terms to be bought +off; and the third, in the person of an artful trombone, lurks and dodges round +the corner, waiting for some traitor tradesman to reveal the place and hour of +breakfast, for a bribe. Expectation and excitement extend further yet, and take +a wider range. 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 splendour from a +secret corner of the gallery, and thither to convey the Chicken: for it is Mr +Toots’s desperate intent to point out Florence to the Chicken, then and +there, and openly to say, “Now, Chicken, I will not deceive you any +longer; the friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is myself; Miss Dombey is +the object of my passion; what are your opinions, Chicken, in this state of +things, and what, on the spot, do you advise? The so-much-to-be-astonished +Chicken, in the meanwhile, dips his beak into a tankard of strong beer, in Mr +Toots’s kitchen, and pecks up two pounds of beefsteaks. In +Princess’s Place, Miss Tox is up and doing; for she too, though in sore +distress, is resolved to put a 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 Midshipman 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 solemnity 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 his portly figure on the church steps, waiting for the +marriage 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! +</p> + +<p> +Cousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly 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 lordship’s face, and +crows’ feet in his eyes: and first observe him, not exactly certain when +he walks across a room, of going quite straight to where he wants to go. But +Cousin Feenix, getting up at half-past seven o’clock or so, is quite +another thing from Cousin Feenix got up; and very dim, indeed, he looks, while +being shaved at Long’s Hotel, in Bond Street. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a general 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 curtesys;—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-coloured pantaloons, and +lilac waistcoat; and a whisper goes about the house, that Mr Dombey’s +hair is curled. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey!” says the Major, putting out both hands, “how are +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Major,” says Mr Dombey, “how are You?” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, Sir,” says the Major, “Joey B. is in such case this +morning, Sir,”—and here he hits himself hard upon the +breast—“In such case this morning, Sir, that, damme, Dombey, he has +half a mind to make a double marriage of it, Sir, and take the mother.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey,” says the Major, seeing this, “I give you joy. I +congratulate you, Dombey. By the Lord, Sir,” says the Major, “you +are more to be envied, this day, than any man in England!” +</p> + +<p> +Here again Mr Dombey’s assent is qualified; because he is going to confer +a great distinction on a lady; and, no doubt, she is to be envied most. +</p> + +<p> +“As to Edith Granger, Sir,” pursues the Major, “there is not +a woman in all Europe but might—and would, Sir, you will allow Bagstock +to add—and would—give her ears, and her earrings, too, to be in +Edith Granger’s place.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are good enough to say so, Major,” says Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, really, Major—” +</p> + +<p> +“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, Dombey, that may justify a man—a blunt old Joseph +B., Sir—in speaking out; or am I to take open order, Dombey, and to keep +my distance, and to stand on forms?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Major Bagstock,” says Mr Dombey, with a gratified air, +“you are quite warm.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. carcase. And I tell you what, Dombey—at such a time a man must +blurt out what he feels, or put a muzzle on; and Joseph Bagstock tells you to +your face, Dombey, as he tells his club behind your back, that he never will be +muzzled when Paul Dombey is in question. Now, damme, Sir,” concludes the +Major, with great firmness, “what do you make of that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Major,” says Mr Dombey, “I assure you that I am really +obliged to you. I had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not too partial, Sir!” exclaims the choleric Major. “Dombey, +I deny it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your friendship I will say then,” pursues Mr Dombey, “on any +account. Nor can I forget, Major, on such an occasion as the present, how much +I am indebted to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, of which His Royal Highness the late Duke of York, +did me the honour to observe, Sir, to His Royal Highness the late Duke of Kent, +that it was the hand of Josh: a rough and tough, and possibly an up-to-snuff, +old vagabond. Dombey, may the present moment be the least unhappy of our lives. +God bless you!” +</p> + +<p> +Now enters Mr Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smiling like a wedding-guest +indeed. He can scarcely let Mr Dombey’s hand go, he is so congratulatory; +and he shakes the Major’s hand so heartily at the same time, that his +voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it comes sliding from between his +teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“The very day is auspicious,” says Mr Carker. “The brightest +and most genial weather! I hope I am not a moment late?” +</p> + +<p> +“Punctual to your time, Sir,” says the Major. +</p> + +<p> +“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 waggons; and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook +Street”—this to Mr Dombey—“to leave a few poor rarities +of flowers for Mrs Dombey. A man in my position, and so distinguished as to be +invited here, is proud to offer some homage in acknowledgment of his vassalage: +and as I have no doubt Mrs Dombey is overwhelmed with what is costly and +magnificent;” with a strange glance at his patron; “I hope the very +poverty of my offering, may find favour for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey, that is to be,” returns Mr Dombey, condescendingly, +“will be very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr Dombey, Major Bagstock, 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 curtseys and proposes chairs in the +vestry. Mr Dombey prefers remaining in the church. As he looks up at the organ, +Miss Tox in the gallery shrinks behind the fat leg of a cherubim on a monument, +with cheeks like a young Wind. Captain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up and +waves his hook, in token of welcome and encouragement. Mr Toots informs the +Chicken, behind his hand, that the middle gentleman, he in the fawn-coloured +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff are eyeing Mr Dombey from a little distance, when the +noise of approaching wheels is heard, and Mr Sownds goes out. Mrs Miff, meeting +Mr Dombey’s eye as it is withdrawn from the presumptuous maniac upstairs, +who salutes him with so much urbanity, drops a curtsey, and informs him that +she believes his “good lady” is come. Then there is a crowding and +a whispering at the door, and the good lady enters, with a haughty step. +</p> + +<p> +There is no sign upon her face, of last night’s suffering; there is no +trace in her manner, of the woman on the bended knees, reposing her wild head, +in beautiful abandonment, upon the pillow of the sleeping girl. That girl, all +gentle and lovely, is at her side—a striking contrast to her own +disdainful and defiant figure, standing there, composed, erect, inscrutable of +will, resplendent and majestic in the zenith of its charms, yet beating down, +and treading on, the admiration that it challenges. +</p> + +<p> +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 moving at the same time, +close to Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Dombey,” said the good Mama, “I fear I must +relinquish darling Florence after all, and suffer her to go home, as she +herself proposed. After my loss of today, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not +have spirits, even for her society.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had she not better stay with you?” returns the Bridegroom. +</p> + +<p> +“I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I shall be better alone. +Besides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant guardian when you +return, and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. She might be +jealous. Eh, dear Edith?” +</p> + +<p> +The affectionate Mama presses her daughter’s arm, as she says this; +perhaps entreating her attention earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“To be serious, my dear Dombey,” she resumes, “I will +relinquish our dear child, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled +that, just now. She fully understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear,—she +fully understands.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The sun is shining down, upon the golden letters of the ten commandments. Why +does the Bride’s eye read them, one by one? Which one of all the ten +appears the plainest to her in the glare of light? False Gods; murder; theft; +the honour that she owes her mother;—which is it that appears to leave +the wall, and printing itself in glowing letters, on her book! +</p> + +<p> +“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I 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 of his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be married to +this man, at first—to wit, a brides—maid of some condition, +distantly connected with the family, and ten years Mrs Skewton’s junior +—but Mrs Miff, interposing her mortified bonnet, dexterously turns him +back, and runs him, as on castors, full at the “good lady:” whom +Cousin Feenix giveth to married to this man accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +And will they in the sight of heaven—? +</p> + +<p> +Ay, that they will: Mr Dombey says he will. And what says Edith? She will. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In a firm, free hand, the Bride subscribes her name in the register, when they +adjourn to the vestry. “There ain’t a many ladies come here,” +Mrs Miff says with a curtsey—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. +</p> + +<p> +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 enrols +himself as having been born that morning. +</p> + +<p> +The Major now salutes the Bride right gallantly, and carries out that branch of +military tactics in reference to all the ladies: notwithstanding Mrs +Skewton’s being extremely hard to kiss, and squeaking shrilly in the +sacred edifice. The example is followed by Cousin Feenix and even by Mr Dombey. +Lastly, Mr Carker, with his white teeth glistening, approaches Edith, more as +if he meant to bite her, than to taste the sweets that linger on her lips. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If wishes,” says he in a low voice, “are not superfluous, +applied to such a union.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you, Sir,” she answers, with a curled lip, and a heaving +bosom. +</p> + +<p> +But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she knew that Mr Dombey would +return to offer his alliance, that Carker knows her thoroughly, and reads her +right, and that she is more degraded by his knowledge of her, than by aught +else? Is it for this reason that her haughtiness shrinks beneath his smile, +like snow within the hands that grasps it firmly, and that her imperious glance +droops in meeting his, and seeks the ground? +</p> + +<p> +“I am proud to see,” said Mr Carker, with a servile stooping of his +neck, which the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim to be a lie, +“I am proud to see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs +Dombey’s hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyful an +occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +Though she bends her head, in answer, there is something in the momentary +action of her hand, as if she would crush the flowers it holds, and fling them, +with contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts the hand through the arm of her +new husband, who has been standing near, conversing with the Major, and is +proud again, and motionless, and silent. +</p> + +<p> +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 colour of her +every article of dress from that moment, and reproduces it on her doll, who is +for ever being married. Cleopatra and Cousin Feenix enter the same carriage. +The Major hands into a second carriage, Florence, and the bridesmaid who so +narrowly escaped being given away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and +is followed by Mr Carker. Horses prance and caper; coachmen and footmen shine +in fluttering favours, flowers, and new-made liveries. Away they dash and +rattle through the streets; and as they pass along, a thousand heads are turned +to look at them, and a thousand sober moralists revenge themselves for not +being married too, that morning, by reflecting that these people little think +such happiness can’t last. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0413m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim’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 herself the beauty of the bride, and her +own comparatively feeble and faded attractions; but the stately image of Mr +Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his fawn-coloured pantaloons, is present to +her mind, and Miss Tox weeps afresh, behind her veil, on her way home to +Princess’s Place. Captain Cuttle, having joined in all the amens and +responses, with a devout growl, feels much improved by his religious exercises; +and in a peaceful frame of mind pervades the body of the church, glazed hat in +hand, and reads the tablet to the memory of little Paul. The gallant Mr Toots, +attended by the faithful Chicken, leaves the building in torments of love. The +Chicken is as yet unable to elaborate a scheme for winning Florence, but his +first idea has gained possession of him, and he thinks the doubling up of Mr +Dombey would be a move in the right direction. Mr Dombey’s servants come +out of their hiding-places, and prepare to rush to Brook Street, when they are +delayed by symptoms of indisposition on the part of Mrs Perch, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more company, +though not much; and now they leave the drawing-room, and range themselves at +table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no confectioner can brighten up, let +him garnish the exhausted negroes with as many flowers and love-knots as he +will. +</p> + +<p> +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 +admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect Dombey; and is affable +and confidential to Mrs Skewton, whose mind is relieved of a great load, and +who takes her share of the champagne. The very tall young man who suffered from +excitement early, is better; but a vague sentiment of repentance has seized +upon him, and he hates the other very tall young man, and wrests dishes from +him by violence, and takes a grim delight in disobliging the company. The +company are cool and calm, and do not outrage the black hatchments of pictures +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 has an +especial smile for the Bride, who very, very seldom meets it. +</p> + +<p> +Cousin Feenix rises, when the company have breakfasted, and the servants have +left the room; and wonderfully young he looks, with his white wristbands almost +covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and the bloom of the champagne in +his cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my honour,” says Cousin Feenix, “although it’s an +unusual sort of thing in a private gentleman’s house, I must beg leave to +call upon you to drink what is usually called a—in fact a toast.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A—in fact it’s not a—” Cousin Feenix beginning +again, thus, comes to a dead stop. +</p> + +<p> +“Hear, hear!” says the Major, in a tone of conviction. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the table again, +smiles and nods a great many more times than before, as if he were particularly +struck by this last observation, and desired personally to express his sense of +the good it has done. +</p> + +<p> +“It is,” says Cousin Feenix, “an occasion in fact, when the +general usages of life may be a little departed from, without impropriety; and +although I never was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House of +Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, was—in fact, was +laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure—” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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, today, of connecting itself, in the person +of my lovely and accomplished relative, whom I now see—in point of fact, +present—” +</p> + +<p> +Here there is general applause. +</p> + +<p> +“Present,” repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a neat point +which will bear repetition,—“with one who—that is to say, +with a man, at whom the finger of scorn can never—in fact, with my +honourable friend Dombey, if he will allow me to call him so.” +</p> + +<p> +Cousin Feenix bows to Mr Dombey; Mr Dombey solemnly returns the bow; everybody +is more or less gratified and affected by this extraordinary, and perhaps +unprecedented, appeal to the feelings. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not,” says Cousin Feenix, “enjoyed those +opportunities which I could have desired, of cultivating the acquaintance of my +friend Dombey, and studying those qualities which do equal honour to his head, +and, in point of fact, to his heart; for it has been my misfortune to be, as we +used to say in my time in the House of Commons, when it was not the custom to +allude to the Lords, and when the order of parliamentary proceedings was +perhaps better observed than it is now—to be in—in point of +fact,” says Cousin Feenix, cherishing his joke, with great slyness, and +finally bringing it out with a jerk, ‘“in another +place!’” +</p> + +<p> +The Major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey,” resumes Cousin Feenix +in a graver tone, as if he had suddenly become a sadder and wiser man, +“to know that he is, in point of fact, what may be emphatically called +a—a merchant—a British merchant—and a—and a man. And +although I have been resident abroad, for some years (it would give me great +pleasure to receive my friend Dombey, and everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and +to have an opportunity of making ’em known to the Grand Duke), still I +know enough, I flatter myself, of my lovely and accomplished relative, to know +that she possesses every requisite to make a man happy, and that her marriage +with my friend Dombey is one of inclination and affection on both sides.” +</p> + +<p> +Many smiles and nods from Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Therefore,” says Cousin Feenix, “I congratulate the 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 Dombey and +my lovely and accomplished relative, on the present occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +proposes Mrs Skewton. The breakfast languishes when that is done, the violated +hatchments are avenged, and Edith rises to assume her travelling dress. +</p> + +<p> +All the servants in the meantime, have been breakfasting 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, and with emotion; for he half begins +to think he is an old retainer of the family, and that he is bound to be +affected by these changes. The whole party, and especially the ladies, are very +frolicsome. Mr Dombey’s cook, who generally takes the lead in society, +has said, it is impossible to settle down after this, and why not go, in a +party, to the play? Everybody (Mrs Perch included) has agreed to this; even the +Native, who is tigerish in his drink, and who alarms the ladies (Mrs Perch +particularly) by the rolling of his eyes. One of the very tall young men has +even proposed a ball after the play, and it presents itself to no one (Mrs +Perch included) in the light of an impossibility. Words have arisen between the +housemaid and Mr Towlinson; she, on the authority of an old saw, asserting +marriages to be made in Heaven: he, affecting to trace the manufacture +elsewhere; he, supposing that she says so, because she thinks of being married +her own self: she, saying, Lord forbid, at any rate, that she should ever marry +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, wherever (here the +silver-headed butler eyes the housemaid) she may be. Mr Towlinson returns +thanks in a speech replete with feeling, of which the peroration turns on +foreigners, regarding whom he says they may find favour, sometimes, with weak +and inconstant intellects that can be led away by hair, but all he hopes, is, +he may never hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of no travelling +chariot. The eye of Mr Towlinson is so severe and so expressive here, that the +housemaid is turning hysterical, when she and all the rest, roused by the +intelligence that the Bride is going away, hurry upstairs to witness her +departure. +</p> + +<p> +The chariot is at the door; the Bride is descending to the hall, where Mr +Dombey waits for her. Florence is ready on the staircase to depart too; and +Miss Nipper, who has held a middle state between the parlour and the kitchen, +is prepared to accompany her. As Edith appears, Florence hastens towards her, +to bid her farewell. +</p> + +<p> +Is Edith cold, that she should tremble! Is there anything unnatural or +unwholesome in the touch of Florence, that the beautiful form recedes and +contracts, as if it could not bear it! Is there so much hurry in this going +away, that Edith, with a wave of her hand, sweeps on, and is gone! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a mother, sinks on her sofa in the +Cleopatra attitude, when the clatter of the chariot wheels is lost, and sheds +several tears. The Major, coming with the rest of the company from table, +endeavours to comfort her; but she will not be comforted on any terms, and so +the Major takes his leave. Cousin Feenix takes his leave, and Mr Carker takes +his leave. The guests all go away. Cleopatra, left alone, feels a little giddy +from her strong emotion, and falls asleep. +</p> + +<p> +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 not 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 inside his head. The housemaid wishes it wasn’t wicked to +wish that one was dead. +</p> + +<p> +There is a general delusion likewise, in these lower regions, on the subject of +time; everybody conceiving that it ought to be, at the earliest, ten +o’clock at night, whereas it is not yet three in the afternoon. A shadowy +idea of wickedness committed, haunts every individual in the party; and each +one secretly thinks the other a companion in guilt, whom it would be agreeable +to avoid. No man or woman has the hardihood to hint at the projected visit to +the play. Anyone reviving the notion of the ball, would be scouted as a +malignant idiot. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton sleeps upstairs, two hours afterwards, and naps are not yet over in +the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining-room look down on crumbs, dirty +plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale discoloured heel-taps, scraps +of lobster, drumsticks of fowls, and pensive jellies, gradually resolving +themselves into a lukewarm gummy soup. The marriage is, by this time, almost as +denuded of its show and garnish as the breakfast. Mr Dombey’s servants +moralise so much about it, and are so repentant over their early tea, at home, +that by eight o’clock or so, they settle down into confirmed seriousness; +and Mr Perch, arriving at that time from the City, fresh and jocular, with a +white waistcoat and a comic song, ready to spend the evening, and prepared for +any amount of 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. +</p> + +<p> +Night closes in. Florence, having rambled through the handsome house, from room +to room, seeks her own chamber, where the care of Edith has surrounded her with +luxuries and comforts; and divesting herself of her handsome dress, puts on her +old simple mourning for dear Paul, and sits down to read, with Diogenes winking +and blinking on the ground beside her. But Florence cannot read tonight. The +house seems strange and new, and there are loud echoes in it. There is a shadow +on her heart: she knows not why or what: but it is heavy. Florence shuts her +book, and gruff Diogenes, who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon her +lap, and rubs his ears against her caressing hands. But Florence cannot see him +plainly, in a little time, for there is a mist between her eyes and him, and +her dead brother and dead mother shine in it like angels. Walter, too, poor +wandering shipwrecked boy, oh, where is he? +</p> + +<p> +The Major don’t know; that’s for certain; and don’t care. The +Major, having choked and slumbered, all the afternoon, has taken a late dinner +at his club, and now sits over his pint of wine, driving a modest young man, +with a fresh-coloured face, at the next table (who would give a handsome sum to +be able to rise and go away, but cannot do it) to the verge of madness, by +anecdotes of Bagstock, Sir, at Dombey’s wedding, and Old Joe’s +devilish gentle manly friend, Lord Feenix. While Cousin Feenix, who ought to be +at Long’s, and in bed, finds himself, instead, at a gaming-table, where +his wilful legs have taken him, perhaps, in his own despite. +</p> + +<p> +Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to roof, and holds +dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through the +windows: and, giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the vaults, and +follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead. The timid mice again +cower close together, when the great door clashes, and Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff +treading 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; and again this man taketh this woman, and this woman taketh this +man, on the solemn terms: +</p> + +<p> +“To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for +richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until +death do them part.” +</p> + +<p> +The very words that Mr Carker rides into town repeating, with his mouth +stretched to the utmost, as he picks his dainty way. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br /> +The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>onest +Captain Cuttle, as the weeks flew over him in his fortified retreat, by no +means abated any of his 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 endure much longer; he knew that when the wind +stood in a fair quarter, the weathercock was seldom nailed there; and he was +too well acquainted with the determined and dauntless character of 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +in a hackney-coach, and carried off to his old lodgings. He foresaw that, once +immured there, he was a lost man: his hat gone; Mrs MacStinger watchful of him +day and night; reproaches heaped upon his head, before the infant family; +himself the guilty object of suspicion and distrust; an ogre in the +children’s eyes, and in their mother’s a detected traitor. +</p> + +<p> +A violent perspiration, and a lowness of spirits, always came over the Captain +as this gloomy picture presented itself to his imagination. It generally did so +previous to his stealing out of doors at night for air and exercise. Sensible +of the risk he ran, the Captain took leave of 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. +</p> + +<p> +But not to throw away a chance; and to secure to himself a means, in case of +the worst, of holding communication with the external world; Captain Cuttle +soon conceived the happy idea of teaching Rob the Grinder some secret signal, +by which that adherent might make his presence and fidelity known to his +commander, in the hour of adversity. After much cogitation, the Captain decided +in favour of instructing him to whistle the marine melody, “Oh cheerily, +cheerily!” and Rob the Grinder attaining a point as near perfection in +that accomplishment as a landsman could hope to reach, the Captain impressed +these mysterious instructions on his mind: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, my lad, stand by! If ever I’m took—” +</p> + +<p> +“Took, Captain!” interposed Rob, with his round eyes wide open. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Captain Cuttle darkly, “if ever I goes away, +meaning to come back to supper, and don’t come within hail again, +twenty-four hours arter my loss, go you to Brig Place and whistle that +“ere tune near my old moorings—not as if you was a meaning of it, +you understand, but as if you’d drifted there, promiscuous. If I answer +in that tune, you sheer off, my lad, and come back four-and-twenty hours +arterwards; if I answer in another tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till +I throw out further signals. Do you understand them orders, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“What am I to stand off and on of, Captain?” inquired Rob. +“The horse-road?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a smart lad for you!” cried the Captain eyeing him +sternly, “as don’t know his own native alphabet! Go away a bit and +come back again alternate—d’ye understand that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Captain,” said Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good my lad, then,” said the Captain, relenting. “Do +it!” +</p> + +<p> +That he might do it the better, Captain Cuttle sometimes condescended, of an +evening after the shop was shut, to rehearse this scene: retiring into the +parlour for the purpose, as into the lodgings of a supposititious MacStinger, +and carefully observing the behaviour of his ally, from the hole of espial he +had cut in the wall. Rob the Grinder discharged himself of his duty with so +much exactness and judgment, when thus put to the proof, that the Captain +presented him, at divers times, with seven sixpences, in token of satisfaction; +and gradually felt stealing over his spirit the resignation of a man who had +made provision for the worst, and taken every reasonable precaution against an +unrelenting fate. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, the Captain did not tempt ill-fortune, by being a whit more +venturesome than before. Though he considered it a point of good breeding in +himself, as a general friend of the family, to attend Mr Dombey’s wedding +(of which he had heard from Mr Perch), and to show that gentleman a pleasant +and approving countenance from the gallery, he had repaired to the church in a +hackney cabriolet with both windows up; and might have scrupled even to make +that 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 communion with the Establishment. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain got safe home again, and fell into the ordinary routine of his new +life, without encountering any more direct alarm from the enemy, than was +suggested to him by the daily bonnets in the street. But other subjects began +to lay heavy on the Captain’s mind. Walter’s ship was still unheard +of. No news came of old Sol Gills. Florence did not even know of the old +man’s 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 Florence. 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 into 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 visit from Florence, than from Mrs +MacStinger herself. +</p> + +<p> +It was a chill dark autumn evening, and Captain Cuttle had ordered a fire to be +kindled in the little back parlour, now more than ever like the cabin of a +ship. The rain fell fast, and the wind blew hard; and straying out on the +house-top by that stormy bedroom of his old friend, to take an observation of +the weather, the Captain’s heart died within him, when he saw how wild +and desolate it was. Not that he associated the weather of that time with poor +Walter’s destiny, or doubted that if Providence had doomed him to be lost +and shipwrecked, it was over, long ago; but that beneath an outward influence, +quite distinct from the subject-matter of his thoughts, the Captain’s +spirits sank, and his hopes turned pale, as those of wiser men had often done +before him, and will often do again. +</p> + +<p> +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 raindrops started like steel +beads; and he could hardly maintain himself aslant against the stiff +Nor’-Wester that came pressing against him, importunate to topple him +over the parapet, and throw him on the pavement below. If there were any Hope +alive that evening, the Captain thought, as he held his hat on, it certainly +kept house, and wasn’t out of doors; so the Captain, shaking his head in +a despondent manner, went in to look for it. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle descended slowly to the little back parlour, and, seated in his +accustomed chair, looked for it in the fire; but it was not there, though the +fire was bright. He took out his tobacco-box and pipe, and composing himself to +smoke, looked for it in the red glow from the bowl, and in the wreaths of +vapour that curled upward from his lips; but there was not so much as an atom +of the rust of Hope’s anchor in either. He tried a glass of grog; but +melancholy truth was at the bottom of that well, and he couldn’t finish +it. He made a turn or two in the shop, and looked for Hope among the +instruments; but they obstinately worked out reckonings for the missing ship, +in spite of any opposition he could offer, that ended at the bottom of the lone +sea. +</p> + +<p> +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 parlour 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 no bright face +of “Wal”r” in the house;—here the Captain transferred +his sleeve for a moment from the Midshipman’s uniform to his own +cheek;—the familiar wig and buttons of Sol Gills were a vision of the +past; Richard Whittington was knocked on the head; and every plan and project +in connexion with the Midshipman, lay drifting, without mast or rudder, on the +waste of waters. +</p> + +<p> +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 communicated 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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” said Captain Cuttle, softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody’s knuckles, Captain,” answered Rob the Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, with an abashed and guilty air, immediately walked on tiptoe to +the little parlour and locked himself in. Rob, opening the door, would have +parleyed with the visitor on the threshold if the visitor had come in female +guise; but the figure being of the male sex, and 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. +</p> + +<p> +“A job for Burgess and Co. at any rate,” said the visitor, looking +over his shoulder compassionately at his own legs, which were very wet and +covered with splashes. “Oh, how-de-do, Mr Gills?” +</p> + +<p> +The salutation was addressed to the Captain, now emerging from the back parlour +with a most transparent and utterly futile affectation of coming out by +accidence. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 Rob the Grinder, in the absence of any other resource, shook +hands with him in a most affectionate and cordial manner. +</p> + +<p> +“I say! I should like to speak a word to you, Mr Gills, if you +please,” said Toots at length, with surprising presence of mind. “I +say! Miss D.O.M. you know!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, with responsive gravity and mystery, immediately waved his hook +towards the little parlour, whither Mr Toots followed him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I beg your pardon though,” said Mr Toots, looking up in the +Captain’s face as he sat down in a chair by the fire, which the Captain +placed for him; “you don’t happen to know the Chicken at all; do +you, Mr Gills?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Chicken?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“The Game Chicken,” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain shaking his head, Mr Toots explained that the man alluded to was +the celebrated public character who had covered himself and his country with +glory in his contest with the Nobby Shropshire One; but this piece of +information did not appear to enlighten the Captain very much. +</p> + +<p> +“Because he’s outside: that’s all,” said Mr Toots. +“But it’s of no consequence; he won’t get very wet, +perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can pass the word for him in a moment,” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you would have the goodness to let him sit in the shop with +your young man,” chuckled Mr Toots, “I should be glad; because, you +know, he’s easily offended, and the damp’s rather bad for his +stamina. I’ll call him in, Mr Gills.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0425m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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 behind each ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down, Chicken,” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There ain’t no drain of nothing short handy, is there?” said +the Chicken, generally. “This here sluicing night is hard lines to a man +as lives on his condition.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle proffered a glass of rum, which the Chicken, throwing back his +head, emptied into himself, as into a cask, after proposing the brief +sentiment, “Towards us!” Mr Toots and the Captain returning then to +the parlour, and taking their seats before the fire, Mr Toots began: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Gills—” +</p> + +<p> +“Awast!” said the Captain. “My name’s Cuttle.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots looked greatly disconcerted, while the Captain proceeded gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Cap’en Cuttle is my name, and England is my nation, this here is +my dwelling-place, and blessed be creation—Job,” said the Captain, +as an index to his authority. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I couldn’t see Mr Gills, could I?” said Mr Toots; +“because—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 was +making a profound impression on that gentleman’s mind. “Because +he’s inwisible.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots in his agitation was going to reply that it was of no consequence at +all. But he corrected himself, and said, “Lor bless me!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, good Gracious, Miss Dombey don’t know—” Mr Toots +began. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I ask you, as a feeling heart,” said the Captain, dropping +his voice, “why should she know? why should she be made to know, until +such time as there wam’t any help for it? She took to old Sol Gills, did +that sweet creetur, with a kindness, with a affability, with +a—what’s the good of saying so? you know her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should hope so,” chuckled Mr Toots, with a conscious blush that +suffused his whole countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“And you come here from her?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“I should think so,” chuckled Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Then all I need observe, is,” said the Captain, “that you +know a angel, and are chartered a angel.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots instantly seized the Captain’s hand, and requested the favour of +his friendship. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word and honour,” said Mr Toots, earnestly, “I +should be very much obliged to you if you’d improve my acquaintance. I +should like to know you, Captain, very much. I really am in want of a friend, I +am. Little Dombey was my friend at old Blimber’s, and would have been +now, if he’d have lived. The Chicken,” said Mr Toots, in a forlorn +whisper, “is very well—admirable in his way—the sharpest man +perhaps in the world; there’s not a move he isn’t up to, everybody +says so—but I don’t know—he’s not everything. So she is +an angel, Captain. If there is an angel anywhere, it’s Miss Dombey. +That’s what I’ve always said. Really though, you know,” said +Mr Toots, “I should be very much obliged to you if you’d cultivate +my acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle received this proposal in a polite manner, but still without +committing himself to its acceptance; merely observing, “Ay, ay, my lad. +We shall see, we shall see;” and reminding Mr Toots of his immediate +mission, by inquiring to what he was indebted for the honour of that visit. +</p> + +<p> +“Why the fact is,” replied Mr Toots, “that it’s the +young woman I come from. Not Miss Dombey—Susan, you know. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain nodded his head once, with a grave expression of face indicative of +his regarding that young woman with serious respect. +</p> + +<p> +“And I’ll tell you how it happens,” said Mr Toots. “You +know, I go and call sometimes, on Miss Dombey. I don’t go there on +purpose, you know, but I happen to be in the neighbourhood very often; and when +I find myself there, why—why I call.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nat’rally,” observed the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr Toots. “I called this afternoon. Upon my word +and honour, I don’t think it’s possible to form an idea of the +angel Miss Dombey was this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain answered with a jerk of his head, implying that it might not be +easy to some people, but was quite so to him. +</p> + +<p> +“As I was coming out,” said Mr Toots, “the young woman, in +the most unexpected manner, took me into the pantry.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where she brought out,” said Mr Toots, “this newspaper. She +told me that she had kept it from Miss Dombey all day, on account of 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 she said—wait a minute; what was +it she said, though!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots, endeavouring to concentrate his mental powers on this question, +unintentionally fixed the Captain’s eye, and was so much discomposed by +its stern expression, that his difficulty in resuming the thread of his subject +was enhanced to a painful extent. +</p> + +<p> +“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 bye!” said Mr Toots, as the discovery flashed upon him, “you, +you know!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain glanced at the newspaper in Mr Toots’s hand, and breathed +short and hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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, directly afterwards. You’ve seen the paper, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, who had become cautious of reading the news, lest he should find +himself advertised at full length by Mrs MacStinger, shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I read the passage to you?” inquired Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain making a sign in the affirmative, Mr Toots read as follows, from +the Shipping Intelligence: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Southampton. The barque Defiance, Henry James, Commander, arrived +in this port today, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” cried the Captain, striking his clenched hand on the table. +“Heave ahead, my lad!” +</p> + +<p> +“—latitude,” repeated Mr Toots, with a startled glance at the +Captain, “and longitude so-and-so,—‘the look-out observed, +half an hour before sunset, some fragments of a wreck, drifting at about the +distance of a mile. The weather being clear, and the barque making no way, a +boat was hoisted out, with orders to inspect the same, when they were found to +consist of sundry large spars, and a part of the main rigging of an English +brig, of about five hundred tons burden, together with a portion of the stem on +which the words and letters “Son and H-” were yet plainly legible. +No vestige of any dead body was to be seen upon the floating fragments. Log of +the Defiance states, that a breeze springing up in the 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 Barbados, are now +set at rest for ever; that she broke up in the last hurricane; and that every +soul on board perished.’” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, like all mankind, little knew how much hope had survived within +him under discouragement, until he felt its death-shock. During the reading of +the paragraph, and for a minute or two afterwards, he sat with his gaze fixed +on the modest Mr Toots, like a man entranced; then, suddenly rising, and +putting on his glazed hat, which, in his visitor’s honour, he had laid +upon the table, the Captain turned his back, and bent his head down on the +little chimneypiece. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh” upon my word and honour,” cried Mr Toots, whose tender +heart was moved by the Captain’s unexpected distress, “this is a +most wretched sort of affair this world is! Somebody’s always dying, or +going and doing something uncomfortable in it. I’m sure I never should +have looked forward so much, to coming into my property, if I had known this. I +never saw such a world. It’s a great deal worse than +Blimber’s.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, without altering his position, signed to Mr Toots not to mind +him; and presently turned round, with his glazed hat thrust back upon his ears, +and his hand composing and smoothing his brown face. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my dear lad,” said the Captain, “farewell! +Wal”r my child, my boy, and man, I loved you! He warn’t my flesh +and blood,” said the Captain, looking at the fire—“I +ain’t got none—but something of what a father feels when he loses a +son, I feel in losing Wal”r. For why?” said the Captain. +“Because it ain’t one loss, but a round dozen. Where’s that +there young school-boy with the rosy face and curly hair, that used to be as +merry in this here parlour, come round every week, as a piece of music? Gone +down with Wal”r. Where’s that there fresh lad, that nothing +couldn’t tire nor put out, and that sparkled up and blushed so, when we +joked him about Heart’s Delight, that he was beautiful to look at? Gone +down with Wal”r. Where’s that there man’s spirit, all afire, +that wouldn’t see the old man hove down for a minute, and cared nothing +for itself? Gone down with Wal”r. It ain’t one Wal”r. There +was a dozen Wal”rs that I know’d and loved, all holding round his +neck when he went down, and they’re a-holding round mine now!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots sat silent: folding and refolding the newspaper as small as possible +upon his knee. +</p> + +<p> +“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-bye to Ned Cuttle; and what am I to put in my accounts +that he’s a looking down upon, respecting 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Drawing a heavy sigh, the Captain turned to Mr Toots, and roused himself to a +sustained consciousness of that gentleman’s presence. +</p> + +<p> +“My lad,” said the Captain, “you must tell the young woman +honestly that this here fatal news is too correct. They don’t romance, +you see, on such pints. It’s entered on the ship’s log, and +that’s the truest book as a man can write. To-morrow morning,” said +the Captain, “I’ll step out and make inquiries; but they’ll +lead to no good. They can’t do it. If you’ll give me a look-in in +the forenoon, you shall know what I have heerd; but tell the young woman from +Cap’en Cuttle, that it’s over. Over!” And the Captain, +hooking off his glazed hat, pulled his handkerchief out of the crown, wiped his +grizzled head despairingly, and tossed the handkerchief in again, with the +indifference of deep dejection. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I assure you,” said Mr Toots, “really I am dreadfully +sorry. Upon my word I am, though I wasn’t acquainted with the party. Do +you think Miss Dombey will be very much affected, Captain Gills—I mean Mr +Cuttle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Lord love you,” returned the Captain, with something of +compassion for Mr Toots’s innocence. “When she warn’t no +higher than that, they were as fond of one another as two young doves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were they though!” said Mr Toots, with a considerably lengthened +face. +</p> + +<p> +“They were made for one another,” said the Captain, mournfully; +“but what signifies that now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word and honour,” cried Mr Toots, blurting out his words +through a singular combination of awkward chuckles and emotion, +“I’m even more sorry than I was before. You know, Captain Gills, +I—I positively adore Miss Dombey;—I—I am perfectly sore with +loving her;” the burst with which this confession forced itself out of +the unhappy Mr Toots, bespoke the vehemence of his feelings; “but what +would be the good of my regarding her in this manner, if I wasn’t truly +sorry for her feeling pain, whatever was the cause of it. Mine ain’t a +selfish affection, you know,” said Mr Toots, in the confidence engendered +by his having been a witness of the Captain’s tenderness. +“It’s the sort of thing with me, Captain Gills, that if I could be +run over—or—or trampled upon—or—or thrown off a very +high place-or anything of that sort—for Miss Dombey’s sake, it +would be the most delightful thing that could happen to me.” +</p> + +<p> +All this, Mr Toots said in a suppressed voice, to prevent its reaching the +jealous ears of the Chicken, who objected to the softer emotions; which effort +of restraint, coupled with the intensity of his feelings, made him red 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 consolingly on the back, and bade him cheer up. +</p> + +<p> +“Thankee, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “it’s kind of +you, in the midst of your own troubles, to say so. I’m very much obliged +to you. As I said before, I really want a friend, and should be glad to have +your acquaintance. Although I am very well off,” said Mr Toots, with +energy, “you can’t think what a miserable Beast I am. The hollow +crowd, you know, when they see me with the Chicken, and characters of +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 satisfaction to me to come back to-morrow, or to come back +fifty times.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots, with these words, shook the Captain’s hand; and disguising such +traces of his agitation as could be disguised on so short a notice, before the +Chicken’s penetrating glance, rejoined that eminent gentleman in the +shop. The Chicken, who was apt to be jealous of his ascendancy, eyed Captain +Cuttle with anything but favour as he took leave of Mr Toots, but followed his +patron without being otherwise demonstrative of his ill-will: leaving the +Captain oppressed with sorrow; and Rob the Grinder elevated with joy, on +account of having had the honour of staring for nearly half an hour at the +conqueror of the Nobby Shropshire One. +</p> + +<p> +Long after Rob was fast asleep in his bed under the counter, the Captain sat +looking at the fire; and long after there was no fire to look at, the Captain +sat gazing on the rusty bars, with unavailing thoughts of Walter and old Sol +crowding through his mind. Retirement to the stormy chamber at the top of the +house brought no rest with it; and the Captain rose up in the morning, +sorrowful and unrefreshed. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the City offices were opened, the Captain issued forth to the +counting-house of Dombey and Son. But there was no opening of the +Midshipman’s windows that morning. Rob the Grinder, by the +Captain’s orders, left the shutters closed, and the house was as a house +of death. +</p> + +<p> +It chanced that Mr Carker was entering the office, as Captain Cuttle arrived at +the door. Receiving the Manager’s benison gravely and silently, Captain +Cuttle made bold to accompany him into his own room. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Captain Cuttle,” said Mr Carker, taking up his usual +position before the fireplace, and keeping on his hat, “this is a bad +business.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have received the news as was in print yesterday, Sir?” said +the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr Carker, “we have received it! It was +accurately stated. The underwriters suffer a considerable loss. We are very +sorry. No help! Such is life!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker pared his nails delicately with a penknife, and smiled at the +Captain, who was standing by the door looking at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I excessively regret poor Gay,” said Carker, “and the crew. +I understand there were some of our very best men among ’em. It always +happens so. Many men with families too. A comfort to reflect that poor Gay had +no family, Captain Cuttle!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain stood rubbing his chin, and looking at the Manager. The Manager +glanced at the unopened letters lying on his desk, and took up the newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything I can do for you, Captain Cuttle?” he asked +looking off it, with a smiling and expressive glance at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you could set my mind at rest, Sir, on something it’s +uneasy about,” returned the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” exclaimed the Manager, “what’s that? Come, +Captain Cuttle, I must trouble you to be quick, if you please. I am much +engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lookee here, Sir,” said the Captain, advancing a step. +“Afore my friend Wal”r went on this here disastrous +voyage—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lad,” returned the Captain, slowly—“you are +a’most a lad to me, and so I don’t ask your pardon for that slip of +a word,—if you find any pleasure in this here sport, you ain’t the +gentleman I took you for. And if you ain’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 warn’t a going away for his own good, or for promotion, he +know’d. It was my belief that he was wrong, and I told him so, and I come +here, your head governor being absent, to ask a question or two of you in a +civil way, for my own satisfaction. Them 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 it for +Barbados Harbour. Mr Carker,” said the Captain, in the goodness of his +nature, “when I was here last, we was very pleasant together. If I +ain’t been altogether so pleasant myself this morning, on account of this +poor lad, and if I have chafed again any observation of yours that I might have +fended off, my name is Ed’ard Cuttle, and I ask your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Cuttle,” returned the Manager, with all possible +politeness, “I must ask you to do me a favour.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is it, Sir?” inquired the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“To have the goodness to walk off, if you please,” rejoined the +Manager, stretching forth his arm, “and to carry your jargon somewhere +else.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you what, Captain Cuttle,” said the Manager, shaking his +forefinger at him, and showing him all his teeth, but still amiably smiling, +“I was much too lenient with you when you came here before. You belong to +an artful and audacious set of people. In my desire to save young +what’s-his-name from being kicked out of this place, neck and crop, my +good Captain, I tolerated you; but for once, and only once. Now, go, my +friend!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was absolutely rooted to the ground, and speechless— +</p> + +<p> +“Go,” said the good-humoured Manager, gathering up his skirts, and +standing astride upon the hearth-rug, “like a sensible fellow, and let us +have no turning out, or any such violent measures. If Mr Dombey were here, +Captain, you might be obliged to leave in a more ignominious manner, possibly. +I merely say, Go!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are deep, Captain Cuttle,” pursued Carker, with the easy and +vivacious frankness of a man of the world who knew the world too well to be +ruffled by any discovery of misdoing, when it did not immediately concern +himself, “but you are not quite out of soundings, either—neither +you nor your absent friend, Captain. What have you done with your absent +friend, hey?” +</p> + +<p> +Again the Captain laid his hand upon his chest. After drawing another deep +breath, he conjured himself to “stand by!” But in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“You hatch nice little plots, and hold nice little councils, and make +nice little appointments, and receive nice little visitors, too, Captain, +hey?” said Carker, bending his brows upon him, without showing his teeth +any the less: “but it’s a bold measure to come here afterwards. Not +like your discretion! You conspirators, and hiders, and runners-away, should +know better than that. Will you oblige me by going?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lad,” gasped the Captain, in a choked and trembling voice, and +with a curious action going on in the ponderous fist; “there’s a +many words I could wish to say to you, but I don’t rightly know where +they’re stowed just at present. My young friend, Wal”r, was +drownded only last night, according to my reckoning, and it puts me out, you +see. But you and me will come alongside o’one another again, my +lad,” said the Captain, holding up his hook, “if we live.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be anything but shrewd in you, my good fellow, 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 neighbours, my good Captain; but the confidence of +this House, or of any member of this House, is not to be abused and undermined +while I have eyes and ears. Good day!” said Mr Carker, nodding his head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain glanced, in passing through the outer counting-house, at the desk +where he knew poor Walter had been used to sit, now occupied by another young +boy, with a face almost as fresh and hopeful as his on the day when they tapped +the famous last bottle but one of the old Madeira, in the little back parlour. +The nation of ideas, thus awakened, did the Captain a great deal of good; it +softened him in the very height of his anger, and brought the tears into his +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Arrived at the wooden Midshipman’s again, and sitting down in a corner of +the dark shop, the Captain’s indignation, strong as it was, could make no +head against his grief. Passion seemed not only to do wrong and violence to the +memory of the dead, but to be infected by death, and to droop and decline +beside it. All the living knaves and liars in the world, were nothing to the +honesty and truth of one dead friend. +</p> + +<p> +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 sometimes, and keenly +too, for having ever connived at Walter’s innocent deceit, he thought at +least as often of the Mr Carker whom no sea could ever render up; and the Mr +Dombey, whom he now began to perceive was as far beyond human 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. +</p> + +<p> +But the Captain was not unmindful, for all that, of such decent and rest +observances in memory of poor Walter, as he felt within his power. Rousing +himself, and rousing Rob the Grinder (who in the unnatural twilight was fast +asleep), the Captain sallied forth with his attendant at his heels, and the +door-key in his pocket, and repairing to one of those convenient 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 immensely too small, and one for himself, which was immensely too +large. He also provided Rob with a species of hat, greatly to be admired for +its symmetry and usefulness, as well as for a happy blending of the mariner +with the coal-heaver; which is usually termed a sou’wester; and which was +something of a novelty in connexion with the instrument business. In their +several garments, which the vendor declared to be such a miracle in point of +fit as nothing but a rare combination of fortuitous circumstances ever brought +about, and the fashion of which was unparalleled within the memory of the +oldest inhabitant, the Captain and Grinder immediately arrayed themselves: +presenting a spectacle fraught with wonder to all who beheld it. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain reserved, until some fitter time, the consideration of Mr +Toots’s offer of friendship, and thus dismissed him. Captain +Cuttle’s spirits were so low, in truth, that he half determined, that +day, to take no further precautions against surprise from Mrs MacStinger, but +to abandon himself recklessly to chance, and be indifferent to what might +happen. As evening came on, he fell into a better frame of mind, however; and +spoke much of Walter to Rob the Grinder, whose attention and fidelity he +likewise incidentally commended. Rob did not blush to hear the Captain earnest +in his praises, but sat staring at him, and affecting to snivel with sympathy, +and making a feint of being virtuous, and treasuring up every word he said +(like a young spy as he was) with very promising deceit. +</p> + +<p> +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 Service. And +reading softly to himself, in the little back parlour, and stopping now and +then to wipe his eyes, the Captain, in a true and simple spirit, committed +Walter’s body to the deep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br /> +Contrasts</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>urn +we our eyes upon two homes; not lying side by side, but wide apart, though both +within easy range and reach of the great city of London. +</p> + +<p> +The first is situated in the green and wooded country near Norwood. It is not a +mansion; it is of no pretensions as to size; but it is beautifully arranged, +and tastefully kept. The lawn, the soft, smooth slope, the flower-garden, the +clumps of trees where graceful forms of ash and willow are not wanting, the +conservatory, the rustic verandah with sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined +about the pillars, the simple exterior of the house, the well-ordered offices, +though all upon the 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 house of refinement and +luxury. Rich colours, excellently blended, meet the eye at every turn; in the +furniture—its proportions admirably devised to suit the shapes and sizes +of the small rooms; on the walls; upon the floors; tingeing and subduing the +light that comes in through the odd glass doors and windows here and there. +There are a few choice prints and pictures too; in quaint nooks and recesses +there is no want of books; and there are games of skill and chance set forth on +tables—fantastic chessmen, dice, backgammon, cards, and billiards. +</p> + +<p> +And yet amidst this opulence of comfort, there is something in the general air +that is not well. Is it that the carpets and the cushions are too soft and +noiseless, so that those who move or repose among them seem to act by stealth? +Is it that the prints and pictures do not 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 colour—and no more? Is it +that the books have all their gold outside, and that the titles of the greater +part qualify them to be companions of the prints and pictures? Is it that the +completeness and the beauty of the place are here and there belied by an +affectation of humility, in some unimportant and inexpensive regard, which is +as false as the face of the too truly painted portrait hanging yonder, or its +original at 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 himself, which gives a vague expression of himself to everything +about him? +</p> + +<p> +It is Mr Carker the Manager who sits in the easy chair. A gaudy parrot in a +burnished cage upon the table tears at the wires with her beak, and goes +walking, upside down, in its dome-top, shaking her house and screeching; but Mr +Carker is indifferent to the bird, and looks with a musing smile at a picture +on the opposite wall. +</p> + +<p> +“A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps it is a Juno; perhaps a Potiphar’s Wife”; perhaps some +scornful Nymph—according as the Picture Dealers found the market, when +they christened it. It is the figure of a woman, supremely handsome, who, +turning away, but with her face addressed to the spectator, flashes her proud +glance upon him. +</p> + +<p> +It is like Edith. +</p> + +<p> +With a passing gesture of his hand at the picture—what! a menace? No; yet +something like it. A wave as of triumph? No; yet more like that. An insolent +salute wafted from his lips? No; yet like that too—he resumes his +breakfast, and calls to the chafing and imprisoned bird, who coming down into a +pendant gilded hoop within the cage, like a great wedding-ring, swings in it, +for his delight. +</p> + +<p> +The second home is on the other side of London, near to where the busy great +north road of bygone days is silent and almost deserted, except by wayfarers +who toil along on foot. It is a poor small house, barely and sparely furnished, +but very clean; and there is even an attempt to decorate it, shown in the +homely flowers trained about the porch and in the narrow garden. The +neighbourhood in which it stands has as little of the country to recommend it, +as it has of the town. It is neither of the town nor country. The former, like +the giant in his travelling boots, has made a stride and passed it, and has set +his brick-and-mortar heel a long way in advance; but the intermediate space +between the giant’s feet, as yet, is only blighted country, and not town; +and, here, among a few tall chimneys belching smoke all day and night, and +among the brick-fields and the lanes where 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 comes occasionally, +though he swears every time to come no more—this second home is to be +found.” +</p> + +<p> +She who inhabits it, is she who left the first in her devotion to an outcast +brother. She withdrew from that home its redeeming spirit, and from its +master’s breast his solitary angel: but though his liking for her is +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 grey, is +she, his sister, who, of all the world, went over to him in his shame and put +her hand in his, and with a sweet composure and determination, led him +hopefully upon his barren way. +</p> + +<p> +“It is early, John,” she said. “Why do you go so +early?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had ever seen or known him, John.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest sister! Is there anything within the range of rejoicing or +regret, in which I am not sure of your companionship?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you think not, John, for surely there is nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She drew the hand which had been resting on his shoulder, round his neck, and +answered, with some hesitation: +</p> + +<p> +“No, not quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“True, true!” he said; “you think I might have done him no +harm if I had allowed myself to know him better?” +</p> + +<p> +“Think! I know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not,” she said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter when I think of +him for that which made it so much heavier then.” He checked himself in +his tone of melancholy, and smiled upon her as he said “Good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, dear John! In the evening, at the old time and place, I shall +meet you as usual on your way home. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him, was his home, his life, his +universe, and yet it was a portion of his punishment and grief; for in the +cloud he saw upon it—though serene and calm as any radiant cloud at +sunset—and in the constancy and devotion of her life, and in the +sacrifice she had made of ease, enjoyment, and hope, he saw the bitter fruits +of his old crime, for ever ripe and fresh. +</p> + +<p> +She stood at the door looking after him, with her hands loosely clasped in each +other, as he made his way over the frowzy and uneven patch of ground which lay +before their house, which had once (and not long ago) been a pleasant meadow, +and was now a very waste, with a disorderly crop of beginnings of mean houses, +rising out of the rubbish, as if they had been unskilfully sown there. Whenever +he looked back—as once or twice he did—her cordial face shone like +a light upon his heart; but when he plodded on his way, and saw her not, the +tears were in her eyes as she stood watching him. +</p> + +<p> +Her pensive form was not long idle at the door. There was daily duty to +discharge, and daily work to do—for such commonplace spirits that are not +heroic, often work hard with their hands—and Harriet was soon busy with +her household tasks. These discharged, and the poor house made quite neat and +orderly, she counted her little stock of money, with an anxious face, and went +out thoughtfully to buy some necessaries for their table, planning and +conniving, as she went, how to save. So sordid are the lives of such low +natures, who are not only not heroic to their valets and waiting-women, but +have neither valets nor waiting-women to be heroic to withal! +</p> + +<p> +While she was absent, and there was no one in the house, there approached it by +a different way from that the brother had taken, a gentleman, a very little +past his prime of life perhaps, but of a healthy florid hue, an upright +presence, and a bright clear aspect, that was gracious and good-humoured. His +eyebrows were still black, and so was much of his hair; the sprinkling of grey +observable among the latter, graced the former very much, and showed his broad +frank brow and honest eyes to great advantage. +</p> + +<p> +After knocking once at the door, and obtaining no response, this gentleman sat +down on a bench in the little porch to wait. A certain skilful action of his +fingers as he hummed some bars, and beat time on the seat beside him, seemed to +denote the musician; and the extraordinary satisfaction he derived from humming +something very slow and long, which had no recognisable tune, seemed to denote +that he was a scientific one. +</p> + +<p> +The gentleman was still twirling a theme, which seemed to go round and round +and round, and in and in and in, and to involve itself like a corkscrew twirled +upon a table, without getting any nearer to anything, when Harriet appeared +returning. He rose up as she advanced, and stood with his head uncovered. +</p> + +<p> +“You are come again, Sir!” she said, faltering. +</p> + +<p> +“I take that liberty,” he answered. “May I ask for five +minutes of your leisure?” +</p> + +<p> +After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the door, and gave him admission +to the little parlour. 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She was somewhat confused and agitated, and could make no ready answer. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the mirror of truth,” said her visitor, “and +gentleness. Excuse my trusting to it, and returning.” +</p> + +<p> +His manner of saying these words, divested them entirely 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 sincerity. +</p> + +<p> +“The disparity between our ages,” said the gentleman, “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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is a kind of pride, Sir,” she returned, after a +moment’s silence, “or what may be supposed to be pride, which is +mere duty. I hope I cherish no other.” +</p> + +<p> +“For yourself,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“For myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—pardon me—” suggested the gentleman. “For +your brother John?” +</p> + +<p> +“Proud of his love, I am,” said Harriet, looking full upon her +visitor, and changing her manner on the instant—not that it was less +composed and quiet, but that there was a deep impassioned earnestness in it +that made the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness, “and +proud of him. Sir, you who strangely know the story of his life, and repeated +it to me when you were here last—” +</p> + +<p> +“Merely to make my way into your confidence,” interposed the +gentleman. “For heaven’s sake, don’t suppose—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” she said, “you revived it, in my hearing, with a +kind and good purpose. I am quite sure of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you,” returned her visitor, pressing her hand hastily. +“I am much obliged to you. You do me justice, I assure you. You were +going to say, that I, who know the story of John Carker’s +life—” +</p> + +<p> +“May think it pride in me,” she continued, “when I say that I +am proud of him! I am. You know the time was, when I was not—when I could +not be—but that is past. The humility of many years, the uncomplaining +expiation, the true repentance, the terrible regret, the pain I know he has +even in my affection, which he thinks has cost me dear, though Heaven knows I +am happy, but for his sorrow I—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, inflict a punishment that cannot be recalled; while there is a GOD +above us to work changes in the hearts He made.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your brother is an altered man,” returned the gentleman, +compassionately. “I assure you I don’t doubt it.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was an altered man when he did wrong,” said Harriet. “He +is an altered man again, and is his true self now, believe me, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we go on,” said her visitor, rubbing his forehead, in an +absent manner, with his hand, and then drumming thoughtfully on the table, +“we go on in our clockwork routine, from day to day, and can’t make +out, or follow, these changes. They—they’re a metaphysical sort of +thing. We—we haven’t leisure for it. We—we haven’t +courage. They’re not taught at schools or colleges, and we don’t +know how to set about it. In short, we are so d——d +business-like,” said the gentleman, walking to the window, and back, and +sitting down again, in a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vexation. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” said the gentleman, rubbing his forehead 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 everything for granted, and so +we go on, until whatever we do, good, bad, or indifferent, we do from habit. +Habit is all I shall have to report, when I am called upon to plead to my +conscience, on my death-bed. ‘Habit,’ says I; ‘I was deaf, +dumb, blind, and paralytic, to a million things, from habit.’ ‘Very +business-like indeed, Mr What’s-your-name,’ says Conscience, +‘but it won’t do here!’” +</p> + +<p> +The gentleman got up and walked to the window again and back: seriously uneasy, +though giving his uneasiness this peculiar expression. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Harriet,” he said, resuming his chair, “I wish you +would let me serve you. Look at me; I ought to look honest, for I know I am so, +at present. Do I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe every word you have said,” he returned. “I am full +of self-reproach that I might have known this and seen this, and known you and +seen you, any time these dozen years, and that I never have. I hardly know how +I ever got here—creature that I am, not only of my own habit, but of +other people’s! But having done so, let me do something. I ask it in all +honour and respect. You inspire me with both, in the highest degree. Let me do +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are contented, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 repeated, fancying that had made some impression on her. +“I have been in the habit of thinking that there was nothing wanting to +be done for him; that it was all settled and over; in short, of not thinking at +all about it. I am different now. Let me do something for him. You too,” +said the visitor, with careful delicacy, “have need to watch your health +closely, for his sake, and I fear it fails.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whoever you may be, Sir,” answered Harriet, raising her eyes to +his face, “I am deeply grateful to you. I feel certain that in all you +say, you have no object in the world but kindness to us. But years have passed +since we began this life; and to take from my brother any part of what has so +endeared him to me, and so proved his better resolution—any fragment of +the merit of his unassisted, obscure, and forgotten reparation—would be +to diminish the comfort it will be to him and me, when that time comes to each +of us, of which you spoke just now. I thank you better with these tears than +any words. Believe it, pray.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If the day should ever come,” said Harriet, “when he is +restored, in part, to the position he lost—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 animosity shown to him by his +brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“You touch upon a subject that is never breathed between us; not even +between us,” said Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“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 favours.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are they?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our choice of friends,” she answered, smiling faintly, “is +not so great, that I need any time for consideration. I can promise +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“The second, that you will allow me sometimes, say every Monday morning, +at nine o’clock—habit again—I must be businesslike,” +said the gentleman, with a whimsical inclination to quarrel with himself on +that head, “in walking past, to see you at the door or window. I +don’t ask to come in, as your brother 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, grey-haired +already, and fast growing greyer—whom you may ever command.” +</p> + +<p> +The cordial face looked up in his; confided in it; and promised. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand, as before,” said the gentleman, rising, “that +you purpose not to mention my visit to John Carker, lest he should be at all +distressed by my acquaintance with his history. I am glad of it, for it is out +of the ordinary course of things, and—habit again!” said the +gentleman, checking himself impatiently, “as if there were no better +course than the ordinary course!” +</p> + +<p> +With that he turned to go, and walking, bareheaded, to the outside of the +little porch, took leave of her with such a happy mixture of unconstrained +respect and unaffected interest, as no breeding could have taught, no truth +mistrusted, and nothing but a pure and single heart expressed. +</p> + +<p> +Many half-forgotten emotions were awakened in the sister’s mind by this +visit. It was so very long since any other visitor had crossed their threshold; +it was so very long since any voice of apathy had made sad music in her ears; +that the stranger’s figure remained present to her, hours afterwards, +when she sat at the window, plying her needle; and his words seemed newly +spoken, again and again. He had touched the spring that opened her whole life; +and if she lost him for a short space, it was only among the many shapes of the +one great recollection of which that life was made. +</p> + +<p> +Musing and working by turns; now constraining herself to be steady at her +needle for a long time together, and now letting her work fall, unregarded, on +her lap, and straying wheresoever her busier thoughts led, Harriet Carker found +the hours glide by her, and the day steal on. The morning, which had been +bright and clear, gradually became overcast; a sharp wind set in; the rain fell +heavily; and a dark mist drooping over the distant town, hid it from the view. +</p> + +<p> +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 towards the town. Swallowed up in one phase or other of +its immensity, towards which they seemed impelled by a desperate fascination, +they never returned. Food for the hospitals, the churchyards, the prisons, the +river, fever, madness, vice, and death,—they passed on to the monster, +roaring in the distance, and were lost. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0457m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +The chill wind was howling, and the rain was falling, and the day was darkening +moodily, when Harriet, raising her eyes from the work on which she had long +since been engaged with unremitting constancy, saw one of these travellers +approaching. +</p> + +<p> +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—dust, chalk, clay, gravel—clotted on her grey cloak by the +streaming wet; no bonnet on her head, nothing to defend her rich black hair +from the rain, but a torn handkerchief; with the fluttering ends of which, and +with her hair, the wind blinded her so that she often stopped to push them +back, and look upon the way she was going. +</p> + +<p> +She was in the act of doing so, when Harriet observed her. As her hands, +parting on her sunburnt forehead, swept across her face, and threw aside the +hindrances that encroached upon it, there was a reckless and regardless beauty +in it: a dauntless and depraved indifference to more than weather: a +carelessness of what was cast upon her bare head from Heaven or earth: that, +coupled with her misery and loneliness, touched the heart of her fellow-woman. +She thought of all that was perverted and debased within her, no less than +without: of modest graces of the mind, hardened and steeled, like these +attractions of the person; of the many gifts of the Creator flung to the winds +like the wild hair; of all the beautiful ruin upon which the storm was beating +and the night was coming. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Her fallen sister came on, looking far before her, trying with her eager eyes +to pierce the mist in which the city was enshrouded, and glancing, now and +then, from side to side, with the bewildered—and uncertain aspect of a +stranger. Though her tread was bold and courageous, she was fatigued, and after +a moment of irresolution,—sat down upon a heap of stones; seeking no +shelter from the rain, but letting it rain on her as it would. +</p> + +<p> +She was now opposite the house; raising her head after resting it for a moment +on both hands, her eyes met those of Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you rest in the rain?” said Harriet, gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I have no other resting-place,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +“But there are many places of shelter near here. This,” referring +to the little porch, “is better than where you were. You are very welcome +to rest here.” +</p> + +<p> +The wanderer looked at her, in doubt and surprise, but without any expression +of thankfulness; and sitting down, and taking off one of her worn shoes to beat +out the fragments of stone and dust that were inside, showed that her foot was +cut and bleeding. +</p> + +<p> +Harriet uttering an expression of pity, the traveller looked up with a +contemptuous and incredulous smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come in and wash it,” answered Harriet, mildly, “and let me +give you something to bind it up.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +weakness; with a violent heaving of her breast, and struggle for recovery, that +showed how unusual the emotion was with her. +</p> + +<p> +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, before resuming her road (which she showed her +anxiety to do), to dry her clothes before the fire. Again, more in gratitude +than with any evidence of concern in her own behalf, she sat down in front of +it, and unbinding the 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay 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!” +</p> + +<p> +She held up her hair roughly with both hands; seizing it as if she would have +torn it out; then, threw it down again, and flung it back as though it were a +heap of serpents. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you a stranger in this place?” asked Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“A stranger!” she returned, stopping between each short reply, and +looking at the fire. “Yes. Ten or a dozen years a stranger. I have had no +almanack where I have been. Ten or a dozen years. I don’t know this part. +It’s much altered since I went away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been far?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven help you and forgive you!” was the gentle answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Heaven help me and forgive me!” she returned, nodding her head +at the fire. “If man would help some of us a little more, God would +forgive us all the sooner perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +But she was softened by the earnest manner, and the cordial face so full of +mildness and so free from judgment, of her, and said, less hardily: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing we may not hope to repair; it is never too late to +amend,” said Harriet. “You are penitent?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered. “I am not! I can’t be. I am no such +thing. Why should I 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?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose up, bound her handkerchief about her head, and turned to move away. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going?” said Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“Yonder,” she answered, pointing with her hand. “To +London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any home to go to?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I have a mother. She’s as much a mother, as her dwelling +is a home,” she answered with a bitter laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you married?” said the other, faintly, as she took it. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I live here with my brother. We have not much to spare, or I would +give you more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you let me kiss you?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Gone into the deepening night, and howling wind, and pelting rain; urging her +way on towards the mist-enshrouded city where the blurred lights gleamed; and +with her black hair, and disordered head-gear, fluttering round her reckless +face. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br /> +Another Mother and Daughter</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n an +ugly and dark room, an old woman, ugly and dark too, sat listening to the wind +and rain, and crouching over a meagre fire. More constant to the last-named +occupation than the first, she never changed her attitude, unless, when any +stray drops of rain fell hissing on the smouldering embers, to raise her head +with an awakened attention to the whistling and pattering outside, and +gradually to let it fall again lower and lower and lower as she sunk into a +brooding state of thought, in which the noises of the night were as +indistinctly regarded as is the monotonous rolling of a sea by one who sits in +contemplation on its shore. +</p> + +<p> +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 objects 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 if she were watching +at some witch’s altar for a favourable token; and but that the movement +of her chattering jaws and trembling chin was too frequent and too fast for the +slow flickering of the fire, it would have seemed an illusion wrought by the +light, as it came and went, upon a face as motionless as the form to which it +belonged. +</p> + +<p> +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 exaggerated 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 +unrecognised, and sat staring at her fire, unobserved. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that?” she said, looking over her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“One who brings you news, was the answer, in a woman’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“News? Where from?” +</p> + +<p> +“From abroad.” +</p> + +<p> +“From beyond seas?” cried the old woman, starting up. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, from beyond seas.” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman raked the fire together, hurriedly, and going close to her +visitor who had entered, and shut the door, and who now stood in the middle of +the room, put her hand upon the drenched cloak, and turned the unresisting +figure, so as to have it in the full light of the fire. She did not find what +she had expected, whatever that might be; for she let the cloak go again, and +uttered a querulous cry of disappointment and misery. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” asked her visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Oho! Oho!” cried the old woman, turning her face upward, with a +terrible howl. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” asked the visitor again. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve not been the death of her yet, if your name’s +Marwood,” said the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen my gal, then?” cried the old woman. “Has she +wrote to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“She said you couldn’t read,” returned the other. +</p> + +<p> +“No more I can!” exclaimed the old woman, wringing her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no light here?” said the other, looking round the room. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman, mumbling and shaking her head, and muttering to herself about +her handsome daughter, brought a candle from a cupboard in the corner, and +thrusting it into the fire with a trembling hand, 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 downwards, and a handkerchief she had worn +upon her head lying on the table by her side. +</p> + +<p> +“She sent to me by word of mouth then, my gal, Alice?” mumbled the +old woman, after waiting for some moments. “What did she say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Look,” returned the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman repeated the word in a scared uncertain way; and, shading her +eyes, looked at the speaker, round the room, and at the speaker once again. +</p> + +<p> +“Alice said look again, mother;” and the speaker fixed her eyes +upon her. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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 before her, clasping her +knees, laying her head against them, and still rocking herself to and fro with +every frantic demonstration of which her vitality was capable. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mother,” returned Alice, stooping forward for a moment and +kissing her, but endeavouring, even in the act, to disengage herself from her +embrace. “I am here, at last. Let go, mother; let go. Get up, and sit in +your chair. What good does this do?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s come back harder than she went!” cried the mother, +looking up in her face, and still holding to her knees. “She don’t +care for me! after all these years, and all the wretched life I’ve +led!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Her mother rose, and cried, and wrung her hands, and stood at a little distance +gazing on her. Then she took the candle again, and going round her, surveyed +her from head to foot, making a low moaning all the time. Then she put the +candle down, resumed her chair, and beating her hands together to a kind of +weary tune, and rolling herself from side to side, continued moaning and +wailing to herself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“It ain’t that!” cried the mother. “She knows +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear that!” exclaimed the mother. “After all these years she +threatens to desert me in the moment of her coming back again!” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you, mother, for the second time, there have been years for me as +well as you,” said Alice. “Come back harder? Of course I have come +back harder. What else did you expect?” +</p> + +<p> +“Harder to me! To her own dear mother!” cried the old woman +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know who began to harden me, if my own dear mother +didn’t,” she returned, sitting with her folded arms, and knitted +brows, and 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I!” cried the old woman. “To my gal! A mother dutiful to her +own child!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Her mother sat mowing, and mumbling, and shaking her head, but whether angrily +or remorsefully, or in denial, or only in her physical infirmity, did not +appear. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a child called Alice Marwood,” said the daughter, with a +laugh, and looking down at herself in terrible derision of herself, +“born, among poverty and neglect, and nursed in it. Nobody taught her, +nobody stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody!” echoed the mother, pointing to herself, and striking her +breast. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on! go on!” exclaimed the mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going on,” returned the daughter. “There was a girl +called Alice Marwood. She was handsome. She was taught too late, and taught all +wrong. She was too well cared for, too well trained, too well helped on, too +much looked after. You were very fond of her—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“After all these years!” whined the old woman. “My gal begins +with this.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll soon have ended,” said the daughter. “There was +a criminal called Alice Marwood—a girl still, but deserted and an +outcast. And she was tried, and she was sentenced. And lord, how the gentlemen +in the Court talked about it! and how grave the judge was on her duty, and on +her having perverted the gifts of nature—as if he didn’t know +better than anybody there, that they had been made curses to her!—and how +he preached about the strong arm of the Law—so very strong to save her, +when she was an innocent and helpless little wretch!—and how solemn and +religious it all was! I have thought of that, many times since, to be +sure!” +</p> + +<p> +She folded her arms tightly on her breast, and laughed in a tone that made the +howl of the old woman musical. +</p> + +<p> +“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 is come back a +woman. Such a woman as she ought to be, after all this. In good time, there +will be more solemnity, and more fine talk, and more strong arm, most likely, +and there will be an end of her; but the gentlemen needn’t be afraid of +being thrown out of work. There’s crowds of little wretches, boy and +girl, growing up in any of the streets they live in, that’ll keep them to +it till they’ve made their fortunes.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There! I have done, mother,” said the daughter, with a motion of +her head, as if in dismissal of the subject. “I have said enough. +Don’t let you and I talk of being dutiful, whatever we do. Your childhood +was like mine, I suppose. So much the worse for both of us. I don’t want +to blame you, or to defend myself; why should I? That’s all over long +ago. But I am a woman—not a girl, now—and you and I needn’t +make a show of our history, like the gentlemen in the Court. We know all about +it, well enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Lost and degraded as she was, there was a beauty in her, both of face and form, +which, even in its worst expression, could not but be recognised as such by +anyone regarding her with the least attention. As she subsided into silence, +and her face which had been harshly agitated, quieted down; while her dark +eyes, fixed upon the fire, exchanged the reckless light that had animated them, +for one that was softened by something like sorrow; there shone through all her +wayworn misery and fatigue, a ray of the departed radiance of the fallen angel. +</p> + +<p> +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 permitted this, to touch her face, and smooth her hair. With the +feeling, as it seemed, that the old woman was at least sincere in this show of +interest, Alice made no movement to check her; so, advancing by degrees, she +bound up her daughter’s hair afresh, took off her wet shoes, if they +deserved the name, spread something dry upon her shoulders, and hovered humbly +about her, muttering to herself, as she recognised her old features and +expression more and more. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very poor, mother, I see,” said Alice, looking round, when +she had sat thus for some time. +</p> + +<p> +“Bitter poor, my deary,” replied the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +She admired her daughter, and was afraid of her. Perhaps her admiration, such +as it was, had originated long ago, when she first found anything that was +beautiful appearing in the midst of the squalid fight of her existence. Perhaps +her fear was referable, in some sort, to the retrospect she had so lately +heard. Be this as it might, she stood, submissively and deferentially, before +her child, and inclined her head, as if in a pitiful entreaty to be spared any +further reproach. +</p> + +<p> +“How have you lived?” +</p> + +<p> +“By begging, my deary. +</p> + +<p> +“And pilfering, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes, Ally—in a very small way. I am old and timid. I have +taken trifles from children now and then, my deary, but not often. I have +tramped about the country, pet, and I know what I know. I have watched.” +</p> + +<p> +“Watched?” returned the daughter, looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +“I have hung about a family, my deary,” said the mother, even more +humbly and submissively than before. +</p> + +<p> +“What family?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 drawing it back again, laid it on her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not his, Alice deary; don’t look at me like that; not his. How +could it be his? You know he has none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose then?” returned the daughter. “You said his.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Ally; you frighten me, deary. Mr Dombey’s—only Mr +Dombey’s. Since then, darling, I have seen them often. I have seen +<i>him</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +In uttering this last word, the old woman shrunk and recoiled, as if with +sudden fear that her daughter would strike her. But though the daughter’s +face was fixed upon her, and expressed the most vehement passion, she remained +still: except that she clenched her arms tighter and tighter within each other, +on her bosom, as if to restrain them by that means from doing an injury to +herself, or someone else, in the blind fury of the wrath that suddenly +possessed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Little he thought who I was!” said the old woman, shaking her +clenched hand. +</p> + +<p> +“And little he cared!” muttered her daughter, between her teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“But there we were, said the old woman, “face to face. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will thrive in spite of that,” returned the daughter +disdainfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, he is thriving,” said the mother. +</p> + +<p> +She held her peace; for the face and form before her were unshaped by rage. It +seemed as if the bosom would burst with the emotions that strove within it. The +effort that constrained and held it pent up, was no less formidable than the +rage itself: no less bespeaking the violent and dangerous character of the +woman who made it. But it succeeded, and she asked, after a silence: +</p> + +<p> +“Is he married?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, deary,” said the mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Going to be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not that I know of, deary. But his master and friend is married. Oh, we +may give him joy! We may give ’em all joy!” cried the old woman, +hugging herself with her lean arms in her exultation. “Nothing but joy to +us will come of that marriage. Mind me!” +</p> + +<p> +The daughter looked at her for an explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“But you are wet and tired; hungry and thirsty,” said the old +woman, hobbling to the cupboard; “and there’s little here, and +little”—diving down into her pocket, and jingling a few +half—pence on the table—“little here. Have you any money, +Alice, deary?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” said the mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no more. I should not have this, but for charity.” +</p> + +<p> +“But for charity, eh, deary?” said the old woman, bending greedily +over the table to look at the money, which she appeared distrustful of her +daughter’s still retaining in her hand, and gazing on. “Humph! six +and six is twelve, and six eighteen—so—we must make the most of it. +I’ll go buy something to eat and drink.” +</p> + +<p> +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 eyeing the money in her +daughter’s hand, with the same sharp desire. +</p> + +<p> +“What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother?” asked the +daughter. “You have not told me that.” +</p> + +<p> +“The joy,” she replied, attiring herself, with fumbling fingers, +“of no love at all, and much pride and hate, my deary. The joy of +confusion and strife among ’em, proud as they are, and of +danger—danger, Alice!” +</p> + +<p> +“What danger?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know!” chuckled the +mother. “Let some look to it. Let some be upon their guard. My gal may +keep good company yet!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +something; I’ll go buy something.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 bye. I know all.” +</p> + +<p> +The daughter smiled incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +“I know of his brother, Alice,” said the old woman, stretching out +her neck with a leer of malice absolutely frightful, “who might have been +where you have been—for stealing money—and who lives with his +sister, over yonder, by the north road out of London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“By the north road out of London, deary. You shall see the house if you +like. It ain’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 +milestone, where the stones are heaped;—to-morrow, deary, if it’s +fine, and you are in the humour. But I’ll go spend—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman, amazed and terrified, nodded her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I see the shadow of him in her face! It’s a red house standing by +itself. Before the door there is a small green porch.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the old woman nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“In which I sat today! Give me back the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alice! Deary!” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me back the money, or you’ll be hurt.” +</p> + +<p> +She forced it from the old woman’s hand as she spoke, and utterly +indifferent to her complainings and entreaties, threw on the garments she had +taken off, and hurried out, with headlong speed. +</p> + +<p> +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 indifferent to all besides, +the daughter defied the weather and the distance, as if she had known no travel +or fatigue, and made for the house where she had been relieved. After some +quarter of an hour’s 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a fit place for me!” said the daughter, stopping to look +back. “I thought so, when I was here before, today.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alice, my deary,” cried the mother, pulling her gently by the +skirt. “Alice!” +</p> + +<p> +“What now, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“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, but keep the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“See there!” was all the daughter’s answer. “That is +the house I mean. Is that it?” +</p> + +<p> +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 door, John Carker +appeared from that room. +</p> + +<p> +He was surprised to see such visitors at such an hour, and asked Alice what she +wanted. +</p> + +<p> +“I want your sister,” she said. “The woman who gave me money +today.” +</p> + +<p> +At the sound of her raised voice, Harriet came out. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Alice. “You are here! Do you remember me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, wondering. +</p> + +<p> +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 clenched with such a show of evil purpose, as if it would gladly strangle +her; that she drew close to her brother for protection. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” said Alice, with a menacing gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean? What have I done?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If I dropped a tear upon your hand, may it wither it up! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +As she said the words, she threw the money down upon the ground, and spurned it +with her foot. +</p> + +<p> +“I tread it in the dust: I wouldn’t take it if it paved my way to +Heaven! I would the bleeding foot that brought me here today, had rotted off, +before it led me to your house!” +</p> + +<p> +Harriet, pale and trembling, restrained her brother, and suffered her to go on +uninterrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by you, or anyone of +your name, in the first hour of my return! It was well that you should act the +kind good lady to me! I’ll thank you when I die; I’ll pray for you, +and all your race, you may be sure!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +concentrate 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 whimpering and bemoaning their loss +upon the road, and fretfully bewailing, as openly as she dared, the undutiful +conduct of her handsome girl in depriving her of a supper, on the very first +night of their reunion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Were this miserable mother, and this miserable daughter, only the reduction to +their 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 lie close together, +that the two extremes touch, and that our journey’s end is but our +starting-place? Allowing for great difference of stuff and texture, was the +pattern of this woof repeated among gentle blood at all? +</p> + +<p> +Say, Edith Dombey! And Cleopatra, best of mothers, let us have your testimony! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br /> +The Happy Pair</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +dark blot on the street is gone. Mr Dombey’s mansion, if it be a gap +among the other houses any longer, is only so because it is not to be vied with +in its brightness, and haughtily casts them off. The saying is, that home is +home, be it never so homely. If it hold good in the opposite contingency, and +home is home be it never so stately, what an altar to the Household Gods is +raised up here! +</p> + +<p> +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 side board is cumbrous with plate. It is the first time that +the house has been arranged for occupation since its late changes, and the +happy pair are looked for every minute. +</p> + +<p> +Only second to the wedding morning, in the interest and expectation it +engenders among the household, is this evening of the coming home. Mrs Perch is +in the kitchen taking tea; and has made the tour of the establishment, and +priced the silks and damasks by the yard, and exhausted every interjection in +the dictionary and out of it expressive of admiration and wonder. The +upholsterer’s foreman, who has left his hat, with a pocket-handkerchief +in it, both smelling strongly of varnish, under a chair in the hall, lurks +about the house, gazing upwards at the cornices, and downward at the carpets, +and occasionally, in a silent transport of enjoyment, taking a rule out of his +pocket, and skirmishingly measuring expensive objects, with unutterable +feelings. Cook is in high spirits, and says give 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 housemaid +hopes is, happiness for ’em—but marriage is a lottery, and the more +she thinks about it, the more she feels the independence and the safety of a +single life. Mr Towlinson is saturnine and grim, and says that’s his +opinion too, and give him War besides, and down with the French—for this +young man has a general impression that every foreigner is a Frenchman, and +must be by the laws of nature. +</p> + +<p> +At each new sound of wheels, they all stop, whatever they are saying, and +listen; and more than once there is a general starting up and a cry of +“Here they are!” But here they are not yet; and Cook begins to +mourn over the dinner, which has been put back twice, and the +upholsterer’s foreman still goes lurking about the rooms, undisturbed in +his blissful reverie! +</p> + +<p> +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 +knows. But the fluttering heart sends added colour to her cheeks, and +brightness to her eyes; and they say downstairs, drawing their heads +together—for they always speak softly when they speak of her—how +beautiful Miss Florence looks tonight, and what a sweet young lady she has +grown, poor dear! A pause succeeds; and then Cook, feeling, as president, that +her sentiments are waited for, wonders whether—and there stops. The +housemaid wonders too, and so does Mrs Perch, who has the happy social faculty +of always wondering when other people wonder, without being at all particular +what she wonders at. Mr Towlinson, who now descries an opportunity of bringing +down the spirits of the ladies to his own level, says wait and see; he wishes +some people were well out of this. Cook leads a sigh then, and a murmur of +“Ah, it’s a strange world, it is indeed!” and when it has +gone round the table, adds persuasively, “but Miss Florence can’t +well be the worse for any change, Tom.” Mr Towlinson’s rejoinder, +pregnant with frightful 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 had not emerged since she took +possession of them a few hours ago, and where she is fast growing fretful, on +account of the postponement of dinner. The maid who ought to be a skeleton, but +is in truth a buxom damsel, is, on the other hand, in a most amiable state: +considering her quarterly stipend much safer than heretofore, and foreseeing a +great improvement in her board and lodging. +</p> + +<p> +Where are the happy pair, for whom this brave home is waiting? Do steam, tide, +wind, and horses, all abate their speed, to linger on such happiness? Does the +swarm of loves and graces hovering about them retard their progress by its +numbers? Are there so many flowers in their happy path, that they can scarcely +move along, without entanglement in thornless roses, and sweetest briar? +</p> + +<p> +They are here at last! The noise of wheels is heard, grows louder, and a +carriage drives up to the door! A thundering knock from the obnoxious foreigner +anticipates the rush of Mr Towlinson and party to open it; and Mr Dombey and +his bride alight, and walk in arm in arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Florence?” said Mr Dombey, putting out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +As Florence, trembling, raised it to her lips, she met his glance. The look was +cold and distant enough, but it stirred her heart to think that she observed in +it something more of interest than he had ever shown before. It even expressed +a kind of faint surprise, and not a disagreeable surprise, at sight of her. She +dared not raise her eyes to his any more; but she felt that he looked at her +once again, and not less favourably. Oh what a thrill of joy shot through her, +awakened by even this intangible and baseless confirmation of her hope that she +would learn to win him, through her new and beautiful Mama! +</p> + +<p> +“You will not be long dressing, Mrs Dombey, I presume?” said Mr +Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be ready immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +With that Mr Dombey stalked away to his own dressing-room, and Mrs Dombey went +upstairs to hers. Mrs Skewton and Florence repaired to the drawing-room, where +that excellent mother considered it incumbent on her to shed a few +irrepressible tears, supposed to be forced from her by her daughter’s +felicity; and which she was still drying, very gingerly, with a laced corner of +her pocket-handkerchief, when her son-in-law appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“And how, my dearest Dombey, did you find that delightfullest of cities, +Paris?” she asked, subduing her emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“It was cold,” returned Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Gay as ever,” said Mrs Skewton, “of course. +</p> + +<p> +“Not particularly. I thought it dull,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Fie, my dearest Dombey!” archly; “dull!” +</p> + +<p> +“It made that impression upon me, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, with +grave politeness. “I believe Mrs Dombey found it dull too. She mentioned +once or twice that she thought it so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you naughty girl!” cried Mrs Skewton, rallying her dear +child, who now entered, “what dreadfully heretical things have you been +saying about Paris?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith raised her eyebrows with an air of weariness; and passing the +folding-doors which were thrown open to display the suite of rooms in their new +and handsome garniture, and barely glancing at them as she passed, sat down by +Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Dombey,” said Mrs Skewton, “how charmingly these +people have carried out every idea that we hinted. They have made a perfect +palace of the house, positively.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is handsome,” said Mr Dombey, looking round. “I directed +that no expense should be spared; and all that money could do, has been done, I +believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what can it not do, dear Dombey?” observed Cleopatra. +</p> + +<p> +“It is powerful, Madam,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +He looked in his solemn way towards his wife, but not a word said she. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, Mrs Dombey,” addressing her after a moment’s +silence, with especial distinctness; “that these alterations meet with +your approval?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are as handsome as they can be,” she returned, with haughty +carelessness. “They should be so, of course. And I suppose they +are.” +</p> + +<p> +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 expression, 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 complete enlightenment; and at that moment it +might have been effected by the one glance of the dark eye that lighted on him, +after it had rapidly and scornfully surveyed the theme of his +self-glorification. He might have read in that one glance that nothing that his +wealth could do, though it were increased ten thousand fold, could win him for +its own sake, one look of softened recognition from the defiant woman, linked +to him, but arrayed with her whole soul against him. He might have read in that +one glance that even for its sordid and mercenary influence upon herself, she +spurned it, while she claimed its utmost power as her right, her +bargain—as the base and worthless recompense for which she had become his +wife. He might have read in it that, ever baring her own head for the lightning +of her own contempt and pride to strike, the most innocent allusion to the +power of his riches degraded her anew, sunk her deeper in her own respect, and +made the blight and waste within her more complete. +</p> + +<p> +But dinner was announced, and Mr Dombey led down Cleopatra; Edith and his +daughter following. Sweeping past the gold and silver demonstration on the +sideboard as if it were heaped-up dirt, and deigning to bestow no look upon the +elegancies around her, she took her place at his board for the first time, and +sat, like a statue, at the feast. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, being a good deal in the statue way himself, 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 behaviour was agreeable and +congenial to him. Presiding, therefore, with his accustomed dignity, and not at +all reflecting on his wife by any warmth or hilarity of his own, he performed +his share of the honours of the table with a cool satisfaction; and the +installation dinner, though not regarded downstairs as a great success, or very +promising beginning, passed off, above, in a sufficiently polite, genteel, and +frosty manner. +</p> + +<p> +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 bed. Edith, also, silently withdrew and came back no more. +Thus, it happened that Florence, who had been upstairs to have some +conversation with Diogenes, returning to the drawing-room with her little +work-basket, found no one there but her father, who was walking to and fro, in +dreary magnificence. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon. Shall I go away, Papa?” said Florence faintly, +hesitating at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” returned Mr Dombey, looking round over his shoulder; +“you can come and go here, Florence, as you please. This is not my +private room.” +</p> + +<p> +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 coldness, and +dislike, with patient unexacting love, excusing him, and pleading for him, like +his better angel! +</p> + +<p> +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, innocent of wrong! +Unnatural the hand that had directed the sharp plough, which furrowed up her +gentle nature for the sowing of its seeds! +</p> + +<p> +Bent upon not distressing or offending him by her distress, Florence controlled +herself, and sat quietly at her work. After a few more turns across and across +the room, he left off pacing it; and withdrawing into a shadowy corner at some +distance, where there was an easy chair, covered his head with a handkerchief, +and composed himself to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +It was enough for Florence to sit there watching him; turning her eyes towards +his chair from time to time; watching him with her thoughts, when her face was +intent upon her work; and sorrowfully glad to think that he <i>could</i> sleep, +while she was there, and that he was not made restless by her strange and +long-forbidden presence. +</p> + +<p> +What would have been her thoughts if she had known that he was steadily +regarding her; that the veil upon his face, by accident or by design, was so +adjusted that his sight was free, and that it never wandered from her face an +instant. That when she looked towards him, in the obscure dark corner, her +speaking eyes, more earnest and pathetic in their voiceless speech than all the +orators of all the world, and impeaching him more nearly in their mute address, +met his, and did not know it! That when she bent her head again over her work, +he drew his breath more easily, but with the same attention looked upon her +still—upon her white brow and her falling hair, and busy hands; and once +attracted, seemed to have no power to turn his eyes away! +</p> + +<p> +And what were his thoughts meanwhile? With what emotions did he prolong the +attentive gaze covertly directed on his unknown daughter? Was there reproach to +him in the quiet figure and the mild eyes? Had he begun to feel her disregarded +claims and did they touch him home at last, and waken him to some sense of his +cruel injustice? +</p> + +<p> +There are yielding moments in the lives of the sternest and harshest men, +though such men often keep their secret well. The sight of her in her beauty, +almost changed into a woman without his knowledge, may have struck out some +such moments even in his life of pride. Some passing thought that he had had a +happy home within his reach—had had a household spirit bending at his +feet—had overlooked it in his stiffnecked sullen arrogance, and wandered +away and lost himself, may have engendered them. Some simple eloquence +distinctly heard, though only uttered in her eyes, unconscious that he read +them as “By the death-beds I have tended, by the childhood I have +suffered, by our meeting in this dreary house at midnight, by the cry wrung +from me in the anguish of my heart, oh, father, turn to me and seek a refuge in +my love before it is too late!” may have arrested them. Meaner and lower +thoughts, as that his dead boy was now superseded by new ties, and he could +forgive the having been supplanted in his affection, may have occasioned them. +The mere 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 +action tending himself no less, as he sat once more with his bowed-down head +upon his hand at the foot of the little bed. He felt inclined to speak to her, +and call her to him. The words “Florence, come here!” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Florence, dear,” she said, “I have been looking for you +everywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +As she sat down by the side of Florence, she stooped and kissed her hand. He +hardly knew his wife. She was so changed. It was not merely that her smile was +new to him—though that he had never seen; but her 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Softly, dear Mama. Papa is asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Edith now. She looked towards the corner where he was, and he knew that +face and manner very well. +</p> + +<p> +“I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +Again, how altered and how softened, in an instant! +</p> + +<p> +“I left here early,” pursued Edith, “purposely to sit +upstairs and talk with you. But, going to your room, I found my bird was flown, +and I have been waiting there ever since, expecting its return. +</p> + +<p> +If it had been a bird, indeed, she could not have taken it more tenderly and +gently to her breast, than she did Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, dear!” +</p> + +<p> +“Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he wakes,” +hesitated Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think he will, Florence?” said Edith, looking full upon +her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He sat in his shadowy corner so long, that the church clocks struck the hour +three times before he moved that night. All that while his face was still +intent upon the spot where Florence had been seated. The room grew 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. +</p> + +<p> +Florence and Edith, seated before the fire in the remote room where little Paul +had died, talked together for a long time. Diogenes, who was of the party, had +at first objected to the admission of Edith, and, even in deference to his +mistress’s wish, had only permitted it under growling protest. But, +emerging by little and little from the ante-room, whither he had retired in +dudgeon, he soon appeared to comprehend, that with the most amiable intentions +he had made one of those mistakes which will occasionally arise in the +best-regulated dogs’ minds; as a friendly apology for which he stuck +himself up on end between the two, in a very hot place in front of the fire, +and sat panting at it, with his tongue out, and a most imbecile expression of +countenance, listening to the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +It turned, at first, on Florence’s books and favourite pursuits, and on +the manner in which she had beguiled the interval since the marriage. The last +theme opened up to her a subject which lay very near her heart, and she said, +with the tears starting to her eyes: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mama! I have had a great sorrow since that day.” +</p> + +<p> +“You a great sorrow, Florence!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But tell me, dear,” said Edith, soothing her. “Who was +Walter? What was he to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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, who liked him very much; Paul said, almost at the last, ‘Take +care of Walter, dear Papa! I was fond of him!’ Walter had been brought in +to see him, and was there then—in this room.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did he take care of Walter?” inquired Edith, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“Papa? He appointed him to go abroad. He was drowned in shipwreck on his +voyage,” said Florence, sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +“Does he know that he is dead?” asked Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay! Stop, Florence.” Edith turned so pale, and spoke so +earnestly, that Florence did not need her restraining hand upon her lips. +“Tell me all about Walter first; let me understand this history all +through.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence related it, and everything belonging to it, even down to the +friendship of Mr Toots, of whom she could hardly speak in her distress without +a tearful smile, although she was deeply grateful to him. When she had +concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith, holding her hand, listened +with close attention, and when a silence had succeeded, Edith said: +</p> + +<p> +“What is it that you know I have seen, Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I am not,” said Florence, with the same mute appeal, and the +same quick concealment of her face as before, “that I am not a favourite +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 once kissed her. Then gradually disengaging herself, and putting Florence +away, she said, stately, and quiet as a marble image, and in a voice that +deepened as she spoke, but had no other token of emotion in it: +</p> + +<p> +“Florence, you do not know me! Heaven forbid that you should learn from +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not learn from you?” repeated Florence, in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She saw that Florence would have spoken here, so checked her with her hand, and +went on. +</p> + +<p> +“I will be your true friend always. I will cherish you, as much, if not +as well as anyone in this world could. You may trust in me—I know it and +I say it, dear,—with the whole confidence even of your pure heart. There +are hosts of women whom he might have married, better and truer in 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, dear Mama!” cried Florence. “From that first most +happy day I have known it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most happy day!” Edith seemed to repeat the words involuntarily, +and went on. “Though the merit is not mine, for I thought little of you +until I saw you, let the undeserved reward be mine in your trust and love. And +in this—in this, Florence; on the first night of my taking up my abode +here; I am led on as it is best I should be, to say it for the first and last +time.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to hear her proceed, but kept +her eyes riveted on the beautiful face so fixed upon her own. +</p> + +<p> +“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 myself. Then, be as lenient +to me as you can, and do not turn to bitterness the only sweet remembrance I +shall have.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat for some time silent; Florence scarcely venturing to breathe meanwhile, +as dim and imperfect shadows of the truth, and all its daily consequences, +chased each other through her terrified, yet incredulous imagination. Almost as +soon as she had ceased to speak, Edith’s face began to subside from its +set composure to that quieter and more relenting aspect, which it usually wore +when she and Florence were alone together. She shaded it, after this change, +with her hands; and when she arose, and with an affectionate embrace bade +Florence good-night, went quickly, and without looking round. +</p> + +<p> +But when Florence was in bed, and the room was dark except for the glow of the +fire, Edith returned, and saying that she could not sleep, and that her +dressing-room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth, and watched the embers +as they died away. Florence watched them too from her bed, until they, and the +noble figure before them, crowned with its flowing hair, and in its thoughtful +eyes reflecting back their light, became confused and indistinct, and finally +were lost in slumber. +</p> + +<p> +In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an undefined impression of what +had so recently passed. It formed the subject of her dreams, and haunted her; +now in one shape, now in another; but always oppressively; and with a sense of +fear. She dreamed of seeking her father in 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 +plaintive voice she knew, cried, “It is running on, Floy! It has never +stopped! You are moving with it!” And she saw him at a distance +stretching out his arms towards her, while a figure such as Walter’s used +to be, stood near him, 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 +saw—what!—another Edith lying at the bottom. +</p> + +<p> +In the terror of this dream, she cried out and awoke, she thought. A soft voice +seemed to whisper in her ear, “Florence, dear Florence, it is nothing but +a dream!” and stretching out her arms, she returned the caress of her new +Mama, who then went out at the door in the light of the grey morning. In a +moment, Florence sat up wondering whether this had really taken place or not; +but she was only certain that it was grey morning indeed, and that the +blackened ashes of the fire were on the hearth, and that she was alone. +</p> + +<p> +So passed the night on which the happy pair came home. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br /> +Housewarming</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>any +succeeding days passed in like manner; except that there were numerous visits +received and paid, and that Mrs Skewton held little levees in her own +apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent attendant, and that Florence +encountered no second look from her father, although she saw him every day. Nor +had she much communication in words with her new Mama, who was imperious and +proud to all the house but her—Florence could not but observe +that—and who, although 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. +</p> + +<p> +Florence, who had hoped for so much from this marriage, could not help +sometimes comparing the bright house with the faded dreary place out of which +it had arisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin to be a home; +for that it was no home then, for anyone, though everything went on luxuriously +and regularly, she had always a secret misgiving. Many an hour of sorrowful +reflection by day and night, and many a tear of blighted hope, Florence +bestowed upon the assurance her new Mama had given her so strongly, that there +was no one on the earth more powerless than herself to teach her how to win her +father’s heart. And soon Florence began to think—resolved to think +would be the truer phrase—that as no one knew so well, how hopeless of +being subdued or changed her father’s coldness to her was, so she had +given her this warning, and forbidden the subject in very compassion. Unselfish +here, as in her every act and fancy, Florence preferred to bear the pain of +this new wound, rather than encourage any faint foreshadowings of the truth as +it concerned her father; tender of him, even in her wandering thoughts. As for +his home, she hoped it would become a better one, when its state of novelty and +transition should be over; and for herself, thought little and lamented less. +</p> + +<p> +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’s +being at home upon a certain evening, and by Mr and Mrs Dombey’s +requesting the honour of the company of a great many incongruous people to +dinner on the same day. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, Mr Dombey produced a list of sundry eastern magnates who were to +be bidden to this feast on his behalf; to which Mrs Skewton, acting for her +dearest child, who was haughtily careless on the subject, subjoined a western +list, comprising Cousin Feenix, not yet returned to Baden-Baden, greatly to the +detriment of his personal estate; and a variety of moths of various degrees and +ages, who had, at various times, fluttered round the light of her fair +daughter, or herself, without any lasting injury to their wings. Florence was +enrolled as a member of the dinner-party, by Edith’s +command—elicited by a moment’s doubt and 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, took her silent +share in the proceedings of the day. +</p> + +<p> +The proceedings commenced by Mr Dombey, in a cravat of extraordinary height and +stiffness, walking restlessly 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 material +called nankeen, arrived and was received by Mr Dombey alone. The next stage of +the proceedings was Mr Dombey’s 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 conversational point of view, and as +Mr Dombey was not the man to pick him up, staring at the fire until rescue +appeared in the shape of Mrs Skewton; whom the director, as a pleasant start in +life for the evening, mistook for Mrs Dombey, and greeted with enthusiasm. +</p> + +<p> +The next arrival was a Bank Director, reputed to be able to buy up +anything—human Nature generally, if he should take it in his head to +influence the money market in that direction—but who was a wonderfully +modest-spoken man, almost boastfully so, and mentioned his “little +place” at Kingston-upon-Thames, and its just being barely equal to giving +Dombey a bed and a chop, if he would come and visit it. Ladies, he said, it was +not for a man who lived in his quiet way to take upon himself to +invite—but if Mrs Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Dombey, should ever find +themselves in that direction, and would do him the honour to look at a little +bit of a shrubbery they would find there, and a poor little flower-bed or so, +and a humble apology for a pinery, and two or three little attempts of that +sort without any pretension, they would distinguish him very much. Carrying out +his character, this gentleman was very plainly dressed, in a wisp of cambric +for a neckcloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for him, and a pair of +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 his hands in his pockets, and excessive satisfaction +twinkling in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Now Mrs Dombey appeared, beautiful and proud, and as disdainful and defiant of +them all as if the bridal wreath upon her head had been a garland of steel +spikes put on to force concession from her which she would die sooner than +yield. With her was Florence. When they entered together, the shadow of the +night of the return again darkened Mr Dombey’s face. But unobserved; for +Florence did not venture to raise her eyes to his, and Edith’s +indifference was too supreme to take the least heed of him. +</p> + +<p> +The arrivals quickly became numerous. More directors, chairmen of public +companies, elderly ladies carrying burdens on their heads for full dress, +Cousin Feenix, Major Bagstock, friends of Mrs Skewton, with the same bright +bloom on their complexion, and very precious necklaces on very withered necks. +Among these, a young lady of sixty-five, 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 sofas, and had doors opened smartly from without +against their heads, and underwent every sort of discomfiture. +</p> + +<p> +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, and looked so +unaccommodating; Cousin Feenix took down Mrs Dombey; Major Bagstock took down +Mrs Skewton; the young thing with the shoulders was bestowed, as an +extinguisher, upon the East India Director; and the remaining ladies were left +on view in the drawing-room by the remaining gentlemen, until a forlorn hope +volunteered to conduct them downstairs, and those brave spirits with their +captives blocked up the dining-room door, shutting out seven mild men in the +stony-hearted hall. When all the rest were got in and were seated, one of these +mild men still appeared, in smiling confusion, totally destitute and unprovided +for, and, escorted by the butler, made the complete circuit of the table twice +before his chair could be found, which it finally was, on Mrs Dombey’s +left hand; after which the mild man never held up his head again. +</p> + +<p> +Now, the spacious dining-room, with the company seated round the glittering +table, busy with their glittering 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, +separating him from Mrs Dombey, whereon frosted Cupids offered scentless +flowers to each of them, was allegorical to see. +</p> + +<p> +Cousin Feenix was in great force, and looked astonishingly young. But he was +sometimes thoughtless in his good humour—his memory occasionally +wandering like his legs—and on this occasion caused the company to +shudder. It happened thus. The young lady with the back, who regarded Cousin +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 Director, who, being shaded on the other side by a +gloomy black velvet hat surmounting a bony and speechless female with a fan, +yielded to a depression of spirits and withdrew into himself. Cousin 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 little +lower down), whether that might not be considered public property. +</p> + +<p> +“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 dare say my friend Dombey;” for the +general attention was concentrated on Cousin Feenix; “may remember Jack +Adams, Jack Adams, not Joe; that was his brother. Jack—little +Jack—man with a cast in his eye, and slight impediment in his +speech—man who sat for somebody’s borough. We used to call him in +my parliamentary time W. P. Adams, in consequence of his being Warming Pan for +a young fellow who was in his minority. Perhaps my friend Dombey may have known +the man?” +</p> + +<p> +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 him, and adding—“always wore Hessian boots!” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” said Cousin Feenix, bending forward to see the mild man, +and smile encouragement at him down the table. “That was Jack. Joe +wore—” +</p> + +<p> +“Tops!” cried the mild man, rising in public estimation every +Instant. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said Cousin Feenix, “you were intimate with +em?” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew them both,” said the mild man. With whom Mr Dombey +immediately took wine. +</p> + +<p> +“Devilish good fellow, Jack!” said Cousin Feenix, again bending +forward, and smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent,” returned the mild man, becoming bold on his success. +“One of the best fellows I ever knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt you have heard the story?” said Cousin Feenix. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall know,” replied the bold mild man, “when I have heard +your Ludship tell it.” With that, he leaned back in his chair and smiled +at the ceiling, as knowing it by heart, and being already tickled. +</p> + +<p> +“In point of fact, it’s nothing of a story in itself,” said +Cousin Feenix, addressing the table with a smile, and a gay shake of his head, +“and not worth a word of preface. But it’s illustrative of the +neatness of Jack’s humour. The fact is, that Jack was invited down to a +marriage—which I think took place in Berkshire?” +</p> + +<p> +“Shropshire,” said the bold mild man, finding himself appealed to. +</p> + +<p> +“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 honour of being invited to the +marriage of my lovely and accomplished relative with my friend Dombey, +didn’t require to be asked twice, and were devilish glad to be present on +so interesting an occasion.—Goes—Jack goes. Now, this marriage was, +in point of fact, the marriage of an uncommonly fine girl with a man for whom +she didn’t care a button, but whom she accepted on account of his +property, which was immense. When Jack returned to town, after the nuptials, a +man he knew, meeting him in the lobby of the House of Commons, says, +‘Well, Jack, how are the ill-matched couple?’ +‘Ill-matched,’ says Jack ‘Not at all. It’s a perfectly +and equal transaction. She is regularly bought, and you may take your oath he +is as regularly sold!’” +</p> + +<p> +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 +foreknowledge of the story as the child unborn, had the exquisite misery of +reading in every eye that he was regarded as the prime mover of the mischief. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey’s face was not a changeful one, and being cast in its mould of +state that day, showed little other apprehension of the story, if any, than +that which he expressed when he said solemnly, amidst the silence, that it was +“Very good.” There was a rapid glance from Edith towards Florence, +but otherwise she remained, externally, impassive and unconscious. +</p> + +<p> +Through the various stages of rich meats and wines, continual gold and silver, +dainties of earth, air, fire, and water, heaped-up fruits, and that unnecessary +article in Mr Dombey’s banquets—ice—the dinner slowly made +its way: the later stages being achieved to the sonorous music of incessant +double knocks, announcing the arrival of visitors, whose portion of the feast +was limited to the smell thereof. 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; and to see how she swept past him with his daughter +on her arm. +</p> + +<p> +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 end of the +table, in a state of solitude; and the Major was a military sight, relating +stories of the Duke of York to six of the seven mild men (the ambitious one was +utterly quenched); and the Bank Director was a lowly sight, making a plan of +his little attempt at a pinery, with dessert-knives, for a group of admirers; +and Cousin Feenix was a thoughtful sight, as he smoothed his long wristbands +and stealthily adjusted his wig. But all these sights were of short duration, +being speedily broken up by coffee, and the desertion of the room. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0475m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +There was a throng in the state-rooms upstairs, increasing 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 belonging to +either. +</p> + +<p> +Florence had a dread of him, which made his presence in the room a nightmare to +her. She could not avoid the recollection of it, for her eyes were drawn +towards him every now and then, by an attraction of dislike and distrust that +she could not resist. Yet her thoughts were busy with other things; for as she +sat apart—not unadmired or unsought, but in the gentleness of her quiet +spirit—she felt how little part her father had in what was going on, and +saw, with pain, how ill at ease he seemed to be, and how little regarded he was +as he lingered about near the door, for those visitors whom he wished to +distinguish with particular attention, and took them up to introduce them to +his wife, who received them with proud coldness, but showed no interest or wish +to please, and never, after the bare ceremony of reception, in consultation of +his wishes, or in welcome of his friends, opened her lips. It was not the less +perplexing or painful to Florence, that she who acted thus, treated her so +kindly and with such loving consideration, that it almost seemed an ungrateful +return on her part even to know of what was passing before her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Happy Florence would have been, might she have ventured to bear her father +company, by so much as a look; and happy Florence was, in little suspecting the +main cause of his uneasiness. But afraid of seeming to know that he was placed +at any disadvantage, lest he should be resentful of that knowledge; and divided +between her impulse towards him, and her grateful affection for Edith; she +scarcely dared to raise her eyes towards either. Anxious and unhappy for them +both, the thought stole on her through the crowd, that it might have been +better for them if this noise of tongues and tread of feet had never come +there,—if the old dulness and decay had never been replaced by novelty +and splendour,—if the neglected child had found no friend in Edith, but +had lived her solitary life, unpitied and forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick had some such thoughts too, but they were not so quietly developed in +her mind. This good matron had been outraged in the first instance by not +receiving an invitation to dinner. That blow partially recovered, 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, mountains high, on the +head of Mrs Skewton. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am made,” said Mrs Chick to Mr Chick, “of no more +account than Florence! Who takes the smallest notice of me? No one!” +</p> + +<p> +“No one, my dear,” assented Mr Chick, who was seated by the side of +Mrs Chick against the wall, and could console himself, even there, by softly +whistling. +</p> + +<p> +“Does it at all appear as if I was wanted here?” exclaimed Mrs +Chick, with flashing eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my dear, I don’t think it does,” said Mr Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“Paul’s mad!” said Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Chick whistled. +</p> + +<p> +“Unless you are a monster, which I sometimes think you are,” said +Mrs Chick with candour, “don’t sit there humming tunes. How anyone +with the most distant feelings of a man, can see that mother-in-law of +Paul’s, dressed as she is, going on like that, with Major Bagstock, for +whom, among other precious things, we are indebted to your Lucretia Tox.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>My</i> Lucretia Tox, my dear!” said Mr Chick, astounded. +</p> + +<p> +“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 Chick laid a scornful emphasis that +made Mr Chick start, “is, I thank Heaven, a mystery to me!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Chick screwed his mouth into a form irreconcilable with humming or +whistling, and looked very contemplative. +</p> + +<p> +“But I hope I know what is due to myself,” said Mrs Chick, swelling +with indignation, “though Paul has forgotten what is due to me. I am not +going to sit here, a member of this family, to be taken no notice of. I am not +the dirt under Mrs Dombey’s feet, yet—not quite yet,” said +Mrs Chick, as if she expected to become so, about the day after to-morrow. +“And I shall go. I will not say (whatever I may think) that this affair +has been got up solely to degrade and insult me. I shall merely go. I shall not +be missed!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 eyeglasses, 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), confidentially +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 Mr 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 general opinion among this +class of gentlemen was, that it was a weak thing in Dombey, and he’d live +to repent it. Hardly anybody there, except the mild men, stayed, or went away, +without considering himself or herself neglected and aggrieved by Mr Dombey or +Mrs Dombey; and the speechless female in the black velvet hat was found to have +been stricken mute, because the lady in the crimson velvet had been handed down +before her. The nature even of the mild men got 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 +disparagement on stairs and in bye-places. The general dissatisfaction and +discomfort so diffused itself, that the assembled 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. +</p> + +<p> +At last, the guests were all gone, and the linkmen too; and the street, crowded +so long with carriages, was clear; and the dying lights showed no one in the +rooms, but Mr Dombey and Mr Carker, who were talking together apart, and 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 Carker, the latter advanced obsequiously to take +leave. +</p> + +<p> +“I trust,” he said, “that the fatigues of this delightful +evening will not inconvenience Mrs Dombey to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey,” said Mr Dombey, advancing, “has sufficiently +spared herself fatigue, to relieve you from any anxiety of that kind. I regret +to say, Mrs Dombey, that I could have wished you had fatigued yourself a little +more on this occasion. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with a supercilious glance, that it seemed not worth her +while to protract, and turned away her eyes without speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, “that you should not +have thought it your duty—” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him again. +</p> + +<p> +“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 tonight in a very marked manner, Mrs Dombey, confer a distinction +upon you, I must tell you, in any visit they pay you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that there is someone here?” she returned, now looking +at him steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“No! Carker! I beg that you do not. I insist that you do not,” +cried Mr Dombey, stopping that noiseless gentleman in his withdrawal. “Mr +Carker, Madam, as you know, possesses my confidence. He is as well acquainted +as myself with the subject on which I speak. I beg to tell you, for your +information, Mrs Dombey, that I consider these wealthy and important persons +confer a distinction upon me:” and Mr Dombey drew himself up, as having +now rendered them of the highest possible importance. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask you,” she repeated, bending her disdainful, steady gaze upon +him, “do you know that there is someone here, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must entreat,” said Mr Carker, stepping forward, “I must +beg, I must demand, to be released. Slight and unimportant as this difference +is—” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton, who had been intent upon her daughter’s face, took him up +here. +</p> + +<p> +“My sweetest Edith,” she said, “and my dearest Dombey; our +excellent friend Mr Carker, for so I am sure I ought to mention +him—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker murmured, “Too much honour.” +</p> + +<p> +“—has used the very words that were in my mind, and that I have +been dying, these ages, for an opportunity of introducing. Slight and +unimportant! My sweetest Edith, and my dearest Dombey, do we not know that any +difference between you two—No, Flowers; not now.” +</p> + +<p> +Flowers was the maid, who, finding gentlemen present, retreated with +precipitation. +</p> + +<p> +“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 individual characters, and all that—so truly calculated to bring +the tears into a parent’s eyes—to say that I attach no importance +to them in the least, except as developing these minor elements of Soul; and +that, unlike most Mamas-in-law (that odious phrase, dear Dombey!) as they have +been represented to me to exist in this I fear too artificial world, I never +shall attempt to interpose between you, at such a time, and never can much +regret, after all, such little flashes of the torch of +What’s-his-name—not Cupid, but the other delightful +creature.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sharpness in the good mother’s glance at both her children as +she spoke, that may have been expressive of a direct and well-considered +purpose hidden between these rambling words. That purpose, providently to +detach herself in the beginning from all the clankings of their chain that were +to come, and to shelter herself with the fiction of her innocent belief in +their mutual affection, and their adaptation to each other. +</p> + +<p> +“I have pointed out to Mrs Dombey,” said Mr Dombey, in his most +stately manner, “that in her conduct thus early in our married life, to +which I object, and which, I request, may be corrected. Carker,” with a +nod of dismissal, “good-night to you!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 disdain 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—these, he had no resource against; and he left her, with her +whole overbearing beauty concentrated on despising him. +</p> + +<p> +Was he coward enough to watch her, an hour afterwards, on the old well +staircase, where he had once seen Florence in the moonlight, toiling up with +Paul? Or was he in the dark by accident, when, looking up, he saw her coming, +with a light, from the room where Florence lay, and marked again the face so +changed, which he could not subdue? +</p> + +<p> +But it could never alter as his own did. It never, in its uttermost pride and +passion, knew the shadow that had fallen on his, in the dark corner, on the +night of the return; and often since; and which deepened on it now, as he +looked up. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.<br /> +More Warnings than One</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">F</span>lorence, 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. +</p> + +<p> +They were assembled in Cleopatra’s room. The Serpent of old Nile (not to +mention her disrespectfully) was reposing on her sofa, sipping her morning +chocolate at three o’clock in the afternoon, and Flowers the Maid was +fastening on her youthful cuffs and frills, and performing a kind of private +coronation ceremony on her, with a peach-coloured velvet bonnet; the artificial +roses in which nodded to uncommon advantage, as the palsy trifled with them, +like a breeze. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I am a little nervous this morning, Flowers,” said Mrs +Skewton. “My hand quite shakes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were the life of the party last night, Ma’am, you know,” +returned Flowers, “and you suffer for it today, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith, who had beckoned Florence to the window, and was looking out, with her +back turned on the toilet of her esteemed mother, suddenly withdrew from it, as +if it had lightened. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling child,” cried Cleopatra, languidly, “<i>you</i> +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, someone at the door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Card, Ma’am,” said Withers, taking it towards Mrs Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going out,” she said without looking at it. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going out,” repeated Edith, in so imperious a tone that +Withers, going to the door, imperiously informed the servant who was waiting, +“Mrs Dombey is going out. Get along with you,” and shut it on him. +</p> + +<p> +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 +Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Ma’am, Mr Carker sends his respectful compliments, +and begs you would spare him one minute, if you could—for business, +Ma’am, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, my love,” said Mrs Skewton in her mildest manner; for her +daughter’s face was threatening; “if you would allow me to offer a +word, I should recommend—” +</p> + +<p> +“Show him this way,” said Edith. As Withers disappeared to execute +the command, she added, frowning on her mother, “As he comes at your +recommendation, let him come to your room.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I—shall I go away?” asked Florence, hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +Edith nodded yes, but on her way to the door Florence met the visitor coming +in. With the same disagreeable mixture of familiarity and forbearance, with +which he had first addressed her, he addressed her now in his softest +manner—hoped she was quite well—needed not to ask, with such looks +to anticipate the answer—had scarcely had the honour to know her, last +night, she was so greatly changed—and held the door open for her to pass +out; with a secret sense of power in her shrinking from him, that all the +deference and politeness of his manner could not quite conceal. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 colours, from their first acquaintance; that +every degradation she had suffered in her own eyes was as plain to him as to +herself; that he read her life as though it were a vile book, and fluttered the +leaves before her in slight looks and tones of voice which no one else could +detect; weakened and undermined her. Proudly as she opposed herself to him, +with her commanding face exacting his humility, her disdainful lip repulsing +him, her bosom angry at his intrusion, and the dark lashes of her eyes sullenly +veiling their light, that no ray of it might shine upon him—and +submissively as he stood before her, with an entreating injured manner, but +with complete submission to her will—she knew, in her own soul, that the +cases were reversed, and that the triumph and superiority were his, and that he +knew it full well. +</p> + +<p> +“I have presumed,” said Mr Carker, “to solicit an interview, +and I have ventured to describe it as being one of business, +because—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“For I do,” said Mr Carker, appealing to Mrs Skewton with a look of +grateful deference,—“I do venture to call it a painful occasion, +though merely because it was so to me, who had the misfortune to be present. So +slight a difference, as between the principals—between those who love +each other with disinterested devotion, and would make any sacrifice of self in +such a cause—is nothing. As Mrs Skewton herself expressed, with so much +truth and feeling last night, it is nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith could not look at him, but she said after a few moments. +</p> + +<p> +“And your business, Sir—” +</p> + +<p> +“Edith, my pet,” said Mrs Skewton, “all this time Mr Carker +is standing! My dear Mr Carker, take a seat, I beg.” +</p> + +<p> +He offered no reply to the mother, but fixed his eyes on the proud daughter, as +though he would only be bidden by her, and was resolved to be bidden by her. +Edith, in spite of herself, sat down, and slightly motioned with her hand to +him to be seated too. No action could be colder, haughtier, more insolent in +its air of supremacy and disrespect, but she had struggled against even that +concession ineffectually, and it was wrested from her. That was enough! Mr +Carker sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“May I be allowed, Madam,” said Carker, turning his white teeth on +Mrs Skewton like a light—“a lady of your excellent sense and quick +feeling will give me credit, for good reason, I am sure—to address what I +have to say, to Mrs Dombey, and to leave her to impart it to you who are her +best and dearest friend—next to Mr Dombey?” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +Edith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him now. As he bent forward, to be +nearer, with the utmost show of delicacy and respect, and with his teeth +persuasively arrayed, in a self-depreciating smile, she felt as if she could +have struck him dead. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Florence’s position,” he began, “has been an +unfortunate one. I have a difficulty in alluding to it to you, whose attachment +to her father is naturally watchful and jealous of every word that applies to +him.” Always distinct and soft in speech, no language could describe the +extent of his distinctness and softness, when he said these words, or came to +any others of a similar import. “But, as one who is devoted to Mr Dombey +in his different way, and whose life is passed in admiration of Mr +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith replied, “I know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know it!” said Mr Carker, with a great appearance of relief. +“It removes a mountain from my breast. May I hope you know how the +neglect originated; in what an amiable phase of Mr Dombey’s +pride—character I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“You may pass that by, Sir,” she returned, “and come the +sooner to the end of what you have to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +What a stab to her proud heart, to sit there, face to face with him, and have +him tendering her false oath at the altar again and again for her acceptance, +and pressing it upon her like the dregs of a sickening cup she could not own +her loathing of, or turn away from! How shame, remorse, and passion raged +within her, when, upright and majestic in her beauty before him, she knew that +in her spirit she was down at his feet! +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Florence,” said Carker, “left to the care—if one +may call it care—of servants and mercenary people, in every way her +inferiors, necessarily wanted some guide and compass in her younger days, and, +naturally, for want of them, has been indiscreet, and has in some degree +forgotten her station. There was some folly about one Walter, a common lad, who +is fortunately dead now: and some very undesirable association, I regret to +say, with certain coasting sailors, of anything but good repute, and a runaway +old bankrupt.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me,” said Mr Carker, “I believe that nobody knows +them so well as I. Your generous and ardent nature, Madam—the same nature +which is so nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and honoured +husband, and which has blessed him as even his merits deserve—I must +respect, defer to, bow before. But, as regards the circumstances, which is +indeed the business I presumed to solicit your attention to, I can have no +doubt, since, in the execution of my trust as Mr Dombey’s +confidential—I presume to say—friend, I have fully ascertained +them. In my execution of that trust; in my deep concern, which you can so well +understand, for everything relating to him, intensified, if you will (for I +fear I labour under your displeasure), by the lower motive of desire to prove +my diligence, and make myself the more acceptable; I have long pursued these +circumstances by myself and trustworthy instruments, and have innumerable and +most minute proofs.” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her eyes no higher than his mouth, but she saw the means of mischief +vaunted in every tooth it contained. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, Madam,” he continued, “if in my perplexity, I +presume to take counsel with you, and to consult your pleasure. I think I have +observed that you are greatly interested in Miss Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +What was there in her he had not observed, and did not know? Humbled and yet +maddened by the thought, in every new presentment of it, however faint, she +pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip to force composure on it, and +distantly inclined her head in reply. +</p> + +<p> +“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 shakes me, if I may make the confession, in my allegiance, that on the +intimation of the least desire to that effect from you, I would suppress +them.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, arises in this: that the mere circumstance of such +association often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence, however innocently +and confidingly, would be conclusive with Mr Dombey, already predisposed +against her, and would lead him to take some step (I know he has occasionally +contemplated it) of separation and alienation of her from his home. Madam, bear +with me, and remember my intercourse with Mr Dombey, and my knowledge of him, +and my reverence for him, almost from childhood, when I say that if he has a +fault, it is a lofty stubbornness, rooted in that noble pride and sense of +power which belong to him, and which we must all defer to; which is not +assailable like the obstinacy of other characters; and which grows upon itself +from day to day, and year to year.” +</p> + +<p> +She bent her glance upon him still; but, look as steadfast as she would, her +haughty nostrils dilated, and her breath came somewhat deeper, and her 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Even so slight an incident as last night’s,” he said, +“if I might refer to it once more, would serve to illustrate my meaning, +better than a greater one. Dombey and Son know neither time, nor place, nor +season, but bear them all down. But I rejoice in its occurrence, for it has +opened the way for me to approach Mrs Dombey with this subject today, even if +it has entailed upon me the penalty of her temporary displeasure. Madam, in the +midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on this subject, I was summoned by Mr +Dombey to Leamington. There I saw you. There I could not help knowing what +relation you would shortly occupy towards him—to his enduring happiness +and yours. There I resolved to await the time of your establishment at home +here, and to do as I have now done. I have, at heart, no fear that I shall be +wanting in my duty to Mr Dombey, if I bury what I know in your breast; for +where there is but one heart and mind between two persons—as in such a +marriage—one almost represents the other. I can acquit my conscience +therefore, almost equally, by 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 responsibility?” +</p> + +<p> +He long remembered the look she gave him—who could see it, and forget +it?—and the struggle that ensued within her. At last she said: +</p> + +<p> +“I accept it, Sir You will please to consider this matter at an end, and +that it goes no farther.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton, reposing on her sofa, and sipping her chocolate, had heard nothing +but the low word business, for which she had a mortal aversion, insomuch that +she had long banished it from her vocabulary, and had gone nigh, in a charming +manner and with an immense amount of heart, to say nothing of soul, to ruin +divers milliners and others in consequence. Therefore Mrs Skewton asked no +questions, and showed no curiosity. Indeed, the peach-velvet bonnet gave her +sufficient occupation out of doors; for being perched on the back of her head, +and the day being rather windy, it was frantic to escape from Mrs +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 almshouse-full of superannuated zephyrs; and +altogether Mrs Skewton had enough to do, and got on but indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Ma’am, I beg your pardon, but I can’t do +nothing with Missis!” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” asked Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Ma’am,” replied the frightened maid, “I hardly +know. She’s making faces!” +</p> + +<p> +Edith hurried with her to her mother’s room. Cleopatra was arrayed in +full dress, with the diamonds, short sleeves, rouge, curls, teeth, and other +juvenility all complete; but Paralysis was not to be deceived, had known her +for the object of its errand, and had struck her at her glass, where she lay +like a horrible doll that had tumbled down. +</p> + +<p> +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 +to; opinions given that she would rally from this shock, but would not survive +another; and there she lay speechless, and staring at the ceiling, for days; +sometimes making inarticulate sounds in answer to such questions as did she +know who were present, and the like: sometimes giving no reply either by sign +or gesture, or in her unwinking eyes. +</p> + +<p> +At length she began to recover consciousness, and in some degree the power of +motion, though not yet of speech. One day the use of her right hand returned; +and showing it to her maid who was in attendance on her, and appearing very +uneasy in her mind, she made signs for a pencil and some paper. This the maid +immediately provided, thinking she was going to make a will, or write some last +request; and Mrs Dombey being from home, the maid awaited the result with +solemn feelings. +</p> + +<p> +After much painful scrawling and erasing, and putting in of wrong characters, +which seemed to tumble out of the pencil of their own accord, the old woman +produced this document: +</p> + +<p> +“Rose-coloured curtains.” +</p> + +<p> +The maid being perfectly transfixed, and with tolerable reason, Cleopatra +amended the manuscript by adding two words more, when it stood thus: +</p> + +<p> +“Rose-coloured curtains for doctors.” +</p> + +<p> +The maid now perceived remotely that she wished these articles to be provided +for the better presentation of her complexion to the faculty; and as those in +the house who knew her best, had no doubt of the correctness of this opinion, +which she was soon able to establish for herself, the rose-coloured curtains +were added to her bed, and she mended with increased rapidity from that hour. +She was soon able to sit up, in curls and a laced cap and nightgown, and to +have a little artificial bloom dropped into the hollow caverns of her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Whether the weakening of her intellect made her more cunning and false than +before, or whether it confused her between what she had assumed to be and what +she really had been, or whether it had awakened any 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 exacting in respect of Edith’s +affection and gratitude and attention to her; highly laudatory of herself as a +most inestimable parent; and very jealous of having any rival in Edith’s +regard. Further, in place of remembering that compact made between them for an +avoidance of the subject, she constantly alluded to her daughter’s +marriage as a proof of her being an incomparable mother; and all this, with the +weakness and peevishness of such a state, always serving for a sarcastic +commentary on her levity and youthfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Mrs Dombey?” she would say to her maid. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone out, Ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone out! Does she go out to shun her Mama, Flowers?” +</p> + +<p> +“La bless you, no, Ma’am. Mrs Dombey has only gone out for a ride +with Miss Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Florence. Who’s Miss Florence? Don’t tell me about Miss +Florence. What’s Miss Florence to her, compared to me?” +</p> + +<p> +The apposite display of the diamonds, or the peach-velvet bonnet (she sat in +the bonnet to receive visitors, weeks before she could stir out of doors), or +the dressing of her up in some gaud or other, usually stopped the tears that +began to flow hereabouts; and she would remain in a complacent state until +Edith came to see her; when, at a glance of the proud face, she would relapse +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am sure, Edith!” she would cry, shaking her head. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“Matter! I really don’t know what is the matter. The world is +coming to such an artificial and ungrateful state, that I begin to think +there’s no Heart—or anything of that sort—left in it, +positively. Withers is more a child to me than you are. He attends to me much +more than my own daughter. I almost wish I didn’t look so young—and +all that kind of thing—and then perhaps I should be more +considered.” +</p> + +<p> +“What would you have, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, a great deal, Edith,” impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything you want that you have not? It is your own fault if +there be.” +</p> + +<p> +“My own fault!” beginning to whimper. “The parent I have been +to you, Edith: making you a companion from your cradle! And when you neglect +me, and have no more natural affection for me than if I was a +stranger—not a twentieth part of the affection that you have for +Florence—but I am only your mother, and should corrupt her in a +day!—you reproach me with its being my own fault.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Why will you always dwell +on this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it natural that I should dwell on this, when I am all +affection and sensitiveness, and am wounded in the cruellest way, whenever you +look at me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not mean to wound you, mother. Have you no remembrance of what has +been said between us? Let the Past rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, rest! And let gratitude to me rest; and let affection for me rest; +and let me rest in my out-of-the-way room, with no society and no attention, +while you find new relations to make much of, who have no earthly claim upon +you! Good gracious, Edith, do you know what an elegant establishment you are at +the head of?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Hush!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I know it, mother; well.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 this, Edith?” +</p> + +<p> +“You, mother; you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then put your arms round my neck, and kiss me; and show me, Edith, that +you know there never was a better Mama than I have been to you. And don’t +let me become a perfect fright with teasing and wearing myself at your +ingratitude, or when I’m out again in society no soul will know me, not +even that hateful animal, the Major.” +</p> + +<p> +But, sometimes, when Edith went nearer to her, and bending down her stately +head, put her cold cheek to hers, the mother would draw back as If she were +afraid of her, and would fall into a fit of trembling, and cry out that there +was a wandering in her wits. And sometimes she would entreat her, with +humility, to sit down on the chair beside her bed, and would look at her (as +she sat there brooding) with a face that even the rose-coloured curtains could +not make otherwise than scared and wild. +</p> + +<p> +The rose-coloured curtains blushed, in course of time, on Cleopatra’s +bodily recovery, and on her dress—more juvenile than ever, to repair the +ravages of illness—and on the rouge, and on the teeth, and on the curls, +and on the diamonds, and the short sleeves, and the whole wardrobe of the doll +that had tumbled down before 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 fantastically, as if in mockery of her fantastic self. +</p> + +<p> +But they never blushed upon a change in the new manner of her thought and +speech towards her daughter. And though that daughter often came within their +influence, they never blushed upon her loveliness irradiated by a smile, or +softened by the light of filial love, in its stern beauty. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br /> +Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +forlorn Miss Tox, abandoned by her friend Louisa Chick, and bereft of Mr +Dombey’s countenance—for no delicate pair of wedding cards, united +by a silver thread, graced the chimney-glass in Princess’s Place, or the +harpsichord, or any of those little posts of display which Lucretia reserved +for holiday occupation—became depressed in her spirits, and suffered much +from melancholy. For a time the Bird Waltz was unheard in Princess’s +Place, the plants were neglected, and dust collected on the miniature of Miss +Tox’s ancestor with the powdered head and pigtail. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox, however, was not of an age or of a disposition long to abandon +herself to unavailing regrets. Only two notes of the harpsichord were dumb from +disuse when the Bird Waltz again warbled and trilled in the crooked +drawing-room: only one slip of geranium fell a victim to imperfect nursing, +before she was gardening at her green baskets again, regularly every morning; +the powdered-headed ancestor had not been under a cloud for more than six +weeks, when Miss Tox breathed on his benignant visage, and polished him up with +a piece of wash-leather. +</p> + +<p> +Still, Miss Tox was lonely, and at a loss. Her attachments, however ludicrously +shown, were real and strong; and she was, as she expressed it, “deeply +hurt by the unmerited contumely she had met with from Louisa.” But there +was no such thing as anger in Miss Tox’s composition. If she had ambled +on through life, in her soft spoken way, without any opinions, she had, at +least, got so far without any harsh passions. The mere sight of Louisa Chick in +the street one day, at a considerable distance, so overpowered her milky +nature, that she was fain to seek immediate refuge in a pastrycook’s, and +there, in a musty little back room usually devoted to the consumption of soups, +and pervaded by an ox-tail atmosphere, relieve her feelings by weeping +plentifully. +</p> + +<p> +Against Mr Dombey Miss Tox hardly felt that she had any reason of complaint. +Her sense of that gentleman’s magnificence was such, that once removed +from him, she felt as if her distance always had been immeasurable, and as if +he had greatly condescended in tolerating her at all. No wife could be too +handsome or too stately for him, according to Miss Tox’s sincere opinion. +It was perfectly natural that in looking for one, he should look high. Miss Tox +with tears laid down this proposition, and fully admitted it, twenty times a +day. She never recalled the lofty manner in which Mr Dombey had made her +subservient to his convenience and caprices, and had graciously permitted her +to be one of the nurses of his little son. She only thought, in her own words, +“that she had passed a great many happy hours in that house, which she +must ever remember with gratification, and that she could never cease to regard +Mr Dombey as one of the most impressive and dignified of men.” +</p> + +<p> +Cut off, however, from the implacable Louisa, and being shy of the Major (whom +she viewed with some distrust now), Miss Tox found it very irksome to know +nothing of what was going on in Mr Dombey’s establishment. And as she +really had got into the habit of considering Dombey and Son as the pivot on +which the world in general 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 communication with his +servants. Perhaps Miss Tox, in seeking out the Toodle family, had the tender +motive hidden in her breast of having somebody to whom she could talk about Mr +Dombey, no matter how humble that somebody might be. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 out of children, but always kept a good supply on +hand—“you ain’t seen our Biler lately, have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Polly, “but he’s almost certain to look +in tonight. It’s his right evening, and he’s very regular.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” said Mr Toodle, relishing his meal infinitely, +“as our Biler is a doin’ now about as well as a boy can do, eh, +Polly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! he’s a doing beautiful!” responded Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“He ain’t got to be at all secret-like—has he, Polly?” +inquired Mr Toodle. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Mrs Toodle, plumply. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad he ain’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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, of course it don’t, father. How can you ask!” +</p> + +<p> +“You see, my boys and gals,” said Mr Toodle, looking round upon his +family, “wotever you’re up to in a honest way, it’s my +opinion as you can’t do better than be open. If you find yourselves in +cuttings or in tunnels, don’t you play no secret games. Keep your +whistles going, and let’s know where you are.” +</p> + +<p> +The rising Toodles set up a shrill murmur, expressive of their resolution to +profit by the paternal advice. +</p> + +<p> +“But what makes you say this along of Rob, father?” asked his wife, +anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“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 coupled on to him, afore I knows where I am, or where they +comes from. What a Junction a man’s thoughts is,” said Mr Toodle, +“to-be-sure!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In satisfying himself, however, Mr Toodle was not regardless of the younger +branches about him, who, although they had made their own evening repast, were +on the look-out for irregular morsels, as possessing a relish. These he +distributed now and then to the expectant circle, by holding out great wedges +of bread and butter, to be bitten at by the family in lawful succession, and by +serving out 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 +gladness. These vents for their excitement found, they gradually closed about +Mr Toodle again, and eyed him hard as he got through more bread and butter and +tea; affecting, however, to have no further expectations of their own in +reference to those viands, but to be conversing on foreign subjects, and +whispering confidentially. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toodle, in the midst of this family group, and setting 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 contemplating the rest over a +barrier of bread and butter, when Rob the Grinder, in his sou’wester hat +and mourning slops, presented himself, and was received with a general rush of +brothers and sisters. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, mother!” said Rob, dutifully kissing her; “how are +you, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s my boy!” cried Polly, giving him a hug and a pat on +the back. “Secret! Bless you, father, not he!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What! father’s been a saying something more again me, has +he?” cried the injured innocent. “Oh, what a hard thing it is that +when a cove has once gone a little wrong, a cove’s own father 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor boy!” cried Polly, “father didn’t mean +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“If father didn’t mean anything,” blubbered the injured +Grinder, “why did he go and say anything, mother? Nobody thinks half so +bad of me as my own father does. What a unnatural thing! I wish +somebody’d take and chop my head off. Father wouldn’t mind doing +it, I believe, and I’d much rather he did that than t’other.” +</p> + +<p> +At these desperate words all the young Toodles shrieked; a pathetic effect, +which the Grinder improved by ironically adjuring them not to cry for him, for +they ought to hate him, they ought, if they was good boys and girls; and this +so touched the youngest Toodle but one, who was easily moved, that it touched +him not only in his spirit but in his wind too; making him so purple that 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 instrument. +</p> + +<p> +Matters having reached this point, Mr Toodle explained, and the virtuous +feelings of his son being thereby calmed, they shook hands, and harmony reigned +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you do as I do, Biler, my boy?” inquired his father, +returning to his tea with new strength. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank’ee, father. Master and I had tea together.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how <i>is</i> master, Rob?” said Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know, mother; not much to boast on. There +ain’t no bis’ness done, you see. He don’t know anything about +it—the Cap’en don’t. There was a man come into the shop this +very day, and says, ‘I want a so-and-so,’ he says—some hard +name or another. ‘A which?’ says the Cap’en. ‘A +so-and-so,’ says the man. ‘Brother,’ says the Cap’en, +‘will you take a observation round the shop.’ ‘Well,’ +says the man, ‘I’ve done.’ ‘Do you see wot you +want?’ says the Cap’en ‘No, I don’t,’ says the +man. ‘Do you know it wen you <i>do</i> see it?’ says the +Cap’en. ‘No, I don’t,’ says the man. ‘Why, then I +tell you wot, my lad,’ says the Cap’en, ‘you’d better +go back and ask wot it’s like, outside, for no more don’t +I!’” +</p> + +<p> +“That ain’t the way to make money, though, is it?” said +Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Money, mother! He’ll never make money. He has such ways as I never +see. He ain’t a bad master though, I’ll say that for him. But that +ain’t much to me, for I don’t think I shall stop with him +long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not stop in your place, Rob!” cried his mother; while Mr Toodle +opened his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in that place, p’raps,” returned the Grinder, with a +wink. “I shouldn’t wonder—friends at court you know—but +never <i>you</i> mind, mother, just now; I’m all right, that’s +all.” +</p> + +<p> +The indisputable proof afforded in these hints, and in the Grinder’s +mysterious manner, of his not being subject to that failing which Mr Toodle +had, by implication, attributed to him, might have led to a renewal of his +wrongs, and of the sensation in the family, but for the opportune arrival of +another visitor, who, to Polly’s great surprise, appeared at the door, +smiling patronage and friendship on all there. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mrs Richards?” said Miss Tox. “I have come to +see you. May I come in?” +</p> + +<p> +The cheery face of Mrs Richards shone with a hospitable reply, and Miss Tox, +accepting the proffered chair, and gracefully recognising 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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0495m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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 hopeless seclusion from his +friends and family, caused him to struggle with great violence, and to utter +suffocating 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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have almost forgotten me, Sir, I daresay,” said Miss Tox to Mr +Toodle. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Ma’am, no,” said Toodle. “But we’ve all on +us got a little older since then.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how do you find yourself, Sir?” inquired Miss Tox, blandly. +</p> + +<p> +“Hearty, Ma’am, thank’ee,” replied Toodle. “How +do <i>you</i> find <i>your</i>self, Ma’am? Do the rheumaticks keep off +pretty well, Ma’am? We must all expect to grow into ’em, as we gets +on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Miss Tox. “I have not felt any +inconvenience from that disorder yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re wery fortunate, Ma’am,” returned Mr Toodle. +“Many people at your time of life, Ma’am, is martyrs to it. There +was my mother—” But catching his wife’s eye here, Mr Toodle +judiciously buried the rest in another mug of tea. +</p> + +<p> +“You never mean to say, Mrs Richards,” cried Miss Tox, looking at +Rob, “that that is your—” +</p> + +<p> +“Eldest, Ma’am,” said Polly. “Yes, indeed, it is. +That’s the little fellow, Ma’am, that was the innocent cause of so +much.” +</p> + +<p> +“This here, Ma’am,” said Toodle, “is him with the short +legs—and they was,” said Mr Toodle, with a touch of poetry in his +tone, “unusual short for leathers—as Mr Dombey made a Grinder +on.” +</p> + +<p> +The recollection almost overpowered Miss Tox. The subject of it had a peculiar +interest for her directly. She asked him to shake hands, and congratulated his +mother on his frank, ingenuous face. Rob, overhearing her, called up a look, to +justify the eulogium, but it was hardly the right look. +</p> + +<p> +“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 between me and some of my friends, and that where I used to visit a good +deal, I do not visit now.” +</p> + +<p> +Polly, who, with a woman’s tact, understood this at once, expressed as +much in a little look. Mr Toodle, who had not the faintest idea of what Miss +Tox was talking about, expressed that also, in a stare. +</p> + +<p> +“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 Dombey;” Miss Tox’s voice faltered; “and everything that +relates to him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toodle, who had not entertained the least doubt of offering a remark that +would be received with acquiescence, was greatly confounded. +</p> + +<p> +“All that I wish to say, Mrs Richards,” resumed Miss +Tox,—“and I address myself to you too, Sir,—is this. That any +intelligence of the proceedings of the family, of the welfare of the family, of +the health of the family, that reaches you, will be always most acceptable to +me. That I shall be always very glad to chat with Mrs Richards about the +family, and about old time. And as Mrs Richards and I never had the least +difference (though I could wish now that we had been better acquainted, but I +have no one but myself to blame for that), I hope she will not object to our +being very good friends now, and to my coming 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-humoured creature, as you always were.” +</p> + +<p> +Polly was gratified, and showed it. Mr Toodle didn’t know whether he was +gratified or not, and preserved a stolid calmness. +</p> + +<p> +“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 which I shall be delighted +to be so. For instance, I can teach your children something. 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 a great +deal, I trust, and be a credit to their teacher.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toodle, who had a great respect for learning, jerked his head approvingly at +his wife, and moistened his hands with dawning satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, not being a stranger, I shall be in nobody’s way,” +said Miss Tox, “and everything will go on just as if I were not here. Mrs +Richards will do her mending, or her ironing, or her nursing, whatever it is, +without minding me: and you’ll smoke your pipe, too, if you’re so +disposed, Sir, won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee, Mum,” said Mr Toodle. “Yes; I’ll take +my bit of backer.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 was something +to Miss Tox to be seen home by a youth whom Mr Dombey had first inducted into +those manly garments which are rarely mentioned by name, she very readily +accepted the proposal. +</p> + +<p> +After shaking hands with Mr Toodle and Polly, and kissing all the children, +Miss Tox left the house, therefore, with unlimited popularity, and carrying +away with her so light a heart that it might have given Mrs Chick offence if +that good lady could have weighed it. +</p> + +<p> +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 +expressed it to his mother, “drew him out,” upon the road. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Ma’am,” returned Rob; “I’m saving up, +against I’ve got enough to put in the Bank, Ma’am. +</p> + +<p> +“Very laudable indeed,” said Miss Tox. “I’m glad to +hear it. Put this half-crown into it, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh thank you, Ma’am,” replied Rob, “but really I +couldn’t think of depriving you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I commend your independent spirit,” said Miss Tox, “but +it’s no deprivation, I assure you. I shall be offended if you don’t +take it, as a mark of my good-will. Good-night, Robin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Ma’am,” said Rob, “and thank you!” +</p> + +<p> +Who ran sniggering off to get change, and tossed it away with a pieman. But +they never taught honour at the Grinders’ School, where the system that +prevailed was particularly strong in the engendering of hypocrisy. Insomuch, +that many of the friends and masters of past Grinders said, if this were what +came of education for the common people, let us have none. Some more rational +said, let us have a better one. But the governing powers of the Grinders’ +Company were always ready for them, by picking out a few boys who had turned +out well in spite of the system, and roundly asserting that they could have +only turned out well because of it. Which settled the business of those +objectors out of hand, and established the glory of the Grinders’ +Institution. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.<br /> +Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>ime, +sure of foot and strong of will, had so pressed onward, that the year enjoined +by the old Instrument-maker, as the term during which his friend should refrain +from opening the sealed packet accompanying the letter he had left for him, was +now nearly expired, and Captain Cuttle began to look at it, of an evening, with +feelings of mystery and uneasiness. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, in his honour, would as soon have thought of opening the parcel +one hour before the expiration of the term, as he would have thought of opening +himself, to study his own anatomy. He merely brought it out, at a certain stage +of his 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 parlour wall, the packet +still attracted him; or if his eyes, in thoughtful wandering, roved to the +ceiling or the fire, its image immediately followed, and posted itself +conspicuously among the coals, or took up an advantageous position on the +whitewash. +</p> + +<p> +In respect of Heart’s Delight, the Captain’s parental and +admiration knew no change. But since his 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 +favourable as he could have wished, and as he at the time believed. The Captain +was troubled with a serious misgiving that he had done more harm than good, in +short; and in his remorse and modesty he made the best atonement he could think +of, by putting himself out of the way of doing any harm to anyone, and, as it +were, throwing himself overboard for a dangerous person. +</p> + +<p> +Self-buried, therefore, among the instruments, the Captain never went near Mr +Dombey’s house, or reported himself in any way to Florence or Miss +Nipper. He even severed himself from Mr Perch, on the occasion of his next +visit, by dryly informing that gentleman, that he thanked him for his company, +but had cut himself adrift from all such acquaintance, as he didn’t know +what magazine he mightn’t blow up, without meaning of it. In this +self-imposed retirement, the Captain passed whole days and weeks without +interchanging a word with anyone but Rob the Grinder, whom he esteemed as a +pattern of disinterested attachment and fidelity. In this retirement, the +Captain, gazing at the packet of an evening, would sit smoking, and thinking of +Florence and poor Walter, until they both seemed to his homely fancy to be +dead, and to have passed away into eternal youth, the beautiful and innocent +children of his first remembrance. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain did not, however, in his musings, neglect his own improvement, or +the mental culture of Rob the Grinder. That young man was generally required to +read out of some book to the Captain, for one hour, every evening; and as the +Captain 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 he was accustomed to quote the text, without book, after +his own manner, he appeared to read it with as reverent an understanding of its +heavenly spirit, as if he had got it all by heart in Greek, and had been able +to write any number of fierce theological disquisitions on its every phrase. +</p> + +<p> +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 his intellectual shins against all the proper names of all the +tribes of Judah, and by the monotonous repetition of hard verses, especially by +way of punishment, and by the parading of him at six years old in leather +breeches, three times a Sunday, very high up, in a very hot church, with a +great organ buzzing against his drowsy head, like an exceedingly busy +bee—Rob the Grinder made a mighty show of being edified when the Captain +ceased to read, and generally yawned and nodded while the reading was in +progress. The latter fact being never so much as suspected by the good Captain. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, also, as a man of business; took to keeping books. In these he +entered observations on the weather, and on the currents of the waggons and +other vehicles: which he observed, in that quarter, to set westward in the +morning and during the greater part of the day, and eastward towards the +evening. Two or three stragglers appearing in one week, who “spoke +him”—so the Captain entered it—on the subject of spectacles, +and who, without positively purchasing, said they would look in again, the +Captain decided that the business was improving, and made an entry in the +day-book to that effect: the wind then blowing (which he first recorded) pretty +fresh, west and by north; having changed in the night. +</p> + +<p> +One of the Captain’s chief difficulties was Mr Toots, who called +frequently, and who without saying much seemed to have an idea that the little +back parlour was an eligible room to chuckle in, as he would sit and avail +himself of its accommodations in that regard by the half-hour together, without +at all advancing in intimacy with the Captain. The Captain, rendered cautious +by his late experience, was unable quite to satisfy his mind whether Mr Toots +was the mild subject he appeared to be, or was a profoundly artful and +dissimulating hypocrite. His frequent reference to Miss Dombey was suspicious; +but the Captain had a secret kindness for Mr Toots’s apparent reliance on +him, and forbore to decide against him for the present; merely eyeing him, with +a sagacity not to be described, whenever he approached the subject that was +nearest to his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” blurted out Mr Toots, one day all at once, as his +manner was, “do you think you could think favourably of that proposition +of mine, and give me the pleasure of your acquaintance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I tell you what it is, my lad,” replied the Captain, who had +at length concluded on a course of action; “I’ve been turning that +there, over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills, it’s very kind of you,” retorted Mr Toots. +“I’m much obliged to you. Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills, +it would be a charity to give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. It really +would.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see, brother,” argued the Captain slowly, “I don’t +know you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, gesticulating violently with the +hand in which he held his hat, “Admiration is not the word. Upon my +honour, 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 +wagging my tail. I should be so perfectly happy, Captain Gills!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots said it with watery eyes, and pressed his hat against his bosom with +deep emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“My lad,” returned the Captain, moved to compassion, “if +you’re in arnest—” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” cried Mr Toots, “I’m in such a state +of mind, and am so dreadfully in earnest, that if I could swear to it upon a +hot piece of iron, or a live coal, or melted lead, or burning sealing-wax, Or +anything of that sort, I should be glad to hurt myself, as a relief to my +feelings.” And Mr Toots looked hurriedly about the room, as if for some +sufficiently painful means of accomplishing his dread purpose. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain pushed his glazed hat back upon his head, stroked his face down +with his heavy hand—making his nose more mottled in the process—and +planting himself before Mr Toots, and hooking him by the lapel of his coat, +addressed him in these words, while Mr Toots looked up into his face, with much +attention and some wonder. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’re in arnest, you see, my lad,” said the Captain, +“you’re a object of clemency, and clemency is the brightest jewel +in the crown of a Briton’s head, for which you’ll overhaul the +constitution as laid down in Rule Britannia, and, when found, that is the +charter as them garden angels was a singing of, so many times over. Stand by! +This here proposal o’ you’rn takes me a little aback. And why? +Because I holds my own only, you understand, in these here waters, and +haven’t got no consort, and may be don’t wish for none. Steady! You +hailed me first, along of a certain young lady, as you was chartered by. Now if +you and me is to keep one another’s company at all, that there young +creetur’s name must never be named nor referred to. I don’t know +what harm mayn’t have been done by naming of it too free, afore now, and +thereby I brings up short. D’ye make me out pretty clear, brother?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll excuse me, Captain Gills,” replied Mr Toots, +“if I don’t quite follow you sometimes. But upon my word +I—it’s a hard thing, Captain Gills, not to be able to mention Miss +Dombey. I really have got such a dreadful load here!”—Mr Toots +pathetically touched his shirt-front with both hands—“that I feel +night and day, exactly as if somebody was sitting upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 honourable, 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 thinking about Miss Dombey. It’s +impossible for me to make a promise not to think about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lad,” said the Captain, whose opinion of Mr Toots was much +improved by this candid avowal, “a man’s thoughts is like the +winds, and nobody can’t answer for ’em for certain, any length of +time together. Is it a treaty as to words?” +</p> + +<p> +“As to words, Captain Gills,” returned Mr Toots, “I think I +can bind myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots gave Captain Cuttle his hand upon it, then and there; and the Captain +with a pleasant and gracious show of condescension, bestowed his acquaintance +upon him formally. Mr Toots seemed much relieved and gladdened by the +acquisition, and chuckled rapturously during the remainder of his visit. The +Captain, for his part, was not ill pleased to occupy that position of +patronage, and was exceedingly well satisfied by his own prudence and +foresight. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I beg your pardon, Captain, but you mayn’t be in want of any +pigeons, may you, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lad,” replied the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I was wishing to dispose of mine, Captain,” said Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay?” cried the Captain, lifting up his bushy eyebrows a +little. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I’m going, Captain, if you please,” said Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“Going? Where are you going?” asked the Captain, looking round at +him over the glasses. +</p> + +<p> +“What? didn’t you know that I was going to leave you, +Captain?” asked Rob, with a sneaking smile. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain put down the paper, took off his spectacles, and brought his eyes +to bear on the deserter. +</p> + +<p> +“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 could 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 think?” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’re a going to desert your colours, are you, my lad?” +said the Captain, after a long examination of his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, 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 ain’t +because I’m a servant and you’re a master, that you’re to go +and libel me. What wrong have I done? Come, Captain, let me know what my crime +is, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +The stricken Grinder wept, and put his coat-cuff in his eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Captain,” cried the injured youth, “give my crime a +name! What have I been and done? Have I stolen any of the property? have I set +the house a-fire? If I have, why don’t you give me in charge, and try it? +But to take away the character of a lad that’s been a good servant to +you, because he can’t afford to stand in his own light for your good, +what a injury it is, and what a bad return for faithful service! This is the +way young coves is spiled and drove wrong. I wonder at you, Captain, I +do.” +</p> + +<p> +All of which the Grinder howled forth in a lachrymose whine, and backing +carefully towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you’ve got another berth, have you, my lad?” said the +Captain, eyeing him intently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Captain, since you put it in that shape, I have got another +berth,” cried Rob, backing more and more; “a better berth than +I’ve got here, and one where I don’t so much as want your good +word, Captain, which is fort’nate for me, after all the dirt you’ve +throw’d at me, because I’m poor, and can’t afford to stand in +my own light for your good. Yes, I have got another berth; and if it +wasn’t for leaving you unprovided, Captain, I’d go to it now, +sooner than I’d take them names from you, because I’m poor, and +can’t afford to stand in my own light for your good. Why do you reproach +me for being poor, and not standing in my own light for your good, Captain? How +can you so demean yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Look ye here, my boy,” replied the peaceful Captain. +“Don’t you pay out no more of them words.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” pursued the Captain calmly, “you have heerd, may +be, of such a thing as a rope’s end.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, have I though, Captain?” cried the taunting Grinder. “No +I haven’t. I never heerd of any such a article!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I may go at once, may I, Captain?” cried Rob, exulting in his +success. “But mind! I never asked to go at once, Captain. You are not to +take away my character again, because you send me off of your own accord. And +you’re not to stop any of my wages, Captain!” +</p> + +<p> +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 grievously wounded in his feelings, took up the pieces one by one, +with a sob and a snivel for each, and tied them up separately in knots in his +pockethandkerchief; then he ascended to the roof of the house and filled his +hat and pockets with pigeons; then, came down to his bed under the counter and +made up his bundle, snivelling and sobbing louder, as if he were cut to the +heart by old associations; then he whined, “Good-night, Captain. I leave +you without malice!” and then, going out upon the door-step, pulled the +little Midshipman’s nose as a parting indignity, and went away down the +street grinning triumphantly. +</p> + +<p> +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 scampering up one column and down another +all through the newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +It is doubtful whether the worthy Captain had ever felt himself quite abandoned +until now; but now, old Sol Gills, Walter, and Heart’s Delight were lost +to him indeed, and now Mr Carker deceived and jeered him cruelly. They were all +represented in the false 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 company; he had taken the command of the little Midshipman +with him at his right hand; he had meant to do his duty by him, and had felt +almost as kindly towards the boy as if they had been shipwrecked and cast upon +a desert place together. And now, that the false Rob had brought distrust, +treachery, and meanness into the very parlour, which was a kind of sacred +place, Captain Cuttle felt as if the parlour might have gone down next, and not +surprised him much by its sinking, or given him any very great concern. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore Captain Cuttle read the newspaper with profound attention and no +comprehension, and therefore Captain Cuttle said nothing whatever about Rob to +himself, or admitted to himself that he was thinking about him, or would +recognise in the most distant manner that Rob had anything to do with his +feeling as lonely as Robinson Crusoe. +</p> + +<p> +In the same composed, business-like way, the Captain stepped over to Leadenhall +Market in the dusk, and effected an arrangement with a private watchman on duty +there, to come and put up and take down the shutters of the wooden Midshipman +every night and morning. He then called in at 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 upstairs, as sole guardian of the property. +</p> + +<p> +From this bed Captain Cuttle daily rose thenceforth, and clapped on his glazed +hat at six o’clock in the morning, with the solitary air of Crusoe +finishing his toilet with his goat-skin cap; and although his fears of a +visitation 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 without any symptoms of the cannibals, he still observed a +regular routine of defensive operations, and never encountered a bonnet without +previous survey from his castle of retreat. In the meantime (during which he +received no call from Mr Toots, who wrote to say he was out of town) his own +voice began to have a strange sound in his ears; and he acquired such habits of +profound meditation from much polishing and stowing away of the stock, and from +much sitting behind the counter reading, or looking out of window, that the red +rim made on his forehead by the hard glazed hat, sometimes ached again with +excess of reflection. +</p> + +<p> +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, who had brought it to him, and as he had an idea that it would be +regular and ship-shape to open it in the presence of somebody, he was sadly put +to it for want of a witness. In this difficulty, he hailed one day with unusual +delight the announcement in the Shipping Intelligence of the arrival of the +Cautious Clara, Captain John Bunsby, from a coasting voyage; and to that +philosopher immediately dispatched a letter by post, enjoining inviolable +secrecy as to his place of residence, and requesting to be favoured with an +early visit, in the evening season. +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby, who was one of those sages who act upon conviction, took some days to +get the conviction thoroughly into his mind, that he had received a letter to +this effect. But when he had grappled with the fact, and mastered it, he +promptly sent his boy with the message, “He’s a coming +tonight.” Who being instructed to deliver those words and disappear, +fulfilled his mission like a tarry spirit, charged with a mysterious warning. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, well pleased to receive it, made preparation of pipes and rum and +water, and awaited his visitor in the back parlour. 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 alongside; 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Bunsby,” said the Captain, grasping him by the hand, “what +cheer, my lad, what cheer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Shipmet,” replied the voice within Bunsby, unaccompanied by any +sign on the part of the Commander himself, “hearty, hearty.” +</p> + +<p> +“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’s 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay?” growled Bunsby. +</p> + +<p> +“Every letter,” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“For why?” growled Bunsby, looking at his friend for the first +time. “Which way? If so, why not? Therefore.” With these oracular +words—they seemed almost to make the Captain giddy; they launched him +upon such a sea of speculation and conjecture—the sage submitted to be +helped off with his pilot-coat, and accompanied his friend into the back +parlour, where his hand presently alighted on the rum-bottle, from which he +brewed a stiff glass of grog; and presently afterwards on a pipe, which he +filled, lighted, and began to smoke. +</p> + +<p> +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 powers, sat in the opposite corner of the fireside, observing him +respectfully, and as if he waited for some encouragement or expression of +curiosity on Bunsby’s part which should lead him to his own affairs. But +as the mahogany philosopher gave no evidence of being sentient of anything but +warmth and 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 bespeaking his attention in a short +complimentary exordium, narrated the whole history of Uncle Sol’s +departure, with the change it had produced in his own life and fortunes; and +concluded by placing the packet on the table. +</p> + +<p> +After a long pause, Mr Bunsby nodded his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Open?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby nodded again. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain accordingly broke the seal, and disclosed to view two folded +papers, of which he severally read the endorsements, thus: “Last Will and +Testament of Solomon Gills.” “Letter for Ned Cuttle.” +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby, with his eye on the coast of Greenland, seemed to listen for the +contents. The Captain therefore hemmed to clear his throat, and read the letter +aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My dear Ned Cuttle. When I left home for the West +Indies’—” +</p> + +<p> +Here the Captain stopped, and looked hard at Bunsby, who looked fixedly at the +coast of Greenland. +</p> + +<p> +“—‘in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear boy, I knew +that if you were acquainted with my design, you would thwart it, or accompany +me; and therefore I kept it secret. If you ever read this letter, Ned, I am +likely to be dead. You 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 my poor boy +will ever read these words, or gladden your eyes with the sight of his frank +face any more.’ No, no; no more,” said Captain Cuttle, sorrowfully +meditating; “no more. There he lays, all his days—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Bunsby, who had a musical ear, suddenly bellowed, “In the Bays of +Biscay, O!” which so affected the good Captain, as an appropriate tribute +to departed worth, that he shook him by the hand in acknowledgment, and was +fain to wipe his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well!” said the Captain with a sigh, as the Lament of Bunsby +ceased to ring and vibrate in the skylight. “Affliction sore, long time +he bore, and let us overhaul the wollume, and there find it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Physicians,” observed Bunsby, “was in vain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, to be sure,” said the Captain, “what’s the +good o’ them in two or three hundred fathoms o’ water!” Then, +returning to the letter, he read on:—“"But if he should be by, when +it is opened;’” the Captain involuntarily looked round, and shook +his head; “‘or should know of it at any other time;’” +the Captain shook his head again; “‘my blessing on him! In case the +accompanying paper is not legally 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) otherwise, that you +should have it, Ned. You will respect my wish, I know. God bless you for it, +and for all your friendliness besides, to Solomon Gills.’ Bunsby!” +said the Captain, appealing to him solemnly, “what do you make of this? +There you sit, a man as has had his head broke from infancy up’ards, and +has got a new opinion into it at every seam as has been opened. Now, what do +you make o’ this?” +</p> + +<p> +“If so be,” returned Bunsby, with unusual promptitude, “as +he’s dead, my opinion is he won’t come back no more. If so be as +he’s alive, my opinion is he will. Do I say he will? No. Why not? Because +the bearings of this obserwation lays in the application on it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bunsby!” said Captain Cuttle, who would seem to have estimated the +value of his distinguished friend’s opinions in proportion to the +immensity of the difficulty he experienced in making anything out of them; +“Bunsby,” said the Captain, quite confounded by admiration, +“you 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’ll come back, strange as it is that he ain’t forwarded no +dispatches. Now, what is your opinion, Bunsby, as to stowing of these here +papers away again, and marking outside as they was opened, such a day, in the +presence of John Bunsby and Ed’ard Cuttle?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby, descrying no objection, on the coast of Greenland or elsewhere, to this +proposal, it was carried into execution; and that great man, bringing his eye +into the present for a moment, affixed his sign-manual to the cover, totally +abstaining, with characteristic modesty, from the use of capital letters. +Captain Cuttle, having attached his own left-handed 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 for ever remain 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 parlour, bringing +Alexander MacStinger in her parental arms, and confusion and vengeance (not to +mention Juliana MacStinger, and the sweet child’s brother, Charles +MacStinger, popularly known about the scenes of his youthful sports, as +Chowley) in her train. She came so swiftly and so silently, like a rushing air +from the neighbourhood of the East India Docks, that Captain Cuttle found +himself in the very act of sitting looking at her, before the calm face with +which he had been meditating, changed to one of horror and dismay. +</p> + +<p> +But the moment Captain Cuttle understood the full extent of his misfortune, +self-preservation dictated an attempt at flight. Darting at the little door +which opened from the parlour 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 Chowley, who pinning him by the +legs—one of those dear children holding on to each—claimed him as +their friend, with lamentable cries. In the meantime, Mrs MacStinger, who never +entered upon any action of importance without previously inverting Alexander +MacStinger, to bring him within the range of a brisk battery of slaps, and then +sitting him down to cool as the reader first beheld him, performed that solemn +rite, as if on this occasion it were a sacrifice to the Furies; and having +deposited the victim on the floor, made at the Captain with a strength of +purpose that appeared to threaten scratches to the interposing Bunsby. +</p> + +<p> +The cries of the two elder MacStingers, and the wailing 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 existence, combined to make +this visitation the more awful. But when silence reigned again, and the +Captain, in a violent perspiration, stood meekly looking at Mrs MacStinger, its +terrors were at their height. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Cap’en Cuttle, Cap’en Cuttle!” said Mrs +MacStinger, 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 Cuttle, do you dare to look me in the face, +and not be struck down in the berth!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, who looked anything but daring, feebly muttered “Stand +by!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh I was a weak and trusting Fool when I took you under my roof, +Cap’en Cuttle, I was!” cried Mrs MacStinger. “To think of the +benefits I’ve showered on that man, and the way in which I brought my +children up to love and honour him as if he was a father to ’em, when +there ain’t a housekeeper, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs MacStinger stopped to fetch her breath; and her face flushed with triumph +in this second happy introduction of Captain Cuttle’s muzzlings. +</p> + +<p> +“And he runs awa-a-a-y!” 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 twelve-month! From a woman! Such is +his conscience! He hasn’t the courage to meet her hi-i-igh;” long +syllable again; “but steals away, like a fellon. Why, if that baby of +mine,” said 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!” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0511m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +The young Alexander, interpreting this into a positive promise, to be shortly +redeemed, tumbled over with fear and grief, and lay upon the floor, exhibiting +the soles of his shoes and making such a deafening outcry, that Mrs MacStinger +found it necessary to take him up in her arms, where she quieted him, ever and +anon, as he broke out again, by a shake that seemed enough to loosen his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“A pretty sort of a man is Cap’en Cuttle,” said Mrs +MacStinger, with a sharp stress on the first syllable of the Captain’s +name, “to take on for—and to lose sleep for—and to faint +along of—and to think dead forsooth—and to go up and down the +blessed town like a madwoman, 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 +manner, “I wish to know if you’re a-coming home.” +</p> + +<p> +The frightened Captain looked into his hat, as if he saw nothing for it but to +put it on, and give himself up. +</p> + +<p> +“Cap’en Cuttle,” repeated Mrs MacStinger, in the same +determined manner, “I wish to know if you’re a-coming home, +Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain seemed quite ready to go, but faintly suggested something to the +effect of “not making so much noise about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, ay,” said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. “Awast, my +lass, awast!” +</p> + +<p> +“And who may you be, if you please!” retorted Mrs MacStinger, with +chaste loftiness. “Did you ever lodge at Number Nine, Brig Place, Sir? My +memory may be bad, but not with me, I think. There was a Mrs Jollson lived at +Number Nine before me, and perhaps you’re mistaking me for her. That is +my only ways of accounting for your familiarity, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, my lass, awast, awast!” said Bunsby. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle could hardly believe it, even of this great man, though he saw +it done with his waking eyes; but Bunsby, advancing boldly, put his shaggy blue +arm round Mrs 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Captain Cuttle, more to his confusion than if he +had been put in irons himself, for safe transport to Brig Place, saw the family +pacifically filing 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 favourite, and Chowley, who had the claim upon +him that he was naturally of a maritime build, before the Midshipman was +abandoned by them all; and Bunsby whispering that he’d carry on smart, +and hail Ned Cuttle again before he went aboard, shut the door upon himself, as +the last member of the party. +</p> + +<p> +Some uneasy ideas that he must be walking in his sleep, or that he had been +troubled with phantoms, and not a family of flesh and blood, beset the Captain +at first, when he went back to the little parlour, and found himself alone. +Illimitable faith in, and immeasurable admiration of, the Commander of the +Cautious Clara, succeeded, and threw the Captain into a wondering trance. +</p> + +<p> +Still, as time wore on, and Bunsby failed to reappear, the Captain began to +entertain uncomfortable doubts of another kind. Whether Bunsby had been +artfully decoyed to Brig Place, and was there detained in safe custody as +hostage for his friend; in which case it would become the Captain, as a man of +honour, to release him, by the sacrifice of his own 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 endeavouring to lose the +family amid the wilds and savage places of the City. Above all, what it would +behove him, Captain Cuttle, to do, in case of his hearing no more, either of +the MacStingers or of Bunsby, which, in these wonderful and unforeseen +conjunctions of events, might possibly happen. +</p> + +<p> +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 the Captain had given him up, for that night at least, and had begun to +undress, the sound of approaching wheels was heard, and, stopping at the door, +was succeeded by Bunsby’s hail. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain trembled to think that Mrs MacStinger was not to be got rid of, and +had been brought back in a coach. +</p> + +<p> +But no. Bunsby was accompanied by nothing but a large box, which he hauled into +the shop with his own hands, and as soon as he had hauled in, sat upon. Captain +Cuttle knew it for the chest he had left at Mrs MacStinger’s house, and +looking, candle in hand, at Bunsby 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Cuttle,” said the Commander, getting off the chest, and opening +the lid, “are these here your traps?” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle looked in and identified his property. +</p> + +<p> +“Done pretty taut and trim, hey, shipmet?” said Bunsby. +</p> + +<p> +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 over-balance 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. +</p> + +<p> +As it was not his humour to be often sought, Captain Cuttle decided not to go +or send to him next day, or until he should make his gracious pleasure known in +such wise, or failing that, until some little time should have lapsed. The +Captain, therefore, renewed his solitary life next morning, and thought +profoundly, many mornings, noons, and nights, of old Sol Gills, and +Bunsby’s sentiments concerning him, and the hopes there were of his +return. Much of such thinking strengthened Captain Cuttle’s hopes; and he +humoured them and himself by watching for the Instrument-maker at the +door—as he ventured to do now, in his strange liberty—and setting +his chair in its place, and arranging the little parlour as it used to be, in +case he should come home unexpectedly. He likewise, in his thoughtfulness, took +down a certain little miniature of Walter as a schoolboy, from its accustomed +nail, lest it should shock the old man on his return. The Captain had his +presentiments, too, sometimes, that he would come on such a day; and one +particular Sunday, even ordered a double allowance of dinner, he was so +sanguine. But come, old Solomon did not; and still the neighbours noticed how +the seafaring man in the glazed hat, stood at the shop-door of an evening, +looking up and down the street. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL.<br /> +Domestic Relations</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was +not in the nature of things that a man of Mr Dombey’s mood, opposed to +such a spirit as he had raised against himself, should be softened in the +imperious asperity of his temper; or that the cold hard armour of pride in +which he lived encased, should be made more flexible by constant collision with +haughty scorn and defiance. It is the curse of such a 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, is as hard a master as the Devil in dark +fables. +</p> + +<p> +Towards his first wife, Mr Dombey, in his cold and lofty arrogance, had borne +himself like the removed Being he almost conceived himself to be. He had been +“Mr Dombey” with her when she first saw him, and he was “Mr +Dombey” when she died. He had asserted his greatness during their whole +married life, and she had meekly recognised it. He had kept his distant seat of +state on the top of his throne, and she her humble station on its lowest step; +and much good it had done him, so to live in solitary bondage to his one idea. +He had imagined that the proud character of his second wife would have been +added to his own—would have merged into it, and exalted his greatness. He +had pictured himself haughtier than ever, with Edith’s haughtiness +subservient to his. He had never entertained the possibility of its arraying +itself against him. And now, when he found it rising in his path at every step +and turn of his daily life, fixing its cold, defiant, and contemptuous face +upon him, this pride of his, instead of withering, or hanging down its head +beneath the shock, put forth new shoots, became more concentrated and intense, +more gloomy, sullen, irksome, and unyielding, than it had ever been before. +</p> + +<p> +Who wears such armour, too, bears with him ever another heavy retribution. It +is of proof against conciliation, love, and confidence; against all gentle +sympathy from without, all trust, all tenderness, all soft emotion; but to deep +stabs in the self-love, it is as vulnerable as the bare breast to steel; and +such tormenting festers rankle there, as follow on no other wounds, no, though +dealt with the mailed hand of Pride itself, on weaker pride, disarmed and +thrown down. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Who? Who was it who could win his wife as she had won his boy? Who was it who +had shown him that new victory, as he sat in the dark corner? Who was it whose +least word did what his utmost means could not? Who was it who, unaided by his +love, regard or notice, thrived and grew beautiful when those so aided died? +Who could it be, but the same child at whom he had often glanced uneasily in +her motherless infancy, with a kind of dread, lest he might come to hate her; +and of whom his foreboding was fulfilled, for he DID hate her in his heart? +</p> + +<p> +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 grace his life—or Edith’s? Had her attractions +been manifested first to him—or Edith? Why, he and she had never been, +from her birth, like father and child! They had always been estranged. She had +crossed him every way and everywhere. She was leagued against him now. Her very +beauty softened natures that were obdurate to him, and insulted him with an +unnatural triumph. +</p> + +<p> +It may have been that in all this there were mutterings of an awakened feeling +in his breast, however selfishly aroused by his position of disadvantage, in +comparison with what she might have made his life. But he silenced the distant +thunder with the rolling of his sea of pride. He would bear nothing but his +pride. And in his pride, a heap of inconsistency, and misery, and +self-inflicted torment, he hated her. +</p> + +<p> +To the moody, stubborn, sullen demon, that possessed him, his wife opposed her +different pride in its full force. They never could have led a happy life +together; but nothing could have made it more unhappy, than the wilful and +determined warfare of such elements. His pride was set upon maintaining his +magnificent supremacy, and forcing recognition of it from her. She would have +been racked to death, and turned but her haughty glance of calm inflexible +disdain upon him, to the last. Such recognition from Edith! He little knew +through what a storm and struggle she had been driven onward to the crowning +honour of his hand. He little knew how much she thought she had conceded, when +she suffered him to call her wife. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey was resolved to show her that he was supreme. There must be no will +but his. Proud he desired that she should be, but she must be proud for, not +against him. As he sat alone, hardening, he would often hear her go out and +come home, treading the round of London life with no more heed of his liking or +disliking, pleasure or displeasure, than if he had been her groom. Her cold +supreme indifference—his own unquestioned attribute usurped—stung +him more than any other kind of treatment could have done; and he determined to +bend her to his magnificent and stately will. +</p> + +<p> +He had been long communing with these thoughts, when one night he sought her in +her own apartment, after he had heard her return home late. She was alone, in +her brilliant dress, and had but that moment come from her mother’s room. +Her face was melancholy and pensive, when he came upon her; but it marked him +at the door; for, glancing at the mirror before it, he saw immediately, as in a +picture-frame, the knitted brow, and darkened beauty that he knew so well. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey,” he said, entering, “I must beg leave to have a +few words with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no time like the present, Madam,” he returned. “You +mistake your position. I am used to choose my own times; not to have them +chosen for me. I think you scarcely understand who and what I am, Mrs +Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” she answered, “that I understand you very +well.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +If she had been less handsome, and less stately in her cold composure, she +might not have had the power of impressing him with the sense of disadvantage +that penetrated through his utmost pride. But she had the power, and he felt it +keenly. He glanced round the room: saw how the splendid means of personal +adornment, and the luxuries of dress, were scattered here and there, and +disregarded; not in mere caprice and carelessness (or so he thought), but in a +steadfast haughty disregard of costly things: and felt it more and more. +Chaplets of flowers, plumes of feathers, jewels, laces, silks and satins; look +where he would, he saw riches, despised, poured out, and made of no account. +The very diamonds—a marriage gift—that rose and fell impatiently +upon her bosom, seemed to pant to break the chain that clasped them round her +neck, and roll down on the floor where she might tread upon them. +</p> + +<p> +He felt his disadvantage, and he showed it. Solemn and strange among this +wealth of colour and voluptuous glitter, strange and constrained towards its +haughty mistress, whose repellent 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 himself, he sat down, and went on, +in no improved humour: +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey, it is very necessary that there should be some understanding +arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please me, Madam.” +</p> + +<p> +She merely glanced at him again, and again averted her eyes; but she might have +spoken for an hour, and expressed less. +</p> + +<p> +“I repeat, Mrs Dombey, does not please me. I have already taken occasion +to request that it may be corrected. I now insist upon it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You chose a fitting occasion for your first remonstrance, Sir, and you +adopt a fitting manner, and a fitting word for your second. You insist! To +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said Mr Dombey, with his most offensive air of state, +“I have made you my wife. You bear my name. You are associated with my +position and my reputation. I will not say that the world in general may be +disposed to think you honoured by that association; but I will say that I am +accustomed to ‘insist,’ to my connexions and dependents.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which may you be pleased to consider me? she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly I may think that my wife should partake—or does partake, +and cannot help herself—of both characters, Mrs Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +She bent her eyes upon him steadily, and set her trembling lips. He saw her +bosom throb, and saw her face flush and turn white. All this he could know, and +did: but he could not know that one word was whispering in the deep recesses of +her heart, to keep her quiet; and that the word was Florence. +</p> + +<p> +Blind idiot, rushing to a precipice! He thought she stood in awe of him. +</p> + +<p> +“You are too expensive, Madam,” said Mr Dombey. “You are +extravagant. You waste a great deal of money—or what would be a great +deal in the pockets of most gentlemen—in cultivating a kind of society +that is useless to me, and, indeed, that upon the whole is disagreeable to me. +I have to insist upon a total change in all these respects. I know that in the +novelty of possessing a tithe of such means as Fortune has placed at your +disposal, ladies are apt to run into a sudden extreme. There has been more than +enough of that extreme. I beg that Mrs Granger’s very different +experiences may now come to the instruction of Mrs Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Still the fixed look, the trembling lips, the throbbing breast, the face now +crimson and now white; and still the deep whisper Florence, Florence, speaking +to her in the beating of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +His insolence of self-importance dilated as he saw this alteration in her. +Swollen no less by her past scorn of him, and his so recent feeling of +disadvantage, than by her present submission (as he took it to be), it became +too mighty for his breast, and burst all bounds. Why, who could long resist his +lofty will and pleasure! He had resolved to conquer her, and look here! +</p> + +<p> +“You will further please, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, in a tone of +sovereign command, “to understand distinctly, that I am to be deferred to +and obeyed. That I must have a positive show and confession of deference before +the world, Madam. I am used to this. I require it as my right. In short I will +have it. I consider it no unreasonable return for the worldly advancement that +has befallen you; and I believe nobody will be surprised, either at its being +required from you, or at your making it.—To Me—To Me!” he +added, with emphasis. +</p> + +<p> +No word from her. No change in her. Her eyes upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“I have learnt from your mother, Mrs Dombey,” said Mr Dombey, with +magisterial importance, “what no doubt you know, namely, that Brighton is +recommended for her health. Mr Carker has been so good.” +</p> + +<p> +She changed suddenly. Her face and bosom glowed as if the red light of an angry +sunset had been flung upon them. Not unobservant of the change, and putting his +own interpretation upon it, Mr Dombey resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Carker has been so good as to go down and secure a house there, for a +time. On the return of the establishment to London, I shall take such steps for +its better management as I consider necessary. One of these, will be the +engagement at Brighton (if it is to be effected), of a very respectable reduced +person there, a Mrs Pipchin, formerly employed in a situation of trust in my +family, to act as housekeeper. An establishment like this, presided over but +nominally, Mrs Dombey, requires a competent head.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I observed,” said Mr Dombey—“and this concludes what I +deem it necessary to say to you at present, Mrs Dombey—I observed a +moment ago, Madam, that my allusion to Mr Carker was received in a peculiar +manner. On the occasion of my happening to point out to you, before that +confidential agent, the objection I had to your mode of receiving my visitors, +you were pleased to object to his presence. You will have to get the better of +that objection, Madam, and to accustom yourself to it very probably on many +similar occasions; unless you adopt the remedy which is in your own hands, of +giving me no cause of complaint. Mr Carker,” said Mr Dombey, who, after +the emotion he had just seen, set great store by this means of reducing his +proud wife, and who was perhaps sufficiently willing to exhibit his power to +that gentleman in a new and triumphant aspect, “Mr Carker being in my +confidence, Mrs Dombey, may very well be in yours to such an extent. I hope, +Mrs Dombey,” he continued, after a few moments, during which, in his +increasing haughtiness, he had improved on his idea, “I may not find it +necessary ever to entrust Mr Carker with any message of objection or +remonstrance to you; but as it would be derogatory to my position and +reputation to be frequently holding trivial disputes with a lady upon whom I +have conferred the highest distinction that it is in my power to bestow, I +shall not scruple to avail myself of his services if I see occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” he thought, rising in his moral magnificence, and rising +a stiffer and more impenetrable man than ever, “she knows me and my +resolution.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Wait! For God’s sake! I must speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Why did she not, and what was the inward struggle that rendered her incapable +of doing so, for minutes, while, in the strong constraint she put upon her +face, it was as fixed as any statue’s—looking upon him with neither +yielding nor unyielding, liking nor hatred, pride not humility: nothing but a +searching gaze? +</p> + +<p> +“Did I ever tempt you to seek my hand? Did I ever use any art to win you? +Was I ever more conciliating to you when you pursued me, than I have been since +our marriage? Was I ever other to you than I am?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is wholly unnecessary, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, “to enter +upon such discussions.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“These questions,” said Mr Dombey, “are all wide of the +purpose, Madam.” +</p> + +<p> +She moved between him and the door to prevent his going away, and drawing her +majestic figure to its height, looked steadily upon him still. +</p> + +<p> +“You answer each of them. You answer me before I speak, I see. How can +you help it; you who know the miserable truth as well as I? Now, tell me. If I +loved you to devotion, could I do more than render up my whole will and being +to you, as you have just demanded? If my heart were pure and all untried, and +you its idol, could you ask more; could you have more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly not, Madam,” he returned coolly. +</p> + +<p> +“You know how different I am. You see me looking on you now, and you can +read the warmth of passion for you that is breathing in my face.” Not a +curl of the proud lip, not a flash of the dark eye, nothing but the same intent +and searching look, accompanied these words. “You know my general +history. You have spoken of my mother. Do you think you can degrade, or bend or +break, me to submission and obedience?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey smiled, as he might have smiled at an inquiry whether he thought he +could raise ten thousand pounds. +</p> + +<p> +“If there is anything unusual here,” she said, with a slight motion +of her hand before her brow, which did not for a moment flinch from its +immovable and otherwise expressionless gaze, “as I know there are unusual +feelings here,” raising the hand she pressed upon her bosom, and heavily +returning it, “consider that there is no common meaning in the appeal I +am going to make you. Yes, for I am going;” she said it as in prompt +reply to something in his face; “to appeal to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, with a slightly condescending bend of his chin that rustled and +crackled his stiff cravat, sat down on a sofa that was near him, to hear the +appeal. +</p> + +<p> +“If you can believe that I am of such a nature now,”—he +fancied he saw tears glistening in her eyes, and he thought, complacently, that +he had forced them from her, though none fell on her cheek, and she regarded +him as steadily as ever,—“as would make what I now say almost +incredible to myself, said to any man who had become my husband, but, above +all, said to you, you may, perhaps, attach the greater weight to it. In the +dark end to which we are tending, and may come, we shall not involve ourselves +alone (that might not be much) but others.” +</p> + +<p> +Others! He knew at whom that word pointed, and frowned heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“I speak to you for the sake of others. Also your own sake; and for mine. +Since our marriage, you have been arrogant to me; and I have repaid you in +kind. You have shown to me and everyone around us, every day and hour, that you +think I am graced and distinguished by your alliance. I do not think so, and +have shown that too. It seems you do not understand, or (so far as your power +can go) intend that each of us shall take a separate course; and you expect +from me instead, a homage you will never have.” +</p> + +<p> +Although her face was still the same, there was emphatic confirmation of this +“Never” in the very breath she drew. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey took a long respiration, as if he would have said, Oh! was this all! +</p> + +<p> +“There is no wealth,” she went on, turning paler as she watched +him, while her eyes grew yet more lustrous in their earnestness, “that +could buy these words of me, and the meaning that belongs to them. Once cast +away as idle breath, no wealth or power can bring them back. I mean them; I +have weighed them; and I will be true to what I undertake. If you will promise +to forbear on your part, I will promise to forbear on mine. We are a most +unhappy pair, in whom, from different causes, every sentiment that blesses +marriage, or justifies it, is rooted out; but in the course of time, some +friendship, or some fitness for each other, may arise between us. I will try to +hope so, if you will make the endeavour too; and I will look forward to a +better and a happier use of age than I have made of youth or prime.” +</p> + +<p> +Throughout she had spoken in a low plain voice, that neither rose nor fell; +ceasing, she dropped the hand with which she had enforced herself to be so +passionless and distinct, but not the eyes with which she had so steadily +observed him. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said Mr Dombey, with his utmost dignity, “I cannot +entertain any proposal of this extraordinary nature.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him yet, without the least change. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot,” said Mr Dombey, rising as he spoke, “consent to +temporise or treat with you, Mrs Dombey, upon a subject as to which you are in +possession of my opinions and expectations. I have stated my ultimatum, Madam, +and have only to request your very serious attention to it.” +</p> + +<p> +To see the face change to its old expression, deepened in intensity! To see the +eyes droop as from some mean and odious object! To see the lighting of the +haughty brow! To see scorn, anger, indignation, and abhorrence starting into +sight, and the pale blank earnestness vanish like a mist! He could not choose +but look, although he looked to his dismay. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall take my rightful course, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, +“undeterred, you may be sure, by any general declamation.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned her back upon him, and, without reply, sat down before her glass. +</p> + +<p> +“I place my reliance on your improved sense of duty, and more correct +feeling, and better reflection, Madam,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +She answered not one word. He saw no more expression of any heed of him, in the +mirror, than if he had been an unseen spider on the wall, or beetle on the +floor, or rather, than if he had been the one or other, seen and crushed when +she last turned from him, and forgotten among the ignominious and dead vermin +of the ground. +</p> + +<p> +He looked back, as he went out at the door, upon the well-lighted and luxurious +room, the beautiful and glittering objects everywhere displayed, the shape of +Edith in its rich dress seated before her glass, and the face of Edith as the +glass presented it to him; and betook himself to his old chamber of cogitation, +carrying away with him a vivid picture in his mind of all these things, and a +rambling and unaccountable speculation (such as sometimes comes into a +man’s head) how they would all look when he saw them next. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, Mr Dombey was very taciturn, and very dignified, and very +confident of carrying out his purpose; and remained so. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Without having undergone any decided second attack of her malady, the old woman +seemed to have crawled backward in her recovery from the first. She was more +lean and shrunken, more uncertain in her imbecility, and made stranger +confusions in her mind and memory. Among other symptoms of this last +affliction, she fell into the habit of confounding the names of her two +sons-in-law, the living and the deceased; and in general called Mr Dombey, +either “Grangeby,” or “Domber,” or indifferently, both. +</p> + +<p> +But she was youthful, very youthful still; and in her youthfulness appeared at +breakfast, before going away, in a new bonnet made express, and a travelling +robe that was embroidered and braided like an old baby’s. It was not easy +to put her into a fly-away bonnet now, or to keep the bonnet in its place on +the back of her poor nodding head, when it was got on. In this instance, it had +not only the extraneous effect of being always on one side, but of being +perpetually tapped on the crown by Flowers the maid, who attended in the +background during breakfast to perform that duty. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, my dearest Grangeby,” said Mrs Skewton, “you must +posively prom,” she cut some of her words short, and cut out others +altogether, “come down very soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I said just now, Madam,” returned Mr Dombey, loudly and +laboriously, “that I am coming in a day or two.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you, Domber!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Begad, Ma’am, you don’t ask old Joe to come!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Devilish queer, Sir,” whispered the Major to Mr Dombey. “Bad +case. Never did wrap up enough;” the Major being buttoned to the chin. +“Why who should J. B. mean by Joe, but old Joe +Bagstock—Joseph—your slave—Joe, Ma’am? Here! +Here’s the man! Here are the Bagstock bellows, Ma’am!” cried +the Major, striking himself a sounding blow on the chest. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest Edith—Grangeby—it’s most trordinry +thing,” said Cleopatra, pettishly, “that Major—” +</p> + +<p> +“Bagstock! J. B.!” cried the Major, seeing that she faltered for +his name. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it don’t matter,” said Cleopatra. “Edith, my +love, you know I never could remember names—what was it? oh!—most +trordinry thing that so many people want to come down to see me. I’m not +going for long. I’m coming back. Surely they can wait, till I come +back!” +</p> + +<p> +Cleopatra looked all round the table as she said it, and appeared very uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t have visitors—really don’t want +visitors,” she said; “little repose—and all that sort of +thing—is what I quire. No odious brutes must proach me till I’ve +shaken off this numbness;” and in a grisly resumption of her coquettish +ways, she made a dab at the Major with her fan, but overset Mr Dombey’s +breakfast cup instead, which was in quite a different direction. +</p> + +<p> +Then she called for Withers, and charged him to see particularly that word was +left about some trivial alterations in her room, which must be all made before +she came back, and which must be set about immediately, as there was no saying +how soon she might come back; for she had a great many engagements, and all +sorts of people to call upon. Withers received these directions with becoming +deference, and gave his guarantee for their execution; but when he withdrew a +pace or two behind her, it appeared as if he couldn’t help looking +strangely at the Major, who couldn’t help looking strangely at Mr Dombey, +who couldn’t help looking strangely at Cleopatra, who couldn’t help +nodding her bonnet over one eye, and rattling her knife and fork upon her plate +in using them, as if she were playing castanets. +</p> + +<p> +Edith alone never lifted her eyes to any face at the table, and never seemed +dismayed by anything her mother said or did. She listened to her disjointed +talk, or at least, turned her head towards her when addressed; replied in a few +low words when necessary; and sometimes stopped her when she was rambling, or +brought her thoughts back with a monosyllable, to the point from which they had +strayed. The mother, however unsteady in other things, was constant in +this—that she was always observant of her. She would look at the +beautiful face, in its marble stillness and severity, now with a kind of +fearful admiration; now in a giggling foolish effort to move it to a smile; now +with capricious tears and jealous shakings of her head, as imagining herself +neglected by it; always with an attraction towards it, that never fluctuated +like her other ideas, but had constant possession of her. From Edith she would +sometimes look at Florence, and back again at Edith, in a manner that was wild +enough; and sometimes she would try to look elsewhere, as if to escape from her +daughter’s face; but back to it she seemed forced to come, although it +never sought hers unless sought, or troubled her with one single glance. +</p> + +<p> +The breakfast concluded, Mrs Skewton, affecting to lean girlishly upon the +Major’s arm, but heavily supported on the other side by Flowers the maid, +and propped up behind by Withers the page, was conducted to the carriage, which +was to take her, Florence, and Edith to Brighton. +</p> + +<p> +“And is Joseph absolutely banished?” said the Major, thrusting in +his purple face over the steps. “Damme, Ma’am, is Cleopatra so +hard-hearted as to forbid her faithful Antony Bagstock to approach the +presence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go along!” said Cleopatra, “I can’t bear you. You +shall see me when I come back, if you are very good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell Joseph, he may live in hope, Ma’am,” said the Major; +“or he’ll die in despair.” +</p> + +<p> +Cleopatra shuddered, and leaned back. “Edith, my dear,” she said. +“Tell him—” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Such dreadful words,” said Cleopatra. “He uses such dreadful +words!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Major?” inquired Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean to say, Dombey,” returned the Major, “that +you’ll soon be an orphan-in-law.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey appeared to relish this waggish description of himself so very +little, that the Major wound up with the horse’s cough, as an expression +of gravity. +</p> + +<p> +“Damme, Sir,” said the Major, “there is no use in disguising +a fact. Joe is blunt, Sir. That’s his nature. If you take old Josh at +all, you take him as you find him; and a devilish rusty, old rasper, of a +close-toothed, J. B. file, you do find him. Dombey,” said the Major, +“your wife’s mother is on the move, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear,” returned Mr Dombey, with much philosophy, “that Mrs +Skewton is shaken.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shaken, Dombey!” said the Major. “Smashed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Change, however,” pursued Mr Dombey, “and attention, may do +much yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t believe it, Sir,” returned the Major. “Damme, +Sir, she never wrapped up enough. If a man don’t wrap up,” said the +Major, taking in another button of his buff waistcoat, “he has nothing to +fall back upon. But some people will die. They will do it. Damme, they will. +They’re obstinate. I tell you what, Dombey, it may not be ornamental; it +may not be refined; it may be rough and tough; but a little of the genuine old +English Bagstock stamina, Sir, would do all the good in the world to the human +breed.” +</p> + +<p> +After imparting this precious piece of information, the Major, who was +certainly true-blue, whatever other endowments he may have had or wanted, +coming within the “genuine old English” classification, which has +never been exactly ascertained, took his lobster-eyes and his apoplexy to the +club, and choked there all day. +</p> + +<p> +Cleopatra, at one time fretful, at another self-complacent, sometimes awake, +sometimes asleep, and at all times juvenile, reached Brighton the same night, +fell to pieces as usual, and was put away in bed; where a gloomy fancy might +have pictured a more potent skeleton than the maid, who should have been one, +watching at the rose-coloured curtains, which were carried down to shed their +bloom upon her. +</p> + +<p> +It was settled in high council of medical authority that she should take a +carriage airing every day, and that it was important she should get out every +day, and walk if she could. Edith was ready to attend her—always ready to +attend her, with the same mechanical attention and immovable beauty—and +they drove out alone; for Edith had an uneasiness in the presence of Florence, +now that her mother was worse, and told Florence, with a kiss, that she would +rather they two went alone. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Skewton, on one particular day, was in the irresolute, exacting, jealous +temper that had developed itself on her recovery from her first attack. After +sitting silent in the carriage watching Edith for some time, she took her hand +and kissed it passionately. The hand was neither given nor withdrawn, but +simply yielded to her raising of it, and being released, dropped down again, +almost as if it were insensible. At this she began to whimper and moan, and say +what a mother she had been, and how she was forgotten! This she continued to do +at capricious intervals, even when they had alighted: when she herself was +halting along with the joint support of Withers and a stick, and Edith was +walking by her side, and the carriage slowly following at a little distance. +</p> + +<p> +It was a bleak, lowering, windy day, and they were out upon the Downs with +nothing but a bare sweep of land between them and the sky. The mother, with a +querulous satisfaction in the monotony of her complaint, was still repeating it +in a low voice from time to time, and the proud form of her daughter moved +beside her slowly, when there came advancing over a dark ridge before them, two +other figures, which in the distance, were so like an exaggerated imitation of +their own, that Edith stopped. +</p> + +<p> +Almost as she stopped, the two figures stopped; and that one which to +Edith’s thinking was like a distorted shadow of her mother, spoke to the +other, earnestly, and with a pointing hand towards them. That one seemed +inclined to turn back, but the other, in which Edith recognised enough that was +like herself to strike her with an unusual feeling, not quite free from fear, +came on; and then they came on together. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0528m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +The greater part of this observation, she made while walking towards them, for +her stoppage had been momentary. Nearer observation showed her that they were +poorly dressed, as wanderers about the country; that the younger woman carried +knitted work or some such goods for sale; and that the old one toiled on +empty-handed. +</p> + +<p> +And yet, however far removed she was in dress, in dignity, in beauty, Edith +could not but compare the younger woman with herself, still. It may have been +that she saw upon her face some traces which she knew were lingering in her own +soul, if not yet written on that index; but, as the woman came on, returning +her gaze, fixing her shining eyes upon her, undoubtedly presenting something of +her own air and stature, and appearing to reciprocate her own thoughts, she +felt a chill creep over her, as if the day were darkening, and the wind were +colder. +</p> + +<p> +They had now come up. The old woman, holding out her hand importunately, +stopped to beg of Mrs Skewton. The younger one stopped too, and she and Edith +looked in one another’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it that you have to sell?” said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“Only this,” returned the woman, holding out her wares, without +looking at them. “I sold myself long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Lady, don’t believe her,” croaked the old woman to Mrs +Skewton; “don’t believe what she says. She loves to talk like that. +She’s my handsome and undutiful daughter. She gives me nothing but +reproaches, my Lady, for all I have done for her. Look at her now, my Lady, how +she turns upon her poor old mother with her looks.” +</p> + +<p> +As Mrs Skewton drew her purse out with a trembling hand, and eagerly fumbled +for some money, which the other old woman greedily watched for—their +heads all but touching, in their hurry and decrepitude—Edith interposed: +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen you,” addressing the old woman, “before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my Lady,” with a curtsey. “Down in Warwickshire. The +morning among the trees. When you wouldn’t give me nothing. But the +gentleman, he give me something! Oh, bless him, bless him!” mumbled the +old woman, holding up her skinny hand, and grinning frightfully at her +daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s of no use attempting to stay me, Edith!” said Mrs +Skewton, angrily anticipating an objection from her. “You know nothing +about it. I won’t be dissuaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and +a good mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my Lady, yes,” chattered the old woman, holding out her +avaricious hand. “Thankee, my Lady. Lord bless you, my Lady. Sixpence +more, my pretty Lady, as a good mother yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old creature, sometimes, I +assure you,” said Mrs Skewton, whimpering. “There! Shake hands with +me. You’re a very good old creature—full of +what’s-his-name—and all that. You’re all affection and et +cetera, ain’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, my Lady!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’m sure you are; and so’s that gentlemanly creature +Grangeby. I must really shake hands with you again. And now you can go, you +know; and I hope,” addressing the daughter, “that you’ll show +more gratitude, and natural what’s-its-name, and all the rest of +it—but I never remember names—for there never was a better mother +than the good old creature’s been to you. Come, Edith!” +</p> + +<p> +As the ruin of Cleopatra tottered off whimpering, and wiping its eyes with a +gingerly remembrance of rouge in their neighbourhood, the old woman hobbled +another way, mumbling and counting her money. Not one word more, nor one other +gesture, had been exchanged between Edith and the younger woman, but neither +had removed her eyes from the other for a moment. They had remained confronted +until now, when Edith, as awakening from a dream, passed slowly on. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a handsome woman,” muttered her shadow, looking after +her; “but good looks won’t save us. And you’re a proud woman; +but pride won’t save us. We had need to know each other when we meet +again!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap41"></a>CHAPTER XLI.<br /> +New Voices in the Waves</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ll 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. +</p> + +<p> +With a tender melancholy pleasure, Florence finds herself again on the old +ground so sadly trodden, yet so happily, and thinks of him in the quiet place, +where he and she have many and many a time conversed together, with the water +welling up about his couch. And now, as she sits pensive there, she hears in +the wild low murmur of the sea, his little story told again, his very words +repeated; and finds that all her life and hopes, and griefs, since—in the +solitary house, and in the pageant it has changed to—have a portion in +the burden of the marvellous song. +</p> + +<p> +And gentle Mr Toots, who wanders at a distance, looking wistfully towards the +figure that he dotes upon, and has followed there, but cannot in his delicacy +disturb at such a time, likewise hears the requiem of little Dombey on the +waters, rising and falling in the lulls of their eternal madrigal in praise of +Florence. Yes! and he faintly understands, poor Mr Toots, that they are saying +something of a time when he was sensible of being brighter and not +addle-brained; and the tears rising in his eyes when he fears that he is dull +and stupid now, and good for little but to be laughed at, diminish his +satisfaction in their soothing reminder that he is relieved from present +responsibility to the Chicken, by the absence of that game head of poultry in +the country, training (at Toots’s cost) for his great mill with the +Larkey Boy. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr Toots takes courage, when they whisper a kind thought to him; and by +slow degrees and with many indecisive stoppages on the way, approaches +Florence. Stammering and blushing, Mr Toots affects amazement when he comes +near her, and says (having followed close on the carriage in which she +travelled, every inch of the way from London, loving even to be choked by the +dust of its wheels) that he never was so surprised in all his life. +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve brought Diogenes, too, Miss Dombey!” says Mr +Toots, thrilled through and through by the touch of the small hand so +pleasantly and frankly given him. +</p> + +<p> +No doubt Diogenes is there, and no doubt Mr Toots has reason to observe him, +for he comes straightway at Mr Toots’s legs, and tumbles over himself in +the desperation with which he makes at him, like a very dog of Montargis. But +he is checked by his sweet mistress. +</p> + +<p> +“Down, Di, down. Don’t you remember who first made us friends, Di? +For shame!” +</p> + +<p> +Oh! Well may Di lay his loving cheek against her hand, and run off, and run +back, and run round her, barking, and run headlong at anybody coming by, to +show his devotion. Mr Toots would run headlong at anybody, too. A military +gentleman goes past, and Mr Toots would like nothing better than to run at him, +full tilt. +</p> + +<p> +“Diogenes is quite in his native air, isn’t he, Miss Dombey?” +says Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +Florence assents, with a grateful smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey,” says Mr Toots, “beg your pardon, but if you +would like to walk to Blimber’s, I—I’m going there.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence puts her arm in that of Mr Toots without a word, and they walk away +together, with Diogenes going on before. Mr Toots’s legs shake under him; +and though he is splendidly dressed, he feels misfits, and sees wrinkles, in +the masterpieces of Burgess and Co., and wishes he had put on that brightest +pair of boots. +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Blimber’s house, outside, has as scholastic and studious an air as +ever; and up there is the window where she used to look for the pale face, and +where the pale face brightened when it saw her, and the wasted little hand +waved kisses as she passed. The door is opened by the same weak-eyed young man, +whose imbecility of grin at sight of Mr Toots is feebleness of character +personified. They are shown into the Doctor’s study, where blind Homer +and Minerva give them audience as of yore, to the sober ticking of the great +clock in the hall; and where the globes stand still in their accustomed places, +as if the world were stationary too, and nothing in it ever perished in +obedience to the universal law, that, while it keeps it on the roll, calls +everything to earth. +</p> + +<p> +And here is Doctor Blimber, with his learned legs; and here is Mrs Blimber, +with her sky-blue cap; and here Cornelia, with her sandy little row of curls, +and her bright spectacles, still working like a sexton in the graves of +languages. Here is the table upon which he sat forlorn and strange, the +“new boy” of the school; and hither comes the distant cooing of the +old boys, at their old lives in the old room on the old principle! +</p> + +<p> +“Toots,” says Doctor Blimber, “I am very glad to see you, +Toots.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots chuckles in reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Also to see you, Toots, in such good company,” says Doctor +Blimber. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots, with a scarlet visage, explains that he has met Miss Dombey by +accident, and that Miss Dombey wishing, like himself, to see the old place, +they have come together. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Except Bitherstone,” returns Cornelia. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, truly,” says the Doctor. “Bitherstone is new to Mr +Toots.” +</p> + +<p> +New to Florence, too, almost; for, in the schoolroom, Bitherstone—no +longer Master Bitherstone of Mrs Pipchin’s—shows in collars and a +neckcloth, and wears a watch. But Bitherstone, born beneath some Bengal star of +ill-omen, is extremely inky; and his Lexicon has got so dropsical from constant +reference, that it won’t shut, and yawns as if it really could not bear +to be so bothered. So does Bitherstone its master, forced at Doctor +Blimber’s highest pressure; but in the yawn of Bitherstone there is +malice and snarl, and he has been heard to say that he wishes he could catch +“old Blimber” in India. He’d precious soon find himself +carried up the country by a few of his (Bitherstone’s) Coolies, and +handed over to the Thugs; he can tell him that. +</p> + +<p> +Briggs is still grinding in the mill of knowledge; and Tozer, too; and Johnson, +too; and all the rest; the older pupils being principally engaged in +forgetting, with prodigious labour, everything they knew when they were +younger. All are as polite and as pale as ever; and among them, Mr Feeder, +B.A., with his bony hand and bristly head, is still hard at it; with his +Herodotus stop on just at present, and his other barrels on a shelf behind him. +</p> + +<p> +A mighty sensation is created, even among these grave young gentlemen, by a +visit from the emancipated Toots; who is regarded with a kind of awe, as one +who has passed the Rubicon, and is pledged never to come back, and concerning +the cut of whose clothes, and fashion of whose jewellery, whispers go about, +behind hands; the bilious Bitherstone, who is not of Mr Toots’s time, +affecting to despise the latter to the smaller boys, and saying he knows +better, and that he should like to see him coming that sort of thing in Bengal, +where his mother had got an emerald belonging to him that was taken out of the +footstool of a Rajah. Come now! +</p> + +<p> +Bewildering emotions are awakened also by the sight of Florence, with whom +every young gentleman immediately falls in love, again; except, as aforesaid, +the bilious Bitherstone, who declines to do so, out of contradiction. Black +jealousies of Mr Toots arise, and Briggs is of opinion that he ain’t so +very old after all. But this disparaging insinuation is speedily made nought by +Mr Toots saying aloud to Mr Feeder, B.A., “How are you, Feeder?” +and asking him to come and dine with him today at the Bedford; in right of +which feats he might set up as Old Parr, if he chose, unquestioned. +</p> + +<p> +There is much shaking of hands, and much bowing, and a great desire on the part +of each young gentleman to take Toots down in Miss Dombey’s good graces; +and then, Mr Toots having bestowed a chuckle on his old desk, Florence and he +withdraw with Mrs Blimber and Cornelia; and Doctor Blimber is heard to observe +behind them as he comes out last, and shuts the door, “Gentlemen, we will +now resume our studies,” For that and little else is what the Doctor +hears the sea say, or has heard it saying all his life. +</p> + +<p> +Florence then steals away and goes upstairs to the old bedroom with Mrs Blimber +and Cornelia; Mr Toots, who feels that neither he nor anybody else is wanted +there, stands talking to the Doctor at the study-door, or rather hearing the +Doctor talk to him, and wondering how he ever thought the study a great +sanctuary, and the Doctor, with his round turned legs, like a clerical +pianoforte, an awful man. Florence soon comes down and takes leave; Mr Toots +takes leave; and Diogenes, who has been worrying the weak-eyed young man +pitilessly all the time, shoots out at the door, and barks a glad defiance down +the cliff; while Melia, and another of the Doctor’s female domestics, +looks out of an upper window, laughing “at that there Toots,” and +saying of Miss Dombey, “But really though, now—ain’t she like +her brother, only prettier?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots, who saw when Florence came down that there were tears upon her face, +is desperately anxious and uneasy, and at first fears that he did wrong in +proposing the visit. But he is soon relieved by her saying she is very glad to +have been there again, and by her talking quite cheerfully about it all, as +they walked on by the sea. What with the voices there, and her sweet voice, +when they come near Mr Dombey’s house, and Mr Toots must leave her, he is +so enslaved that he has not a scrap of free-will left; when she gives him her +hand at parting, he cannot let it go. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey, I beg your pardon,” says Mr Toots, in a sad fluster, +“but if you would allow me to—to—” +</p> + +<p> +The smiling and unconscious look of Florence brings him to a dead stop. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would allow me to—if you would not consider it a liberty, +Miss Dombey, if I was to—without any encouragement at all, if I was to +hope, you know,” says Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +Florence looks at him inquiringly. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey,” says Mr Toots, who feels that he is in for it now, +“I really am in that state of adoration of you that I don’t know +what to do with myself. I am the most deplorable wretch. If it wasn’t at +the corner of the Square at present, I should go down on my knees, and beg and +entreat of you, without any encouragement at all, just to let me hope that I +may—may think it possible that you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if you please, don’t!” cries Florence, for the moment +quite alarmed and distressed. “Oh, pray don’t, Mr Toots. Stop, if +you please. Don’t say any more. As a kindness and a favour to me, +don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots is dreadfully abashed, and his mouth opens. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been so good to me,” says Florence, “I am so +grateful to you, I have such reason to like you for being a kind friend to me, +and I do like you so much;” and here the ingenuous face smiles upon him +with the pleasantest look of honesty in the world; “that I am sure you +are only going to say good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Miss Dombey,” says Mr Toots, +“I—I—that’s exactly what I mean. It’s of no +consequence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye!” cries Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Miss Dombey!” stammers Mr Toots. “I hope you +won’t think anything about it. It’s—it’s of no +consequence, thank you. It’s not of the least consequence in the +world.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Mr Toots goes home to his hotel in a state of desperation, locks himself +into his bedroom, flings himself upon his bed, and lies there for a long time; +as if it were of the greatest consequence, nevertheless. But Mr Feeder, B.A., +is coming to dinner, which happens well for Mr Toots, or there is no knowing +when he might get up again. Mr Toots is obliged to get up to receive him, and +to give him hospitable entertainment. +</p> + +<p> +And the generous influence of that social virtue, hospitality (to make no +mention of wine and good cheer), opens Mr Toots’s heart, and warms him to +conversation. He does not tell Mr Feeder, B.A., what passed at the corner of +the Square; but when Mr Feeder asks him “When it is to come off?” +Mr Toots replies, “that there are certain subjects”—which +brings Mr Feeder down a peg or two immediately. Mr Toots adds, that he +don’t know what right Blimber had to notice his being in Miss +Dombey’s company, and that if he thought he meant impudence by it, +he’d have him out, Doctor or no Doctor; but he supposes its only his +ignorance. Mr Feeder says he has no doubt of it. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Feeder, however, as an intimate friend, is not excluded from the subject. Mr +Toots merely requires that it should be mentioned mysteriously, and with +feeling. After a few glasses of wine, he gives Miss Dombey’s health, +observing, “Feeder, you have no idea of the sentiments with which I +propose that toast.” Mr Feeder replies, “Oh, yes, I have, my dear +Toots; and greatly they redound to your honour, old boy.” Mr Feeder is +then agitated by friendship, and shakes hands; and says, if ever Toots wants a +brother, he knows where to find him, either by post or parcel. Mr Feeder +like-wise says, that if he may advise, he would recommend Mr Toots to learn the +guitar, or, at least the flute; for women like music, when you are paying your +addresses to ’em, and he has found the advantage of it himself. +</p> + +<p> +This brings Mr Feeder, B.A., to the confession that he has his eye upon +Cornelia Blimber. He informs Mr Toots that he don’t object to spectacles, +and that if the Doctor were to do the handsome thing and give up the business, +why, there they are—provided for. He says it’s his opinion that +when a man has made a handsome sum by his business, he is bound to give it up; +and that Cornelia would be an assistance in it which any man might be proud of. +Mr Toots replies by launching wildly out into Miss Dombey’s praises, and +by insinuations that sometimes he thinks he should like to blow his brains out. +Mr Feeder strongly urges that it would be a rash attempt, and shows him, as a +reconcilement to existence, Cornelia’s portrait, spectacles and all. +</p> + +<p> +Thus these quiet spirits pass the evening; and when it has yielded place to +night, Mr Toots walks home with Mr Feeder, and parts with him at Doctor +Blimber’s door. But Mr Feeder only goes up the steps, and when Mr Toots +is gone, comes down again, to stroll upon the beach alone, and think about his +prospects. Mr Feeder plainly hears the waves informing him, as he loiters +along, that Doctor Blimber will give up the business; and he feels a soft +romantic pleasure in looking at the outside of the house, and thinking that the +Doctor will first paint it, and put it into thorough repair. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots is likewise roaming up and down, outside the casket that contains his +jewel; and in a deplorable condition of mind, and not unsuspected by the +police, gazes at a window where he sees a light, and which he has no doubt is +Florence’s. But it is not, for that is Mrs Skewton’s room; and +while Florence, sleeping in another chamber, dreams lovingly, in the midst of +the old scenes, and their old associations live again, the figure which in grim +reality is substituted for the patient boy’s on the same theatre, once +more to connect it—but how differently!—with decay and death, is +stretched there, wakeful and complaining. Ugly and haggard it lies upon its bed +of unrest; and by it, in the terror of her unimpassioned loveliness—for +it has terror in the sufferer’s failing eyes—sits Edith. What do +the waves say, in the stillness of the night, to them? +</p> + +<p> +“Edith, what is that stone arm raised to strike me? Don’t you see +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing, mother, but your fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“But my fancy! Everything is my fancy. Look! Is it possible that you +don’t see it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, mother, there is nothing. Should I sit unmoved, if there were +any such thing there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Unmoved?” looking wildly at her—“it’s gone +now—and why are you so unmoved? That is not my fancy, Edith. It turns me +cold to see you sitting at my side.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry! You seem always sorry. But it is not for me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Edith! we are going home soon; going back. You mean that I shall go home +again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mother, yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Night after night, the lights burn in the window, and the figure lies upon the +bed, and Edith sits beside it, and the restless waves are calling to them both +the whole night long. Night after night, the waves are hoarse with repetition +of their mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar and +hover; the winds and clouds are on their trackless flight; the white arms +beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away. +</p> + +<p> +And still the sick old woman looks into the corner, where the stone +arm—part of a figure of some tomb, she says—is raised to strike +her. At last it falls; and then a dumb old woman lies upon the bed, and she is +crooked and shrunk up, and half of her is dead. +</p> + +<p> +Such is the figure, painted and patched for the sun to mock, that is drawn +slowly through the crowd from day to day; looking, as it goes, for the good old +creature who was such a mother, and making mouths as it peers among the crowd +in vain. Such is the figure that is often wheeled down to the margin of the +sea, and stationed there; but on which no wind can blow freshness, and for +which the murmur of the ocean has no soothing word. She lies and listens to it +by the hour; but its speech is dark and gloomy to her, and a dread is on her +face, and when her eyes wander over the expanse, they see but a broad stretch +of desolation between earth and heaven. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A shadow even on that shadowed face, a sharpening even of the sharpened +features, and a thickening of the veil before the eyes into a pall that shuts +out the dim world, is come. Her wandering hands upon the coverlet join feebly +palm to palm, and move towards her daughter; and a voice not like hers, not +like any voice that speaks our mortal language—says, “For I nursed +you!” +</p> + +<p> +Edith, without a tear, kneels down to bring her voice closer to the sinking +head, and answers: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, can you hear me?” +</p> + +<p> +Staring wide, she tries to nod in answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you recollect the night before I married?” +</p> + +<p> +The head is motionless, but it expresses somehow that she does. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you then that I forgave your part in it, and prayed God to +forgive my own. I told you that time past was at an end between us. I say so +now, again. Kiss me, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith touches the white lips, and for a moment all is still. A moment +afterwards, her mother, with her girlish laugh, and the skeleton of the +Cleopatra manner, rises in her bed. +</p> + +<p> +Draw the rose-coloured curtains. There is something else upon its flight +besides the wind and clouds. Draw the rose-coloured curtains close! +</p> + +<p> +Intelligence of the event is sent to Mr Dombey in town, who waits upon Cousin +Feenix (not yet able to make up his mind for Baden-Baden), who has just +received it too. A good-natured creature like Cousin Feenix is the very man for +a marriage or a funeral, and his position in the family renders it right that +he should be consulted. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey,” said Cousin Feenix, “upon my soul, I am very much +shocked to see you on such a melancholy occasion. My poor aunt! She was a +devilish lively woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey replies, “Very much so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey bows a negative. “In reference to the obsequies,” he +hints, “whether there is any suggestion—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, upon my life,” says Cousin Feenix, stroking his chin, which +he has just enough of hand below his wristbands to do; “I really +don’t know. There’s a Mausoleum down at my place, in the park, but +I’m afraid it’s in bad repair, and, in point of fact, in a devil of +a state. But for being a little out at elbows, I should have had it put to +rights; but I believe the people come and make pic-nic parties there inside the +iron railings.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey is clear that this won’t do. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s an uncommon good church in the village,” says Cousin +Feenix, thoughtfully; “pure specimen of the Anglo-Norman style, and +admirably well sketched too by Lady Jane Finchbury—woman with tight +stays—but they’ve spoilt it with whitewash, I understand, and +it’s a long journey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps Brighton itself,” Mr Dombey suggests. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my honour, Dombey, I don’t think we could do better,” +says Cousin Feenix. “It’s on the spot, you see, and a very cheerful +place.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when,” hints Mr Dombey, “would it be convenient?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall make a point,” says Cousin Feenix, “of pledging +myself for any day you think best. I shall have great pleasure (melancholy +pleasure, of course) in following my poor aunt to the confines of the—in +point of fact, to the grave,” says Cousin Feenix, failing in the other +turn of speech. +</p> + +<p> +“Would Monday do for leaving town?” says Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Monday would suit me to perfection,” replies Cousin Feenix. +Therefore Mr Dombey arranges to take Cousin Feenix down on that day, and +presently takes his leave, attended to the stairs by Cousin Feenix, who says, +at parting, “I’m really excessively sorry, Dombey, that you should +have so much trouble about it;” to which Mr Dombey answers, “Not at +all.” +</p> + +<p> +At the appointed time, Cousin Feenix and Mr Dombey meet, and go down to +Brighton, and representing, in their two selves, all the other mourners for the +deceased lady’s loss, attend her remains to their place of rest. Cousin +Feenix, sitting in the mourning-coach, recognises innumerable acquaintances on +the road, but takes no other notice of them, in decorum, than checking them off +aloud, as they go by, for Mr Dombey’s information, as “Tom Johnson. +Man with cork leg, from White’s. What, are you here, Tommy? Foley on a +blood mare. The Smalder girls”—and so forth. At the ceremony Cousin +Feenix is depressed, observing, that these are the occasions to make a man +think, in point of fact, that he is getting shaky; and his eyes are really +moistened, when it is over. But he soon recovers; and so do the rest of Mrs +Skewton’s relatives and friends, of whom the Major continually tells the +club that she never did wrap up enough; while the young lady with the back, who +has so much trouble with her eyelids, says, with a little scream, that she must +have been enormously old, and that she died of all kinds of horrors, and you +mustn’t mention it. +</p> + +<p> +So Edith’s mother lies unmentioned of her dear friends, who are deaf to +the waves that are hoarse with repetition of their mystery, and blind to the +dust that is piled upon the shore, and to the white arms that are beckoning, in +the moonlight, to the invisible country far away. But all goes on, as it was +wont, upon the margin of the unknown sea; and Edith standing there alone, and +listening to its waves, has dank weed cast up at her feet, to strew her path in +life withal. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap42"></a>CHAPTER XLII.<br /> +Confidential and Accidental</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">A</span>ttired no more in Captain Cuttle’s sable slops and +sou’-wester hat, but dressed in a substantial suit of brown livery, +which, while it affected to be a very sober and demure livery indeed, was +really as self-satisfied and confident a one as tailor need desire to make, Rob +the Grinder, thus transformed as to his outer man, and all regardless within of +the Captain and the Midshipman, except when he devoted a few minutes of his +leisure time to crowing over those inseparable worthies, and recalling, with +much applauding music from that brazen instrument, his conscience, the +triumphant manner in which he had disembarrassed himself of their company, now +served his patron, Mr Carker. Inmate of Mr Carker’s house, and serving +about his person, Rob kept his round eyes on the white teeth with fear and +trembling, and felt that he had need to open them wider than ever. +</p> + +<p> +He could not have quaked more, through his whole being, before the teeth, +though he had come into the service of some powerful enchanter, and they had +been his strongest spells. The boy had a sense of power and authority in this +patron of his that engrossed his whole attention and exacted his most implicit +submission and obedience. He hardly considered himself safe in thinking about +him when he was absent, lest he should feel himself immediately taken by the +throat again, as on the morning when he first became bound to him, and should +see every one of the teeth finding him out, and taxing him with every fancy of +his mind. Face to face with him, Rob had no more doubt that Mr Carker read his +secret thoughts, or that he could read them by the least exertion of his will +if he were so inclined, than he had that Mr Carker saw him when he looked at +him. The ascendancy was so complete, and held him in such enthralment, that, +hardly daring to think at all, but with his mind filled with a constantly +dilating impression of his patron’s irresistible command over him, and +power of doing anything with him, he would stand watching his pleasure, and +trying to anticipate his orders, in a state of mental suspension, as to all +other things. +</p> + +<p> +Rob had not informed himself perhaps—in his then state of mind it would +have been an act of no common temerity to inquire—whether he yielded so +completely to this influence in any part, because he had floating suspicions of +his patron’s being a master of certain treacherous arts in which he had +himself been a poor scholar at the Grinders’ School. But certainly Rob +admired him, as well as feared him. Mr Carker, perhaps, was better acquainted +with the sources of his power, which lost nothing by his management of it. +</p> + +<p> +On the very night when he left the Captain’s service, Rob, after +disposing of his pigeons, and even making a bad bargain in his hurry, had gone +straight down to Mr Carker’s house, and hotly presented himself before +his new master with a glowing face that seemed to expect commendation. +</p> + +<p> +“What, scapegrace!” said Mr Carker, glancing at his bundle +“Have you left your situation and come to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh if you please, Sir,” faltered Rob, “you said, you know, +when I come here last—” +</p> + +<p> +“I said,” returned Mr Carker, “what did I say?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +His patron looked at him with a wide display of gums, and shaking his +forefinger, observed: +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, I foresee. +There’s ruin in store for you. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh if you please, don’t, Sir!” cried Rob, with his legs +trembling under him. “I’m sure, Sir, I only want to work for you, +Sir, and to wait upon you, Sir, and to do faithful whatever I’m bid, +Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better do faithfully whatever you are bid,” returned his +patron, “if you have anything to do with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know that, Sir,” pleaded the submissive Rob; +“I’m sure of that, Sir. If you’ll only be so good as try me, +Sir! And if ever you find me out, Sir, doing anything against your wishes, I +give you leave to kill me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Thoroughly checked in his expectations of commendation, the crestfallen Grinder +stood looking at his patron, and vainly endeavouring not to look at him, with +the uneasiness which a cur will often manifest in a similar situation. +</p> + +<p> +“So you have left your old service, and come here to ask me to take you +into mine, eh?” said Mr Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if you please, Sir,” returned Rob, who, in doing so, had +acted on his patron’s own instructions, but dared not justify himself by +the least insinuation to that effect. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” said Mr Carker. “You know me, boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Sir, yes, Sir,” returned Rob, tumbling with his hat, and +still fixed by Mr Carker’s eye, and fruitlessly endeavouring to unfix +himself. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker nodded. “Take care, then!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa!” he cried, calling him roughly back. “You have +been—shut that door.” +</p> + +<p> +Rob obeyed as if his life had depended on his alacrity. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been used to eaves-dropping. Do you know what that +means?” +</p> + +<p> +“Listening, Sir?” Rob hazarded, after some embarrassed reflection. +</p> + +<p> +His patron nodded. “And watching, and so forth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t do such a thing here, Sir,” answered Rob; +“upon my word and honour, I wouldn’t, Sir, I wish I may die if I +would, Sir, for anything that could be promised to me. I should consider it is +as much as all the world was worth, to offer to do such a thing, unless I was +ordered, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better not” You have been used, too, to babbling and +tattling,” said his patron with perfect coolness. “Beware of that +here, or you’re a lost rascal,” and he smiled again, and again +cautioned him with his forefinger. +</p> + +<p> +The Grinder’s breath came short and thick with consternation. He tried to +protest the purity of his intentions, but could only stare at the smiling +gentleman in a stupor of submission, with which the smiling gentleman seemed +well enough satisfied, for he ordered him downstairs, after observing him for +some moments in silence, and gave him to understand that he was retained in his +employment. +</p> + +<p> +This was the manner of Rob the Grinder’s engagement by Mr Carker, and his +awe-stricken devotion to that gentleman had strengthened and increased, if +possible, with every minute of his service. +</p> + +<p> +It was a service of some months’ duration, when early one morning, Rob +opened the garden gate to Mr Dombey, who was come to breakfast with his master, +by appointment. At the same moment his master himself came, hurrying forth to +receive the distinguished guest, and give him welcome with all his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought,” said Carker, when he had assisted him to alight +from his horse, “to see you here, I’m sure. This is an +extraordinary day in my calendar. No occasion is very special to a man like +you, who may do anything; but to a man like me, the case is widely +different.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have a tasteful place here, Carker,” said Mr Dombey, +condescending to stop upon the lawn, to look about him. +</p> + +<p> +“You can afford to say so,” returned Carker. “Thank +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Mr Dombey, in his lofty patronage, “anyone +might say so. As far as it goes, it is a very commodious and well-arranged +place—quite elegant.” +</p> + +<p> +“As far as it goes, truly,” returned Carker, with an air of +disparagement. “It wants that qualification. Well! we have said enough +about it; and though you can afford to praise it, I thank you nonetheless. Will +you walk in?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, entering the house, noticed, as he had reason to do, the complete +arrangement of the rooms, and the numerous contrivances for comfort and effect +that abounded there. Mr Carker, in his ostentation of humility, received this +notice with a deferential smile, and said he understood its delicate meaning, +and appreciated it, but in truth the cottage was good enough for one in his +position—better, perhaps, than such a man should occupy, poor as it was. +</p> + +<p> +“But perhaps to you, who are so far removed, it really does look better +than it is,” he said, with his false mouth distended to its fullest +stretch. “Just as monarchs imagine attractions in the lives of +beggars.” +</p> + +<p> +He directed a sharp glance and a sharp smile at Mr Dombey as he spoke, and a +sharper glance, and a sharper smile yet, when Mr Dombey, drawing himself up +before the fire, in the attitude so often copied by his second in command, +looked round at the pictures on the walls. Cursorily as his cold eye wandered +over them, Carker’s keen glance accompanied his, and kept pace with his, +marking exactly where it went, and what it saw. As it rested on one picture in +particular, Carker hardly seemed to breathe, his sidelong scrutiny was so +cat-like and vigilant, but the eye of his great chief passed from that, as from +the others, and appeared no more impressed by it than by the rest. +</p> + +<p> +Carker looked at it—it was the picture that resembled Edith—as if +it were a living thing; and with a wicked, silent laugh upon his face, that +seemed in part addressed to it, though it was all derisive of the great man +standing so unconscious beside him. Breakfast was soon set upon the table; and, +inviting Mr Dombey to a chair which had its back towards this picture, he took +his own seat opposite to it as usual. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey was even graver than it was his custom to be, and quite silent. The +parrot, swinging in the gilded hoop within her gaudy cage, attempted in vain to +attract notice, for Carker was too observant of his visitor to heed her; and +the visitor, abstracted in meditation, looked fixedly, not to say sullenly, +over his stiff neckcloth, without raising his eyes from the table-cloth. As to +Rob, who was in attendance, all his faculties and energies were so locked up in +observation of his master, that he scarcely ventured to give shelter to the +thought that the visitor was the great gentleman before whom he had been +carried as a certificate of the family health, in his childhood, and to whom he +had been indebted for his leather smalls. +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me,” said Carker suddenly, “to ask how Mrs Dombey +is?” +</p> + +<p> +He leaned forward obsequiously, as he made the inquiry, with his chin resting +on his hand; and at the same time his eyes went up to the picture, as if he +said to it, “Now, see, how I will lead him on!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey reddened as he answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey is quite well. You remind me, Carker, of some conversation +that I wish to have with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Robin, you can leave us,” said his master, at whose mild tones +Robin started and disappeared, with his eyes fixed on his patron to the last. +“You don’t remember that boy, of course?” he added, when the +enmeshed Grinder was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mr Dombey, with magnificent indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“Not likely that a man like you would. Hardly possible,” murmured +Carker. “But he is one of that family from whom you took a nurse. Perhaps +you may remember having generously charged yourself with his education?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it that boy?” said Mr Dombey, with a frown. “He does +little credit to his education, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he is a young rip, I am afraid,” returned Carker, with a +shrug. “He bears that character. But the truth is, I took him into my +service because, being able to get no other employment, he conceived (had been +taught at home, I daresay) that he had some sort of claim upon you, and was +constantly trying to dog your heels with his petition. And although my defined +and recognised connexion with your affairs is merely of a business character, +still I have that spontaneous interest in everything belonging to you, +that—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Carker,” said Mr Dombey, “I am sensible that you do not +limit your—” +</p> + +<p> +“Service,” suggested his smiling entertainer. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I prefer to say your regard,” observed Mr Dombey; very +sensible, as he said so, that he was paying him a handsome and flattering +compliment, “to our mere business relations. Your consideration for my +feelings, hopes, and disappointments, in the little instance you have just now +mentioned, is an example in point. I am obliged to you, Carker.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker bent his head slowly, and very softly rubbed his hands, as if he were +afraid by any action to disturb the current of Mr Dombey’s confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“Your allusion to it is opportune,” said Mr Dombey, after a little +hesitation; “for it prepares the way to what I was beginning to say to +you, and reminds me that that involves no absolutely new relations between us, +although it may involve more personal confidence on my part than I have +hitherto—” +</p> + +<p> +“Distinguished me with,” suggested Carker, bending his head again: +“I will not say to you how honoured I am; for a man like you well knows +how much honour he has in his power to bestow at pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey and myself,” said Mr Dombey, passing this compliment +with august self-denial, “are not quite agreed upon some points. We do +not appear to understand each other yet. Mrs Dombey has something to +learn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey is distinguished by many rare attractions; and has been +accustomed, no doubt, to receive much adulation,” said the smooth, sleek +watcher of his slightest look and tone. “But where there is affection, +duty, and respect, any little mistakes engendered by such causes are soon set +right.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey’s thoughts instinctively flew back to the face that had looked +at him in his wife’s dressing-room when an imperious hand was stretched +towards the door; and remembering the affection, duty, and respect, expressed +in it, he felt the blood rush to his own face quite as plainly as the watchful +eyes upon him saw it there. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey and myself,” he went on to say, “had some +discussion, before Mrs Skewton’s death, upon the causes of my +dissatisfaction; of which you will have formed a general understanding from +having been a witness of what passed between Mrs Dombey and myself on the +evening when you were at our—at my house.” +</p> + +<p> +“When I so much regretted being present,” said the smiling Carker. +“Proud as a man in my position necessarily must be of your familiar +notice—though I give you no credit for it; you may do anything you please +without losing caste—and honoured as I was by an early presentation to +Mrs Dombey, before she was made eminent by bearing your name, I almost +regretted that night, I assure you, that I had been the object of such especial +good fortune.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear,” returned the confidential agent, “that Mrs Dombey, +never very much disposed to regard me with favourable interest—one in my +position could not expect that, from a lady naturally proud, and whose pride +becomes her so well—may not easily forgive my innocent part in that +conversation. Your displeasure is no light matter, you must remember; and to be +visited with it before a third party—” +</p> + +<p> +“Carker,” said Mr Dombey, arrogantly; “I presume that I am +the first consideration?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Can there be a doubt about it?” replied the other, with the +impatience of a man admitting a notorious and incontrovertible fact. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey becomes a secondary consideration, when we are both in +question, I imagine,” said Mr Dombey. “Is that so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it so?” returned Carker. “Do you know better than anyone, +that you have no need to ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have the misfortune, I find,” returned Carker, “to have +incurred that displeasure. Mrs Dombey has expressed it to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey has expressed various opinions,” said Mr Dombey, with +majestic coldness and indifference, “in which I do not participate, and +which I am not inclined to discuss, or to recall. I made Mrs Dombey acquainted, +some time since, as I have already told you, with certain points of domestic +deference and submission on which I felt it necessary to insist. I failed to +convince Mrs Dombey of the expediency of her immediately altering her conduct +in those respects, with a view to her own peace and welfare, and my dignity; +and I informed Mrs Dombey that if I should find it necessary to object or +remonstrate again, I should express my opinion to her through yourself, my +confidential agent.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Carker,” said Mr Dombey, “I do not hesitate to say to +you that I will carry my point. I am not to be trifled with. Mrs Dombey must +understand that my will is law, and that I cannot allow of one exception to the +whole rule of my life. You will have the goodness to undertake this charge, +which, coming from me, is not unacceptable to you, I hope, whatever regret you +may politely profess—for which I am obliged to you on behalf of Mrs +Dombey; and you will have the goodness, I am persuaded, to discharge it as +exactly as any other commission.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know,” said Mr Carker, “that you have only to command +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” said Mr Dombey, with a majestic indication of assent, +“that I have only to command you. It is necessary that I should proceed +in this. Mrs Dombey is a lady undoubtedly highly qualified, in many respects, +to—” +</p> + +<p> +“To do credit even to your choice,” suggested Carker, with a +yawning show of teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; if you please to adopt that form of words,” said Mr Dombey, +in his tone of state; “and at present I do not conceive that Mrs Dombey +does that credit to it, to which it is entitled. There is a principle of +opposition in Mrs Dombey that must be eradicated; that must be overcome: Mrs +Dombey does not appear to understand,” said Mr Dombey, forcibly, +“that the idea of opposition to Me is monstrous and absurd.” +</p> + +<p> +“We, in the City, know you better,” replied Carker, with a smile +from ear to ear. +</p> + +<p> +“You know me better,” said Mr Dombey. “I hope so. Though, +indeed, I am bound to do Mrs Dombey the justice of saying, however inconsistent +it may seem with her subsequent conduct (which remains unchanged), that on my +expressing my disapprobation and determination to her, with some severity, on +the occasion to which I have referred, my admonition appeared to produce a very +powerful effect.” Mr Dombey delivered himself of those words with most +portentous stateliness. “I wish you to have the goodness, then, to inform +Mrs Dombey, Carker, from me, that I must recall our former conversation to her +remembrance, in some surprise that it has not yet had its effect. That I must +insist upon her regulating her conduct by the injunctions laid upon her in that +conversation. That I am not satisfied with her conduct. That I am greatly +dissatisfied with it. And that I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity +of making you the bearer of yet more unwelcome and explicit communications, if +she has not the good sense and the proper feeling to adapt herself to my +wishes, as the first Mrs Dombey did, and, I believe I may add, as any other +lady in her place would.” +</p> + +<p> +“The first Mrs Dombey lived very happily,” said Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“The first Mrs Dombey had great good sense,” said Mr Dombey, in a +gentlemanly toleration of the dead, “and very correct feeling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Miss Dombey like her mother, do you think?” said Carker. +</p> + +<p> +Swiftly and darkly, Mr Dombey’s face changed. His confidential agent eyed +it keenly. +</p> + +<p> +“I have approached a painful subject,” he said, in a soft regretful +tone of voice, irreconcilable with his eager eye. “Pray forgive me. I +forget these chains of association in the interest I have. Pray forgive +me.” +</p> + +<p> +But for all he said, his eager eye scanned Mr Dombey’s downcast face none +the less closely; and then it shot a strange triumphant look at the picture, as +appealing to it to bear witness how he led him on again, and what was coming. +</p> + +<p> +“Carker,” said Mr Dombey, looking here and there upon the table, +and saying in a somewhat altered and more hurried voice, and with a paler lip, +“there is no occasion for apology. You mistake. The association is with +the matter in hand, and not with any recollection, as you suppose. I do not +approve of Mrs Dombey’s behaviour towards my daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me,” said Mr Carker, “I don’t quite +understand.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0548m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“Understand then,” returned Mr Dombey, “that you may make +that—that you will make that, if you please—matter of direct +objection from me to Mrs Dombey. You will please to tell her that her show of +devotion for my daughter is disagreeable to me. It is likely to be noticed. It +is likely to induce people to contrast Mrs Dombey in her relation towards my +daughter, with Mrs Dombey in her relation towards myself. You will have the +goodness to let Mrs Dombey know, plainly, that I object to it; and that I +expect her to defer, immediately, to my objection. Mrs Dombey may be in +earnest, or she may be pursuing a whim, or she may be opposing me; but I object +to it in any case, and in every case. If Mrs Dombey is in earnest, so much the +less reluctant should she be to desist; for she will not serve my daughter by +any such display. If my wife has any superfluous gentleness, and duty over and +above her proper submission to me, she may bestow them where she pleases, +perhaps; but I will have submission first!—Carker,” said Mr Dombey, +checking the unusual emotion with which he had spoken, and falling into a tone +more like that in which he was accustomed to assert his greatness, “you +will have the goodness not to omit or slur this point, but to consider it a +very important part of your instructions.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker bowed his head, and rising from the table, and standing thoughtfully +before the fire, with his hand to his smooth chin, looked down at Mr Dombey +with the evil slyness of some monkish carving, half human and half brute; or +like a leering face on an old water-spout. Mr Dombey, recovering his composure +by degrees, or cooling his emotion in his sense of having taken a high +position, sat gradually stiffening again, and looking at the parrot as she +swung to and fro, in her great wedding ring. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” said Carker, after a silence, suddenly +resuming his chair, and drawing it opposite to Mr Dombey’s, “but +let me understand. Mrs Dombey is aware of the probability of your making me the +organ of your displeasure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Mr Dombey. “I have said so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” rejoined Carker, quickly; “but why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why!” Mr Dombey repeated, not without hesitation. “Because I +told her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” replied Carker. “But why did you tell her? You +see,” he continued with a smile, and softly laying his velvet hand, as a +cat might have laid its sheathed claws, on Mr Dombey’s arm; “if I +perfectly understand what is in your mind, I am so much more likely to be +useful, and to have the happiness of being effectually employed. I think I do +understand. I have not the honour of Mrs Dombey’s good opinion. In my +position, I have no reason to expect it; but I take the fact to be, that I have +not got it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly not,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Consequently,” pursued Carker, “your making the +communications to Mrs Dombey through me, is sure to be particularly unpalatable +to that lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“It appears to me,” said Mr Dombey, with haughty reserve, and yet +with some embarrassment, “that Mrs Dombey’s views upon the subject +form no part of it as it presents itself to you and me, Carker. But it may be +so.” +</p> + +<p> +“And—pardon me—do I misconceive you,” said Carker, +“when I think you descry in this, a likely means of humbling Mrs +Dombey’s pride—I use the word as expressive of a quality which, +kept within due bounds, adorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her +beauty and accomplishments—and, not to say of punishing her, but of +reducing her to the submission you so naturally and justly require?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not accustomed, Carker, as you know,” said Mr Dombey, +“to give such close reasons for any course of conduct I think proper to +adopt, but I will gainsay nothing of this. If you have any objection to found +upon it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere statement that you have one +will be sufficient. But I have not supposed, I confess, that any confidence I +could entrust to you, would be likely to degrade you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! <i>I</i> degraded!” exclaimed Carker. “In <i>your</i> +service!” +</p> + +<p> +“—or to place you,” pursued Mr Dombey, “in a false +position.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> in a false position!” exclaimed Carker. “I shall be +proud—delighted—to execute your trust. I could have wished, I own, +to have given the lady at whose feet I would lay my humble duty and +devotion—for is she not your wife!—no new cause of dislike; but a +wish from you is, of course, paramount to every other consideration on earth. +Besides, when Mrs Dombey is converted from these little errors of judgment, +incidental, I would presume to say, to the novelty of her situation, I shall +hope that she will perceive in the slight part I take, only a grain—my +removed and different sphere gives room for little more—of the respect +for you, and sacrifice of all considerations to you, of which it will be her +pleasure and privilege to garner up a great store every day.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey seemed, at the moment, again to see her with her hand stretched out +towards the door, and again to hear through the mild speech of his confidential +agent an echo of the words, “Nothing can make us stranger to each other +than we are henceforth!” But he shook off the fancy, and did not shake in +his resolution, and said, “Certainly, no doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said Mr Dombey, “but this. You will be good enough +to observe, Carker, that no message to Mrs Dombey with which you are or may be +charged, admits of reply. You will be good enough to bring me no reply. Mrs +Dombey is informed that it does not become me to temporise or treat upon any +matter that is at issue between us, and that what I say is final.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker signified his understanding of these credentials, and they fell to +breakfast with what appetite they might. The Grinder also, in due time +reappeared, keeping his eyes upon his master without a moment’s respite, +and passing the time in a reverie of worshipful tenor. Breakfast concluded, Mr +Dombey’s horse was ordered out again, and Mr Carker mounting his own, +they rode off for the City together. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker was in capital spirits, and talked much. Mr Dombey received his +conversation with the sovereign air of a man who had a right to be talked to, +and occasionally condescended to throw in a few words to carry on the +conversation. So they rode on characteristically enough. But Mr Dombey, in his +dignity, rode with very long stirrups, and a very loose rein, and very rarely +deigned to look down to see where his horse went. In consequence of which it +happened that Mr Dombey’s horse, while going at a round trot, stumbled on +some loose stones, threw him, rolled over him, and lashing out with his +iron-shod feet, in his struggles to get up, kicked him. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker, quick of eye, steady of hand, and a good horseman, was afoot, and +had the struggling animal upon his legs and by the bridle, in a moment. +Otherwise that morning’s confidence would have been Mr Dombey’s +last. Yet even with the flush and hurry of this action red upon him, he bent +over his prostrate chief with every tooth disclosed, and muttered as he stooped +down, “I have given good cause of offence to Mrs Dombey now, if she knew +it!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey being insensible, and bleeding from the head and face, was carried by +certain menders of the road, under Carker’s direction, to the nearest +public-house, which was not far off, and where he was soon attended by divers +surgeons, who arrived in quick succession from all parts, and who seemed to +come by some mysterious instinct, as vultures are said to gather about a camel +who dies in the desert. After being at some pains to restore him to +consciousness, these gentlemen examined into the nature of his injuries. One +surgeon who lived hard by was strong for a compound fracture of the leg, which +was the landlord’s opinion also; but two surgeons who lived at a +distance, and were only in that neighbourhood by accident, combated this +opinion so disinterestedly, that it was decided at last that the patient, +though severely cut and bruised, had broken no bones but a lesser rib or so, +and might be carefully taken home before night. His injuries being dressed and +bandaged, which was a long operation, and he at length left to repose, Mr +Carker mounted his horse again, and rode away to carry the intelligence home. +</p> + +<p> +Crafty and cruel as his face was at the best of times, though it was a +sufficiently fair face as to form and regularity of feature, it was at its +worst when he set forth on this errand; animated by the craft and cruelty of +thoughts within him, suggestions of remote possibility rather than of design or +plot, that made him ride as if he hunted men and women. Drawing rein at length, +and slackening in his speed, as he came into the more public roads, he checked +his white-legged horse into picking his way along as usual, and hid himself +beneath his sleek, hushed, crouched manner, and his ivory smile, as he best +could. +</p> + +<p> +He rode direct to Mr Dombey’s house, alighted at the door, and begged to +see Mrs Dombey on an affair of importance. The servant who showed him to Mr +Dombey’s own room, soon returned to say that it was not Mrs +Dombey’s hour for receiving visitors, and that he begged pardon for not +having mentioned it before. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker, who was quite prepared for a cold reception, wrote upon a card that +he must take the liberty of pressing for an interview, and that he would not be +so bold as to do so, for the second time (this he underlined), if he were not +equally sure of the occasion being sufficient for his justification. After a +trifling delay, Mrs Dombey’s maid appeared, and conducted him to a +morning room upstairs, where Edith and Florence were together. +</p> + +<p> +He had never thought Edith half so beautiful before. Much as he admired the +graces of her face and form, and freshly as they dwelt within his sensual +remembrance, he had never thought her half so beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +Her glance fell haughtily upon him in the doorway; but he looked at +Florence—though only in the act of bending his head, as he came +in—with some irrepressible expression of the new power he held; and it +was his triumph to see the glance droop and falter, and to see that Edith half +rose up to receive him. +</p> + +<p> +He was very sorry, he was deeply grieved; he couldn’t say with what +unwillingness he came to prepare her for the intelligence of a very slight +accident. He entreated Mrs Dombey to compose herself. Upon his sacred word of +honour, there was no cause of alarm. But Mr Dombey— +</p> + +<p> +Florence uttered a sudden cry. He did not look at her, but at Edith. Edith +composed and reassured her. She uttered no cry of distress. No, no. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey had met with an accident in riding. His horse had slipped, and he had +been thrown. +</p> + +<p> +Florence wildly exclaimed that he was badly hurt; that he was killed! +</p> + +<p> +No. Upon his honour, Mr Dombey, though stunned at first, was soon recovered, +and though certainly hurt was in no kind of danger. If this were not the truth, +he, the distressed intruder, never could have had the courage to present +himself before Mrs Dombey. It was the truth indeed, he solemnly assured her. +</p> + +<p> +All this he said as if he were answering Edith, and not Florence, and with his +eyes and his smile fastened on Edith. +</p> + +<p> +He then went on to tell her where Mr Dombey was lying, and to request that a +carriage might be placed at his disposal to bring him home. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama,” faltered Florence in tears, “if I might venture to +go!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker, having his eyes on Edith when he heard these words, gave her a +secret look and slightly shook his head. He saw how she battled with herself +before she answered him with her handsome eyes, but he wrested the answer from +her—he showed her that he would have it, or that he would speak and cut +Florence to the heart—and she gave it to him. As he had looked at the +picture in the morning, so he looked at her afterwards, when she turned her +eyes away. +</p> + +<p> +“I am directed to request,” he said, “that the new +housekeeper—Mrs Pipchin, I think, is the name—” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing escaped him. He saw, in an instant, that she was another slight of Mr +Dombey’s on his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“—may be informed that Mr Dombey wishes to have his bed prepared in +his own apartments downstairs, as he prefers those rooms to any other. I shall +return to Mr Dombey almost immediately. That every possible attention has been +paid to his comfort, and that he is the object of every possible solicitude, I +need not assure you, Madam. Let me again say, there is no cause for the least +alarm. Even you may be quite at ease, believe me.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed himself out, with his extremest show of deference and conciliation; +and having returned to Mr Dombey’s room, and there arranged for a +carriage being sent after him to the City, mounted his horse again, and rode +slowly thither. He was very thoughtful as he went along, and very thoughtful +there, and very thoughtful in the carriage on his way back to the place where +Mr Dombey had been left. It was only when sitting by that gentleman’s +couch that he was quite himself again, and conscious of his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +About the time of twilight, Mr Dombey, grievously afflicted with aches and +pains, was helped into his carriage, and propped with cloaks and pillows on one +side of it, while his confidential agent bore him company upon the other. As he +was not to be shaken, they moved at little more than a foot pace; and hence it +was quite dark when he was brought home. Mrs Pipchin, bitter and grim, and not +oblivious of the Peruvian mines, as the establishment in general had good +reason to know, received him at the door, and freshened the domestics with +several little sprinklings of wordy vinegar, while they assisted in conveying +him to his room. Mr Carker remained in attendance until he was safe in bed, and +then, as he declined to receive any female visitor, but the excellent Ogress +who presided over his household, waited on Mrs Dombey once more, with his +report on her lord’s condition. +</p> + +<p> +He again found Edith alone with Florence, and he again addressed the whole of +his soothing speech to Edith, as if she were a prey to the liveliest and most +affectionate anxieties. So earnest he was in his respectful sympathy, that on +taking leave, he ventured—with one more glance towards Florence at the +moment—to take her hand, and bending over it, to touch it with his lips. +</p> + +<p> +Edith did not withdraw the hand, nor did she strike his fair face with it, +despite the flush upon her cheek, the bright light in her eyes, and the +dilation of her whole form. But when she was alone in her own room, she struck +it on the marble chimney-shelf, so that, at one blow, it was bruised, and bled; +and held it from her, near the shining fire, as if she could have thrust it in +and burned it. +</p> + +<p> +Far into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze, in dark and threatening +beauty, watching the murky shadows looming on the wall, as if her thoughts were +tangible, and cast them there. Whatever shapes of outrage and affront, and +black foreshadowings of things that might happen, flickered, indistinct and +giant-like, before her, one resented figure marshalled them against her. And +that figure was her husband. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap43"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.<br /> +The Watches of the Night</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">F</span>lorence, long since awakened from her dream, mournfully +observed the estrangement between her father and Edith, and saw it widen more +and more, and knew that there was greater bitterness between them every day. +Each day’s added knowledge deepened the shade upon her love and hope, +roused up the old sorrow that had slumbered for a little time, and made it even +heavier to bear than it had been before. +</p> + +<p> +It had been hard—how hard may none but Florence ever know!—to have +the natural affection of a true and earnest nature turned to agony; and slight, +or stern repulse, substituted for the tenderest protection and the dearest +care. It had been hard to feel in her deep heart what she had felt, and never +know the happiness of one touch of response. But it was much more hard to be +compelled to doubt either her father or Edith, so affectionate and dear to her, +and to think of her love for each of them, by turns, with fear, distrust, and +wonder. +</p> + +<p> +Yet Florence now began to do so; and the doing of it was a task imposed upon +her by the very purity of her soul, as one she could not fly from. She saw her +father cold and obdurate to Edith, as to her; hard, inflexible, unyielding. +Could it be, she asked herself with starting tears, that her own dear mother +had been made unhappy by such treatment, and had pined away and died? Then she +would think how proud and stately Edith was to everyone but her, with what +disdain she treated him, how distantly she kept apart from him, and what she +had said on the night when they came home; and quickly it would come on +Florence, almost as a crime, that she loved one who was set in opposition to +her father, and that her father knowing of it, must think of her in his +solitary room as the unnatural child who added this wrong to the old fault, so +much wept for, of never having won his fatherly affection from her birth. The +next kind word from Edith, the next kind glance, would shake these thoughts +again, and make them seem like black ingratitude; for who but she had cheered +the drooping heart of Florence, so lonely and so hurt, and been its best of +comforters! Thus, with her gentle nature yearning to them both, feeling for the +misery of both, and whispering doubts of her own duty to both, Florence in her +wider and expanded love, and by the side of Edith, endured more than when she +had hoarded up her undivided secret in the mournful house, and her beautiful +Mama had never dawned upon it. +</p> + +<p> +One exquisite unhappiness that would have far outweighed this, Florence was +spared. She never had the least suspicion that Edith by her tenderness for her +widened the separation from her father, or gave him new cause of dislike. If +Florence had conceived the possibility of such an effect being wrought by such +a cause, what grief she would have felt, what sacrifice she would have tried to +make, poor loving girl, how fast and sure her quiet passage might have been +beneath it to the presence of that higher Father who does not reject his +children’s love, or spurn their tried and broken hearts, Heaven knows! +But it was otherwise, and that was well. +</p> + +<p> +No word was ever spoken between Florence and Edith now, on these subjects. +Edith had said there ought to be between them, in that wise, a division and a +silence like the grave itself: and Florence felt she was right. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Susan,” urged Florence, “don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +I must say not that I have any right to object to that particular, but when we +come to Mrs Pipchinses and having them put over us and keeping guard at your +Pa’s door like crocodiles (only make us thankful that they lay no eggs!) +we are a growing too outrageous!” +</p> + +<p> +“Papa thinks well of Mrs Pipchin, Susan,” returned Florence, +“and has a right to choose his housekeeper, you know. Pray +don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well Miss Floy,” returned the Nipper, “when you say +don’t, I never do I hope but Mrs Pipchin acts like early gooseberries +upon me Miss, and nothing less.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan was unusually emphatic and destitute of punctuation in her discourse on +this night, which was the night of Mr Dombey’s being brought home, +because, having been sent downstairs by Florence to inquire after him, she had +been obliged to deliver her message to her mortal enemy Mrs Pipchin; who, +without carrying it in to Mr Dombey, had taken upon herself to return what Miss +Nipper called a huffish answer, on her own responsibility. This, Susan Nipper +construed into presumption on the part of that exemplary sufferer by the +Peruvian mines, and a deed of disparagement upon her young lady, that was not +to be forgiven; and so far her emphatic state was special. But she had been in +a condition of greatly increased suspicion and distrust, ever since the +marriage; for, 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 attached to Edith, who +divided her old empire, and came between them. Proud and glad as Susan Nipper +truly was, that her young mistress should be advanced towards her proper place +in the scene of her old neglect, and that she should have her father’s +handsome wife for her companion and protectress, she could not relinquish any +part of her own dominion to the handsome wife, without a grudge and a vague +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 necessarily +retired somewhat, since the marriage, Miss Nipper looked on, therefore, at +domestic affairs in general, with a resolute conviction that no good would come +of Mrs Dombey: always being very careful to publish on all possible occasions, +that she had nothing to say against her. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan,” said Florence, who was sitting thoughtfully at her table, +“it is very late. I shall want nothing more tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Miss Floy!” returned the Nipper, “I’m sure I often +wish for them old times when I sat up with you hours later than this and fell +asleep through being tired out when you was as broad awake as spectacles, but +you’ve ma’s-in-law to come and sit with you now Miss Floy and +I’m thankful for it I’m sure. I’ve not a word to say against +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not forget who was my old companion when I had none, +Susan,” returned Florence, gently, “never!” And looking up, +she put her arm round the neck of her humble friend, drew her face down to +hers, and bidding her good-night, kissed it; which so mollified Miss Nipper, +that she fell a sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +“Now my dear Miss Floy,” said Susan, “let me go downstairs +again and see how your Pa is, I know you’re wretched about him, do let me +go downstairs again and knock at his door my own self.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +daresay;” Florence blushed, for she had no such hope; “or is there +now, perhaps. Good-night!” +</p> + +<p> +Susan was too much softened to express her private opinion on the probability +of Mrs Dombey’s being in attendance on her husband, and silently +withdrew. Florence left alone, soon hid her head upon her hands as she had +often done in other days, and did not restrain the tears from coursing down her +face. The misery of this domestic discord and unhappiness; the withered hope +she cherished now, if hope it could be called, of ever being taken to her +father’s heart; her doubts and fears between the two; the yearning of her +innocent breast to both; the heavy disappointment and regret of such an end as +this, to what had been a vision of bright hope and promise to her; all crowded +on her mind and made 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 downstairs, and venturing to +his door. +</p> + +<p> +She listened at her own. The house was quiet, and all the lights were out. It +was a long, long time, she thought, since she used to make her nightly +pilgrimages to his door! It was a long, long time, she tried to think, since +she had entered his room at midnight, and he had led her back to the +stair-foot! +</p> + +<p> +With the same child’s heart within her, as of old: even with the +child’s sweet timid eyes and clustering hair: Florence, as strange to her +father in her early maiden bloom, as in her nursery time, crept down the +staircase listening as she went, and drew near to his room. No one was stirring +in the house. The door was partly open to admit air; and all was so still +within, that she could hear the burning of the fire, and count the ticking of +the clock that stood upon the chimney-piece. +</p> + +<p> +She looked in. In that room, the housekeeper wrapped in a blanket was fast +asleep in an easy chair before the fire. The doors between it and the next were +partly closed, and a screen was drawn before them; but there was a light there, +and it shone upon the cornice of his bed. All was so very still that she could +hear from his breathing that he was asleep. This gave her courage to pass round +the screen, and look into his chamber. +</p> + +<p> +It was as great a start to come upon his sleeping face as if she had not +expected to see it. Florence stood arrested on the spot, and if he had awakened +then, must have remained there. +</p> + +<p> +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 was not this, that after +the first quick glance, and first assurance of his sleeping quietly, held +Florence rooted to the ground. It was something very different from this, and +more than this, that made him look so solemn in her eye. +</p> + +<p> +She had never seen his face in all her life, but there had been upon +it—or she fancied so—some disturbing consciousness of her. She had +never seen his face in all her life, but hope had sunk within her, and her +timid glance had dropped before its stern, unloving, and repelling harshness. +As she looked upon it now, she saw it, for the first time, free from the cloud +that had darkened her childhood. Calm, tranquil night was reigning in its +stead. He might have gone to sleep, for anything she saw there, blessing her. +</p> + +<p> +Awake, unkind father! Awake, now, sullen man! The time is flitting by; the hour +is coming with an angry tread. Awake! +</p> + +<p> +There was no change upon his face; and as she watched it, awfully, its +motionless response 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. +</p> + +<p> +She stole close to the bed, and drawing in her breath, bent down, and softly +kissed him on the face, and laid her own for one brief moment by its side, and +put the arm, with which she dared not touch him, round about him on the pillow. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +In her mind, she prayed to God to bless her father, and to soften him towards +her, if it might be so; and if not, to forgive him if he was wrong, and pardon +her the prayer which almost seemed impiety. And doing so, and looking back at +him with blinded eyes, and stealing timidly away, passed out of his room, and +crossed the other, and was gone. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Sad and grieving was the heart of Florence, as she crept upstairs. The quiet +house had grown more dismal since she came down. The sleep she had been looking +on, in the dead of night, had the solemnity to her of death and life in one. +The secrecy and silence of her own proceeding made the night secret, silent, +and oppressive. She felt unwilling, almost unable, to go on to her own chamber; +and turning into the drawing-rooms, where the clouded moon was shining through +the blinds, looked out into the empty streets. +</p> + +<p> +The wind was blowing drearily. The lamps looked pale, and shook as if they were +cold. There was a distant glimmer of something that was not quite darkness, +rather than of light, in the sky; and foreboding night was shivering and +restless, as the dying are who make a troubled end. Florence remembered how, as +a watcher, by a sick-bed, she had noted this bleak time, and felt its +influence, as if in some hidden natural antipathy to it; and now it was very, +very gloomy. +</p> + +<p> +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 +longing to have somebody to speak to, and to break the spell of gloom and +silence, Florence directed her steps towards the chamber where she slept. +</p> + +<p> +The door was not fastened within, and yielded smoothly to her hesitating hand. +She was surprised to find a bright light burning; still more surprised, on +looking in, to see that her Mama, but partially undressed, was sitting near the +ashes of the fire, which had crumbled and dropped away. Her eyes were intently +bent upon the air; and in their light, and in her face, and in her form, and in +the grasp with which she held the elbows of her chair as if about to start up, +Florence saw such fierce emotion that it terrified her. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama!” she cried, “what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith started; looking at her with such a strange dread in her face, that +Florence was more frightened than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama!” said Florence, hurriedly advancing. “Dear Mama! what +is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And not yet been to bed, Mama?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she returned. “Half-waking dreams.” +</p> + +<p> +Her features gradually softened; and suffering Florence to come closer to her, +within her embrace, she said in a tender manner, “But what does my bird +do here? What does my bird do here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been uneasy, Mama, in not seeing you tonight, and in not knowing +how Papa was; and I—” +</p> + +<p> +Florence stopped there, and said no more. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it late?” asked Edith, fondly putting back the curls that +mingled with her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Very late. Near day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Near day!” she repeated in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Mama, what have you done to your hand?” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +Edith drew it suddenly away, and, for a moment, looked at her with the same +strange dread (there was a sort of wild avoidance in it) as before; but she +presently said, “Nothing, nothing. A blow.” And then she said, +“My Florence!” and then her bosom heaved, and she was weeping +passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama!” said Florence. “Oh Mama, what can I do, what should I +do, to make us happier? Is there anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless,” she replied, “useless. I have told you, +dear, that I have had bad dreams. Nothing can change them, or prevent them +coming back.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand,” said Florence, gazing on her agitated face +which seemed to darken as she looked. +</p> + +<p> +“I have dreamed,” said Edith in a low voice, “of a 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 +led 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.” +</p> + +<p> +She neither looked nor spoke to Florence now, but went on as if she were alone. +</p> + +<p> +“I have dreamed,” she said, “of such indifference and +callousness, arising from this self-contempt; this wretched, inefficient, +miserable pride; that it has gone on with listless steps even to the altar, +yielding to the old, familiar, beckoning finger,—oh mother, oh +mother!—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!” +</p> + +<p> +And now with gathering and darkening emotion, she looked as she had looked when +Florence entered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Her clenched hand tightened on the trembling arm she had in hers, and as she +looked down on the alarmed and wondering face, frown subsided. “Oh +Florence!” she said, “I think I have been nearly mad +tonight!” and humbled her proud head upon her neck and wept again. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t leave me! be near me! I have no hope but in you!” +These words she said a score of times. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“For you are weary, dearest, and unhappy, and should rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am indeed unhappy, dear Mama, tonight,” said Florence. +“But you are weary and unhappy, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not when you lie asleep so near me, sweet.” +</p> + +<p> +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 downstairs, 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. +</p> + +<p> +Edith, sitting by, looked down at the dark eyelashes lying wet on the flushed +cheeks, and looked with gentleness and pity, for she knew the truth. But no +sleep hung upon her own eyes. As the day came on she still sat watching and +waking, with the placid hand in hers, and sometimes whispered, as she looked at +the hushed face, “Be near me, Florence. I have no hope but in you!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap44"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.<br /> +A Separation</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>ith +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 over-night. But +the Nipper, so far from being cast down, was singularly brisk and bold, and all +her energies appeared to be braced up for some great feat. This was noticeable +even in her dress, which was much more tight and trim than usual; and in +occasional twitches of her head as she went about the house, which were +mightily expressive of determination. +</p> + +<p> +In a word, she had formed a determination, and an aspiring one: it being +nothing less than this—to penetrate to Mr Dombey’s presence, and +have speech of that gentleman alone. “I have often said I would,” +she remarked, in a threatening manner, to herself, that morning, with many +twitches of her head, “and now I will!” +</p> + +<p> +Spurring herself on to the accomplishment of this desperate design, with a +sharpness that was peculiar to herself, Susan Nipper haunted the hall and +staircase during the whole forenoon, without finding a favourable opportunity +for the assault. Not at all baffled by this discomfiture, 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 sworn foe Mrs +Pipchin, under pretence of having sat up all night, was dozing in her own room, +and that Mr Dombey was lying on his sofa, unattended. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, who was eyeing the fire, gave an amazed look at his visitor, and +raised himself a little on his arm. The Nipper dropped a curtsey. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Sir, I wish to speak to you,” said Susan. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 Meethosalem, but I am not +a child in arms.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, raised upon his arm and looking at her, offered no comment on this +preparatory statement of fact. +</p> + +<p> +“There never was a dearer or a blesseder young lady than is my young +lady, Sir,” said Susan, “and I ought to know a great deal better +than some for I have seen her in her grief and I have seen her in her joy +(there’s not been much of it) and I have seen her with her brother and 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 more that I was torn to pieces +Sir the more I’d say it though I may not be a Fox’s Martyr.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, I 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, woman?” said Mr Dombey, glaring at her. +“How do you dare?” +</p> + +<p> +“What I mean, Sir, is to speak respectful and without offence, but out, +and how I dare I know not but I do!” said Susan. “Oh! you +don’t know my young lady Sir you don’t indeed, you’d never +know so little of her, if you did.” +</p> + +<p> +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 cross to the +other without assistance. The quick eye of the Nipper detected his helplessness +immediately, and now, as she afterwards observed, she felt she had got him. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Floy,” said Susan Nipper, “is the most devoted and most +patient and most dutiful and beautiful of daughters, there ain’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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Woman,” cried Mr Dombey, “leave the room.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Which was rendered no less clear by the expression of Susan Nipper’s +countenance, than by her words. +</p> + +<p> +“There ain’t a person in your service, Sir,” pursued the +black-eyed, “that has always stood more in awe of you than me and you may +think how true it is when I make so bold as say that I have hundreds and +hundreds of times thought of speaking to you and never been able to make my +mind up to it till last night, but last night decided of me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey, in a paroxysm of rage, made another grasp at the bell-rope that was +not there, and, in its absence, pulled his hair rather than nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen,” said Susan Nipper, “Miss Floy strive and +strive when nothing but a child so sweet and patient that the best of women +might have copied from her, I’ve seen her sitting nights together half +the night through to help her delicate brother with his learning, I’ve +seen her 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 feeling of +it—I say to some and all, I have!—and never said one word, but +ordering one’s self lowly and reverently towards one’s betters, is +not to be a worshipper of graven images, and I will and must speak!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anybody there?” cried Mr Dombey, calling out. +“Where are the men? where are the women? Is there no one there?” +</p> + +<p> +“I left my dear young lady out of bed late last night,” said Susan, +nothing checked, “and I knew why, for you was ill Sir and she +didn’t know how ill and that was enough to make her wretched as I saw it +did. I may not be a Peacock; but I have my eyes—and I sat up a little in +my own room thinking she might be lonesome and might want me, and I saw her +steal downstairs and come to this door as if it was a guilty thing to look at +her own Pa, and then steal back again and go into them lonely drawing-rooms, +a-crying so, that I could hardly bear to hear it. I can not bear to hear +it,” said Susan Nipper, wiping her black eyes, and fixing them +undauntingly on Mr Dombey’s infuriated face. “It’s not the +first time I have heard it, not by many and many a time you don’t know +your own daughter, Sir, you don’t know what you’re doing, Sir, I +say to some and all,” cried Susan Nipper, in a final burst, “that +it’s a sinful shame!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, hoity toity!” cried the voice of Mrs Pipchin, as the black +bombazeen garments of that fair Peruvian Miner swept into the room. +“What’s this, indeed?” +</p> + +<p> +Susan favoured Mrs Pipchin with a look she had invented expressly for her when +they first became acquainted, and resigned the reply to Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s this?” repeated Mr Dombey, almost foaming. +“What’s this, Madam? You who are at the head of this household, and +bound to keep it in order, have reason to inquire. Do you know this +woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know very little good of her, Sir,” croaked Mrs Pipchin. +“How dare you come here, you hussy? Go along with you!” +</p> + +<p> +But the inflexible Nipper, merely honouring Mrs Pipchin with another look, +remained. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you call it managing this establishment, Madam,” said Mr +Dombey, “to leave a person like this at liberty to come and talk to me! A +gentleman—in his own house—in his own room—assailed with the +impertinences of women-servants!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir,” returned Mrs Pipchin, with vengeance in her hard grey +eye, “I exceedingly deplore it; nothing can be more irregular; nothing +can be more out of all bounds and reason; but I regret to say, Sir, that this +young woman is quite beyond control. She has been spoiled by Miss Dombey, and +is amenable to nobody. You know you’re not,” said Mrs Pipchin, +sharply, and shaking her head at Susan Nipper. “For shame, you hussy! Go +along with you!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you find people in my service who are not to be controlled, Mrs +Pipchin,” said Mr Dombey, turning back towards the fire, “you know +what to do with them, I presume. You know what you are here for? Take her +away!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I know what to do,” retorted Mrs Pipchin, “and of +course shall do it. Susan Nipper,” snapping her up particularly short, +“a month’s warning from this hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh indeed!” cried Susan, loftily. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A good riddance of bad rubbish!” said that wrathful old lady. +“Get along with you, or I’ll have you carried out!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 and died of the exhaustion +which would be a Jubilee!” +</p> + +<p> +With these words, Miss Nipper preceded her foe out of the room; and walking +upstairs to her own apartments in great state, to the choking exasperation of +the ireful Pipchin, sat down among her boxes and began to cry. +</p> + +<p> +From this soft mood she was soon aroused, with a very wholesome and refreshing +effect, by the voice of Mrs Pipchin outside the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Does that bold-faced slut,” said the fell Pipchin, “intend +to take her warning, or does she not?” +</p> + +<p> +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 housekeeper’s room. +</p> + +<p> +“You saucy baggage!” retorted Mrs Pipchin, rattling at the handle +of the door. “Go along with you this minute. Pack up your things +directly! How dare you talk in this way to a gentle-woman who has seen better +days?” +</p> + +<p> +To which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castle, that she pitied the better days +that had seen Mrs Pipchin; and that for her part she considered the worst days +in the year to be about that lady’s mark, except that they were much too +good for her. +</p> + +<p> +“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 may take your affidavit.” +</p> + +<p> +The Dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at this intelligence, and with +some general opinions upon young hussies as a race, and especially upon their +demerits after being spoiled by Miss Dombey, withdrew to prepare the +Nipper’s wages. Susan then bestirred herself to get her trunks in order, +that she might take an immediate and dignified departure; sobbing heartily all +the time, as she thought of Florence. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0567m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +The object of her regret was not long in coming to her, for the news soon +spread over the house that Susan Nipper had had a disturbance with Mrs Pipchin, +and that they had both appealed to Mr Dombey, and that there had been an +unprecedented piece of work in Mr Dombey’s room, and that Susan was +going. The latter part of this confused rumour, Florence found to be so +correct, that Susan had locked the last trunk and was sitting upon it with her +bonnet on, when she came into her room. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan!” cried Florence. “Going to leave me! You!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Susan!” said Florence. “My dear girl, my old friend! What +shall I do without you! Can you bear to go away so?” +</p> + +<p> +“No-n-o-o, my darling dear Miss Floy, I can’t indeed,” sobbed +Susan. “But it can’t be helped, I’ve done my duty, Miss, I +have indeed. It’s no fault of mine. I am quite resigned. I couldn’t +stay my month or I could never leave you then my darling and I must at last as +well as at first, don’t speak to me Miss Floy, for though I’m +pretty firm I’m not a marble doorpost, my own dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? Why is it?” said Florence, “Won’t you tell +me?” For Susan was shaking her head. +</p> + +<p> +“No-n-no, my darling,” returned Susan. “Don’t ask me, +for I mustn’t, and whatever you do don’t put in a word for me to +stop, for it couldn’t be and you’d only wrong yourself, and so God +bless you my own precious and forgive me any harm I have done, or any temper I +have showed in all these many years!” +</p> + +<p> +With which entreaty, very heartily delivered, Susan hugged her mistress in her +arms. +</p> + +<p> +“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-bye, sweet Miss +Floy!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where will you go, Susan?” asked her weeping mistress. +</p> + +<p> +“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 mistress!” Susan +finished with a burst of sorrow, which was opportunely broken by the voice of +Mrs Pipchin talking downstairs; on hearing which, she dried her red and swollen +eyes, and made a melancholy feint of calling jauntily to Mr Towlinson to fetch +a cab and carry down her boxes. +</p> + +<p> +Florence, pale and hurried and distressed, but withheld from useless +interference even here, by her dread of causing any new division between her +father and his wife (whose stern, indignant face had been a warning to her a +few moments since), and by her apprehension of being in some way unconsciously +connected already with the dismissal of her old servant and friend, followed, +weeping, downstairs to Edith’s dressing-room, whither Susan betook +herself to make her parting curtsey. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, here’s the cab, and here’s the boxes, get along with +you, do!” said Mrs Pipchin, presenting herself at the same moment. +“I beg your pardon, Ma’am, but Mr Dombey’s orders are +imperative.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith, sitting under the hands of her maid—she was going out to +dinner—preserved her haughty face, and took not the least notice. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan had no spirits even for the look that belonged to Ma Pipchin by right; so +she dropped her curtsey to Mrs Dombey (who inclined her head without one word, +and whose eye avoided everyone but Florence), and gave one last parting hug to +her young mistress, and received her parting embrace in return. Poor +Susan’s face at this crisis, in the intensity of her feelings and the +determined suffocation of her sobs, lest one should become audible and be a +triumph to Mrs Pipchin, presented a series of the most extraordinary +physiognomical phenomena ever witnessed. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Miss, I’m sure,” said Towlinson, outside +the door with the boxes, addressing Florence, “but Mr Toots is in the +drawing-room, and sends his compliments, and begs to know how Diogenes and +Master is.” +</p> + +<p> +Quick as thought, Florence glided out and hastened downstairs, where Mr Toots, +in the most splendid vestments, was breathing very hard with doubt and +agitation on the subject of her coming. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey,” said Mr Toots, “God bless my +soul!” +</p> + +<p> +This last ejaculation was occasioned by Mr Toots’s deep concern at the +distress he saw in Florence’s face; which caused him to stop short in a +fit of chuckles, and become an image of despair. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Mr Toots,” said Florence, “you are so friendly to me, +and so honest, that I am sure I may ask a favour of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 little way into the country. Might I ask you to take +care of her until she is in the coach?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey,” returned Mr Toots, “you really do me an honour +and a kindness. This proof of your confidence, after the manner in which I was +Beast enough to conduct myself at Brighton—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Florence, hurriedly—“no—don’t +think of that. Then would you have the kindness to—to go? and to be ready +to meet her when she comes out? Thank you a thousand times! You ease my mind so +much. She doesn’t seem so desolate. You cannot think how grateful I feel +to you, or what a good friend I am sure you are!” and Florence in her +earnestness thanked him again and again; and Mr Toots, in his earnestness, +hurried away—but backwards, that he might lose no glimpse of her. +</p> + +<p> +Florence had not the courage to go out, when she saw poor Susan in the hall, +with Mrs Pipchin driving her forth, and Diogenes jumping about her, and +terrifying Mrs Pipchin to the last degree by making snaps at her bombazeen +skirts, and howling with anguish at the sound of her voice—for the good +duenna was the dearest and most cherished aversion of his breast. But she saw +Susan shake hands with the servants all round, and turn once to look at her old +home; and she saw Diogenes bound out after the cab, and want to follow it, and +testify an impossibility of conviction that he had no longer any property in +the fare; and the door was shut, and the hurry over, and her tears flowed fast +for the loss of an old friend, whom no one could replace. No one. No one. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my soul and body!” said Mr Toots, taking his seat beside her. +“I feel for you. Upon my word and honour I think you can hardly know your +own feelings better than I imagine them. I can conceive nothing more dreadful +than to have to leave Miss Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan abandoned herself to her grief now, and it really was touching to see +her. +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” said Mr Toots, “now, don’t! at least I mean +now do, you know!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do what, Mr Toots!” cried Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, come home to my place, and have some dinner before you +start,” said Mr Toots. “My cook’s a most respectable +woman—one of the most motherly people I ever saw—and she’ll +be delighted to make you comfortable. Her son,” said Mr Toots, as an +additional recommendation, “was educated in the Bluecoat School, and +blown up in a powder-mill.” +</p> + +<p> +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 seeing a lady in the +vehicle, that Mr Dombey had been doubled up, agreeably to his old +recommendation, and Miss Dombey abducted. This gentleman awakened in Miss +Nipper some considerable astonishment; for, having been defeated by the Larkey +Boy, his visage was in a state of such great dilapidation, as to be hardly +presentable in society with comfort to the beholders. The Chicken himself +attributed this punishment to his having had the misfortune to get into +Chancery early in the proceedings, when he was severely fibbed by the Larkey +one, and heavily grassed. But it appeared from the published records of that +great contest that the Larkey Boy had had it all his own way from the +beginning, and that the Chicken had been tapped, and bunged, and had received +pepper, and had been made groggy, and had come up piping, and had endured a +complication of similar strange inconveniences, until he had been gone into and +finished. +</p> + +<p> +After a good repast, and much hospitality, Susan set out for the coach-office +in another cabriolet, with Mr Toots inside, as before, and the Chicken on the +box, who, whatever distinction he conferred on the little party by the moral +weight and heroism of his character, was scarcely ornamental to it, physically +speaking, on account of his plasters; which were numerous. But the Chicken had +registered a vow, in secret, that he would never leave Mr Toots (who was +secretly pining to get rid of him), for any less consideration than the +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 unacceptable. +</p> + +<p> +The night-coach by which Susan was to go, was on the point of departure. Mr +Toots having put her inside, 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: +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Susan! Miss Dombey, you know—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think she could—you know—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Mr Toots,” said Susan, “but I don’t +hear you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear no!” returned Susan, shaking her head. “I should +say, never. Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee!” said Mr Toots. “It’s of no +consequence. Good-night. It’s of no consequence, thank’ee!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap45"></a>CHAPTER XLV.<br /> +The Trusty Agent</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>dith +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 obdurate, so unapproachable, so unrelenting, one +would have thought that nothing could soften such a woman’s nature, and +that everything in life had hardened it. +</p> + +<p> +Arrived at her own door, she was alighting, when some one coming 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. +</p> + +<p> +“How is your patient, Sir?” she asked, with a curled lip. +</p> + +<p> +“He is better,” returned Carker. “He is doing very well. I +have left him for the night.” +</p> + +<p> +She bent her head, and was passing up the staircase, when he followed and said, +speaking at the bottom: +</p> + +<p> +“Madam! May I beg the favour of a minute’s audience?” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped and turned her eyes back “It is an unseasonable time, Sir, +and I am fatigued. Is your business urgent?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very urgent, returned Carker. “As I am so fortunate as to +have met you, let me press my petition.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Miss Dombey?” she asked the servant, aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“In the morning room, Ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon! Madam! Mrs Dombey!” cried the soft and nimble +Carker, at her side in a moment. “May I be permitted to entreat that Miss +Dombey is not present?” +</p> + +<p> +She confronted him, with a quick look, but with the same self-possession and +steadiness. +</p> + +<p> +“I would spare Miss Dombey,” said Carker, in a low voice, +“the knowledge of what I have to say. At least, Madam, I would leave it +to you to decide whether she shall know of it or not. I owe that to you. It is +my bounden duty to you. After our former interview, it would be monstrous in me +if I did otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +She slowly withdrew her eyes from his face, and turning to the servant, said, +“Some other room.” He led the way to a drawing-room, which he +speedily lighted up and then left them. While he remained, not a word was +spoken. Edith enthroned herself upon a couch by the fire; and Mr Carker, with +his hat in his hand and his eyes bent upon the carpet, stood before her, at +some little distance. +</p> + +<p> +“Before I hear you, Sir,” said Edith, when the door was closed, +“I wish you to hear me.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be addressed by Mrs Dombey,” he returned, “even in +accents of unmerited reproach, is an honour I so greatly esteem, that although +I were not her servant in all things, I should defer to such a wish, most +readily.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That one, Sir,” she returned, “is ended. Or, if you return +to it—” +</p> + +<p> +“Can Mrs Dombey believe,” said Carker, coming nearer, “that I +would return to it in the face of her prohibition? Is it possible that Mrs +Dombey, having no regard to my unfortunate position, is so determined to +consider me inseparable from my instructor as to do me great and wilful +injustice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” returned Edith, bending her dark gaze full upon him, and +speaking with a rising passion that inflated her proud nostril and her swelling +neck, and stirred the delicate white down upon a robe she wore, thrown loosely +over shoulders that could bear its snowy neighbourhood, “Why do you +present yourself to me, as you have done, and speak to me of love and duty to +my husband, and pretend to think that I am happily married, and that I honour +him? How dare you venture so to affront me, when you know—<i>I</i> do not +know better, Sir: I have seen it in your every glance, and heard it in your +every word—that in place of affection between us there is aversion and +contempt, and that I despise him hardly less than I despise myself for being +his! Injustice! If I had done justice to the torment you have made me feel, and +to my sense of the insult you have put upon me, I should have slain you!” +</p> + +<p> +She had asked him why he did this. Had she not been blinded by her pride and +wrath, and self-humiliation,—which she was, fiercely as she bent her gaze +upon him,—she would have seen the answer in his face. To bring her to +this declaration. +</p> + +<p> +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 them. 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. +</p> + +<p> +He did not shrink beneath her gaze, but stood, until such outward signs of her +anger as had escaped her control subsided, with the air of a man who had his +sufficient reply in reserve and would presently deliver it. And he then spoke, +looking straight into her kindling eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” he said, “I know, and knew before today, that I +have found no favour with you; and I knew why. Yes. I knew why. You have spoken +so openly to me; I am so relieved by the possession of your +confidence—” +</p> + +<p> +“Confidence!” she repeated, with disdain. +</p> + +<p> +He passed it over. +</p> + +<p> +“—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 engendered 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Was it for you, Sir,” she replied, “to feign that other +belief, and audaciously to thrust it on me day by day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam, it was,” he eagerly retorted. “If I had done less, if +I had done anything but that, I should not be speaking to you thus; and I +foresaw—who could better foresee, for who has had greater experience of +Mr Dombey than myself?—that unless your character should prove to be as +yielding and obedient as that of his first submissive lady, which I did not +believe—” +</p> + +<p> +A haughty smile gave him reason to observe that he might repeat this. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, which I did not believe,—the time was likely to come, when +such an understanding as we have now arrived at, would be serviceable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Serviceable to whom, Sir?” she demanded scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“To you. I 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 distasteful to one +whose aversion and contempt,” with great expression, “are so +keen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it honest in you, Sir,” said Edith, “to confess to your +‘limited commendation,’ and to speak in that tone of disparagement, +even of him: being his chief counsellor and flatterer!” +</p> + +<p> +“Counsellor,—yes,” said Carker. “Flatterer,—no. A +little reservation I fear I must confess to. But our interest and convenience +commonly oblige many of us to make professions that we cannot feel. We have +partnerships of interest and convenience, friendships of interest and +convenience, dealings of interest and convenience, marriages of interest and +convenience, every day.” +</p> + +<p> +She bit her blood-red lip; but without wavering in the dark, stern watch she +kept upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said Mr Carker, sitting down in a chair that was near her, +with an air of the most profound and most considerate respect, “why +should I hesitate now, being altogether devoted to your service, to speak +plainly? It was natural that a lady, endowed as you are, should think it +feasible to change her husband’s character in some respects, and mould +him to a better form.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was not natural to me, Sir,” she rejoined. “I had never +any expectation or intention of that kind.” +</p> + +<p> +The proud undaunted face showed him it was resolute to wear no mask he offered, +but was set upon a reckless disclosure of itself, indifferent to any aspect in +which it might present itself to such as he. +</p> + +<p> +“At least it was natural,” he resumed, “that you should deem +it quite possible to live with Mr Dombey as his wife, at once without +submitting to him, and without coming into such violent collision with him. +But, Madam, you did not know Mr Dombey (as you have since ascertained), when +you thought that. You did not know how exacting and how proud he is, or how he +is, if I may say so, the slave of his own greatness, and goes yoked to his own +triumphal car like a beast of burden, with no idea on earth but that it is +behind him and is to be drawn on, over everything and through +everything.” +</p> + +<p> +His teeth gleamed through his malicious relish of this conceit, as he went on +talking: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey is really capable of no more true consideration for you, +Madam, than for me. The comparison is an extreme one; I intend it to be so; but +quite just. 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 agreeable to you, and because he intends that I shall be a +punishment for your contumacy; and besides that, because he really does +consider, that I, his paid servant, am an ambassador whom it is derogatory to +the dignity—not of the lady to whom I have the happiness of speaking; she +has no existence in his mind—but of his wife, a part of 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 course, have not +forgotten that he did.” +</p> + +<p> +She watched him still attentively. But he watched her too; and he saw that this +indication of a knowledge on his part, of something that had passed between +herself and her husband, rankled and smarted in her haughty breast, like a +poisoned arrow. +</p> + +<p> +“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 daresay, to confirm him in his way of +thinking; but if we had not done so, others would—or they would not have +been about him; and it has always been, from the beginning, the very staple of +his life. Mr Dombey has had to deal, in short, with none but submissive and +dependent persons, who have bowed the knee, and bent the neck, before him. He +has never known what it is to have angry pride and strong resentment opposed to +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey, though a most honourable gentleman,” he said, “is +so prone to pervert even facts to his own view, when he is at all opposed, in +consequence of the warp in his mind, that he—can I give a better instance +than this!—he sincerely believes (you will excuse the 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 withering effect, and for the moment +quite subdued her!” +</p> + +<p> +Edith laughed. How harshly and unmusically need not be described. It is enough +that he was glad to hear her. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” he resumed, “I have done with this. Your own +opinions are so strong, and, I am persuaded, so unalterable,” he repeated +those words slowly and with great emphasis, “that I am almost afraid to +incur your displeasure anew, when I say that in spite of these defects and my +full knowledge of them, I have become habituated to Mr Dombey, and esteem him. +But when I say so, it is not, believe me, for the mere sake of vaunting a +feeling that is so utterly at variance with your own, and for which you can +have no sympathy”—oh how distinct and plain and emphasized 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 to fill!” +</p> + +<p> +She sat as if she were afraid to take her eyes from his face. +</p> + +<p> +And now to unwind the last ring of the coil! +</p> + +<p> +“It is growing late,” said Carker, after a pause, “and you +are, as you said, fatigued. But the second object of this interview, I must not +forget. I must recommend you, I must entreat you in the most earnest manner, +for sufficient reasons that I have, to be cautious in your demonstrations of +regard for Miss Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cautious! What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be careful how you exhibit too much affection for that young +lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Too much affection, Sir!” said Edith, knitting her broad brow and +rising. “Who judges my affection, or measures it out? You?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not I who do so.” He was, or feigned to be, perplexed. +</p> + +<p> +“Who then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you not guess who then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not choose to guess,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” he said after a little hesitation; meantime they had been, +and still were, regarding each other as before; “I am in a difficulty +here. You have told me you will receive no message, and you have forbidden me +to return to that subject; but the two subjects are so closely entwined, I +find, that unless you will accept this vague caution from one who has now the +honour to possess your confidence, though the way to it has been through your +displeasure, I must violate the injunction you have laid upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know that you are free to do so, Sir,” said Edith. “Do +it.” +</p> + +<p> +So pale, so trembling, so impassioned! He had not miscalculated the effect +then! +</p> + +<p> +“His instructions were,” he said, in a low voice, “that I +should inform you that your demeanour towards Miss Dombey is not agreeable to +him. That it suggests comparisons to him which are not favourable to himself. +That he desires it may be wholly changed; and that if you are in earnest, he is +confident it will be; for your continued show of affection will not benefit its +object.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a threat,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a threat,” he answered, in his voiceless manner of assent: +adding aloud, “but not directed against you.” +</p> + +<p> +Proud, erect, and dignified, as she stood confronting him; and looking through +him as she did, with her full bright flashing eye; and smiling, as she was, +with scorn and bitterness; she sunk as if the ground had dropped beneath her, +and in an instant would have fallen on the floor, but that he caught her in his +arms. As instantaneously she threw him off, the moment that he touched her, +and, drawing back, confronted him again, immoveable, with her hand stretched +out. +</p> + +<p> +“Please to leave me. Say no more tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“I feel the urgency of this,” said Mr Carker, “because it is +impossible to say what unforeseen consequences might arise, or how soon, from +your being unacquainted with his state of mind. I understand 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 requesting +that Miss Dombey might not be present. May I hope so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not. Please to leave me, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 ruined her +future hopes,” said Carker hurriedly, but eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“No more tonight. Leave me, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 should be done, and learn your wishes?” +</p> + +<p> +She motioned him towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot even decide whether to tell him I have spoken to you yet; or to +lead him to suppose that I have deferred doing so, for want of opportunity, or +for any other reason. It will be necessary that you should enable me to consult +with you very soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any time but now,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You will understand, when I wish to see you, that Miss Dombey is not to +be present; and that I seek an interview as one who has the happiness to +possess your confidence, and who comes to render you every assistance in his +power, and, perhaps, on many occasions, to ward off evil from her?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He bowed, as if in compliance; but turning back, when he had nearly reached the +door, said: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She gave him the gloved hand she had maimed last night. He took it in one of +his, and kissed it, and withdrew. And when he had closed the door, he waved the +hand with which he had taken hers, and thrust it in his breast. +</p> + +<p> +Edith saw no one that night, but locked her door, and kept herself alone. +</p> + +<p> +She did not weep; she showed no greater agitation, outwardly, than when she was +riding home. She laid as proud a head upon her pillow as she had borne in her +carriage; and her prayer ran thus: +</p> + +<p> +“May this man be a liar! For if he has spoken truth, she is lost to me, +and I have no hope left!” +</p> + +<p> +This man, meanwhile, went home musing to bed, thinking, with a dainty pleasure, +how imperious her passion was, how she had sat before him in her beauty, with +the dark eyes that had never turned away but once; how the white down had +fluttered; how the bird’s feathers had been strewn upon the ground. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap46"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.<br /> +Recognizant and Reflective</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>mong +sundry minor alterations in Mr Carker’s life and 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 closeness 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 +mysteries of books and papers, with the patient progress of a man who was +dissecting the minutest nerves and fibres of his subject. Perch, the messenger, +who usually remained on these occasions, to entertain himself with the perusal +of the Price Current by the light of one candle, or to doze over the fire in +the outer office, at the imminent risk every moment of diving head foremost +into the coal-box, could not withhold the tribute of his admiration from this +zealous conduct, although it much contracted his domestic enjoyments; and +again, and again, expatiated to Mrs Perch (now nursing twins) on the industry +and acuteness of their managing gentleman in the City. +</p> + +<p> +The same increased and sharp attention that Mr Carker bestowed on the business +of the House, he applied to his own personal affairs. Though not a partner in +the concern—a distinction hitherto reserved solely to inheritors of the +great name of Dombey—he was in the receipt of some percentage on its +dealings; and, participating in all its facilities for the employment of money +to advantage, was considered, by the minnows among the tritons of the East, a +rich man. It began to be said, among these shrewd observers, that Jem Carker, +of Dombey’s, was looking about him to 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The only decided alteration in him was, that as he rode to and fro along the +streets, he would fall into deep fits of musing, like that in which he had come +away from Mr Dombey’s house, on the morning of that gentleman’s +disaster. At such times, he would keep clear of the obstacles in his way, +mechanically; and would appear to see and hear nothing until arrival at his +destination, or some sudden chance or effort roused him. +</p> + +<p> +Walking his white-legged horse thus, to the counting-house of Dombey and Son +one day, he was as unconscious of the observation of two pairs of women’s +eyes, as of the fascinated orbs of Rob the Grinder, who, in waiting a +street’s length from the appointed place, as a demonstration 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. +</p> + +<p> +“See where he goes!” cried one of these two women, an old creature, +who stretched out her shrivelled arm to point him out to her companion, a young +woman, who stood close beside her, withdrawn like herself into a gateway. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Brown’s daughter looked out, at this bidding on the part of Mrs +Brown; and there were wrath and vengeance in her face. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not changed!” said the old woman, with a look of eager malice. +</p> + +<p> +“He changed!” returned the other. “What for? What has he +suffered? There is change enough for twenty in me. Isn’t that +enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“See where he goes!” muttered the old woman, watching her daughter +with her red eyes; “so easy and so trim a-horseback, while we are in the +mud.” +</p> + +<p> +“And of it,” said her daughter impatiently. “We are mud, +underneath his horse’s feet. What should we be?” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0581m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +In the intentness with which she looked after him again, she made a hasty +gesture with her hand when the old woman began to reply, as if her view could +be obstructed by mere sound. Her mother watching her, and not him, remained +silent; until her kindling glance subsided, and she drew a long breath, as if +in the relief of his being gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Deary!” said the old woman then. “Alice! Handsome gall +Ally!” She gently shook her sleeve to arouse her attention. “Will +you let him go like that, when you can wring money from him? Why, it’s a +wickedness, my daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And him so rich?” murmured the old woman. “And us so +poor!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. Its no good looking at +his horse. Come away, mother!” +</p> + +<p> +But the old woman, for whom the spectacle of Rob the Grinder returning down the +street, leading the riderless horse, appeared to have some extraneous interest +that it did not possess in itself, surveyed that young man with the utmost +earnestness; and seeming to have whatever doubts she entertained, resolved as +he drew nearer, glanced at her daughter with brightened eyes and with her +finger on her lip, and emerging from the gateway at the moment of his passing, +touched him on the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, where’s my sprightly Rob been, all this time!” she +said, as he turned round. +</p> + +<p> +The sprightly Rob, whose sprightliness was very much diminished by the +salutation, looked exceedingly dismayed, and said, with the water rising in his +eyes: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! why can’t you leave a poor cove alone, Misses Brown, when +he’s getting an honest livelihood and conducting himself respectable? +What do you come and deprive a cove of his character for, by talking to him in +the streets, when he’s taking his master’s horse to a honest +stable—a horse you’d go and sell for cats’ and dogs’ +meat if you had your way! Why, I thought,” said the Grinder, producing +his concluding remark as if it were the climax of all his injuries, “that +you was dead long ago!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let the birds be, will you, Misses Brown?” retorted Rob, in a tone +of the acutest anguish. “I think a cove had better have to do with lions +than them little creeturs, for they’re always flying back in your face +when you least expect it. Well, how d’ye do and what do you want?” +These polite inquiries the Grinder uttered, as it were under protest, and with +great exasperation and vindictiveness. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark how he speaks to an old friend, my deary!” said Mrs Brown, +again appealing to her daughter. “But there’s some of his old +friends not so patient as me. If I was to tell some that he knows, and has +spotted and cheated with, where to find him—” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?” interrupted the +miserable Grinder, glancing quickly round, as though he expected to see his +master’s teeth shining at his elbow. “What do you take a pleasure +in ruining a cove for? At your time of life too! when you ought to be thinking +of a variety of things!” +</p> + +<p> +“What a gallant horse!” said the old woman, patting the +animal’s neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Let him alone, will you, Misses Brown?” cried Rob, pushing away +her hand. “You’re enough to drive a penitent cove mad!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what hurt do I do him, child?” returned the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +finger, as if he seriously believed what he said. +</p> + +<p> +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 pursued the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“A good place, Rob, eh?” said she. “You’re in luck, my +child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh don’t talk about luck, Misses Brown,” returned the +wretched Grinder, facing round and stopping. “If you’d never come, +or if you’d go away, then indeed a cove might be considered tolerable +lucky. Can’t you go along, Misses Brown, and not foller me!” +blubbered Rob, with sudden defiance. “If the young woman’s a friend +of yours, why don’t she take you away, instead of letting you make +yourself so disgraceful!” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” croaked the old woman, putting her face close to his, with +a malevolent grin upon it that puckered up the loose skin down in her very +throat. “Do you deny your old chum! Have you lurked to my house fifty +times, and slept sound in a corner when you had no other bed but the +paving-stones, and do you talk to me like this! Have I bought and sold with +you, and helped you in my way of business, schoolboy, sneak, and what not, and +do you tell me to go along? 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 you do? +Besides,” said Rob piteously, “look here! How can a cove stand +talking in the street with his master’s prad a-wanting to be took to be +rubbed down, and his master up to every individgle thing that happens!” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman made a show of being partially appeased, but shook her head, and +mouthed and muttered still. +</p> + +<p> +“Come along to the stables, and have a glass of something that’s +good for you, Misses Brown, can’t you?” said Rob, “instead of +going on, like that, which is no good to you, nor anybody else. Come along with +her, will you be so kind?” said Rob. “I’m sure I’m +delighted to see her, if it wasn’t for the horse!” +</p> + +<p> +With this apology, Rob turned away, a rueful picture of despair, and walked his +charge down a bye street. The old woman, mouthing at her daughter, followed +close upon him. The daughter followed. +</p> + +<p> +Turning into a silent little square or court-yard that had a great church tower +rising above it, and a packer’s warehouse, and a bottle-maker’s +warehouse, for its places of business, Rob the Grinder delivered the +white-legged horse to the hostler of a quaint stable at the corner; and +inviting Mrs Brown and her daughter to seat themselves upon a stone bench at +the gate of that establishment, soon reappeared from a neighbouring +public-house with a pewter measure and a glass. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s master—Mr Carker, child!” said the old woman, +slowly, as her sentiment before drinking. “Lord bless him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I didn’t tell you who he was,” observed Rob, with +staring eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“We know him by sight,” said Mrs Brown, whose working mouth and +nodding head stopped for the moment, in the fixedness of her attention. +“We saw him pass this morning, afore he got off his horse; when you were +ready to take it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay,” returned Rob, appearing to wish that his readiness had +carried him to any other place.—“What’s the matter with her? +Won’t she drink?” +</p> + +<p> +This inquiry had reference to Alice, who, folded in her cloak, sat a little +apart, profoundly inattentive to his offer of the replenished glass. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman shook her head. “Don’t mind her,” she said; +“she’s a strange creetur, if you know’d her, Rob. But Mr +Carker—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he ain’t here!” cried Mrs Brown. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know that,” muttered Rob, whose glance even wandered +to the church tower, as if he might be there, with a supernatural power of +hearing. +</p> + +<p> +“Good master?” inquired Mrs Brown. +</p> + +<p> +Rob nodded; and added, in a low voice, “precious sharp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lives out of town, don’t he, lovey?” said the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“When he’s at home,” returned Rob; “but we don’t +live at home just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where then?” asked the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Lodgings; up near Mr Dombey’s,” returned Rob. +</p> + +<p> +The younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly upon him, and so suddenly, that +Rob was quite confounded, and offered the glass again, but with no more effect +upon her than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey—you and I used to talk about him, sometimes, you +know,” said Rob to Mrs Brown. “You used to get me to talk about +him.” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr Dombey, he’s had a fall from his horse,” said Rob, +unwillingly; “and my master has to be up there, more than usual, either +with him, or Mrs Dombey, or some of ’em; and so we’ve come to +town.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are they good friends, lovey?” asked the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” retorted Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“He and she?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, Mr and Mrs Dombey?” said Rob. “How should I +know!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not them—Master and Mrs Dombey, chick,” replied the old +woman, coaxingly. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said Rob, looking round him again. “I +suppose so. How curious you are, Misses Brown! Least said, soonest +mended.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why there’s no harm in it!” exclaimed the old woman, with a +laugh, and a clap of her hands. “Sprightly Rob, has grown tame since he +has been well off! There’s no harm in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, there’s no harm in it, I know,” returned Rob, with the +same distrustful glance at the packer’s and the bottle-maker’s, and +the church; “but blabbing, if it’s only about the number of buttons +on my master’s coat, won’t do. I tell you it won’t do with +him. A cove had better drown himself. He says so. I shouldn’t have so +much as told you what his name was, if you hadn’t known it. Talk about +somebody else.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Rob, lovey!” said the old woman, beckoning him to the other end of +the bench. “You were always a pet and favourite of mine. Now, +weren’t you? Don’t you know you were?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Misses Brown,” replied the Grinder, with a very bad grace. +</p> + +<p> +“And you could leave me!” said the old woman, flinging her arms +about his neck. “You could go away, and grow almost out of knowledge, and +never come to tell your poor old friend how fortunate you were, proud lad! Oho, +Oho!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh here’s a dreadful go for a cove that’s got a master wide +awake in the neighbourhood!” exclaimed the wretched Grinder. “To be +howled over like this here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come and see me, Robby?” cried Mrs Brown. +“Oho, won’t you ever come and see me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I tell you! Yes, I will!” returned the Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied the Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Soon, Robby dear?” cried Mrs Brown; “and often?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Yes. Yes,” replied Rob. “I will indeed, upon my soul +and body.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +This ejaculation seemed a drop of comfort to the miserable Grinder, who shook +Mrs Brown by the hand upon it, and implored her with tears in his eyes, to +leave a cove and not destroy his prospects. Mrs Brown, with another fond +embrace, assented; but in the act of following her daughter, turned back, with +her finger stealthily raised, and asked in a hoarse whisper for some money. +</p> + +<p> +“A shilling, dear!” she said, with her eager avaricious face, +“or sixpence! For old acquaintance sake. I’m so poor. And my +handsome gal”—looking over her shoulder—“she’s my +gal, Rob—half starves me.” +</p> + +<p> +But as the reluctant Grinder put it in her hand, her daughter, coming quietly +back, caught the hand in hers, and twisted out the coin. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 (obviously having reference to someone of +whom they spoke), and a crooning feeble imitation of it on the part of Mrs +Brown, that made him earnestly hope he might not be the subject of their +discourse. +</p> + +<p> +With the present consolation that they were gone, and with the prospective +comfort that Mrs Brown could not live for ever, and was not likely to live long +to trouble him, the Grinder, not otherwise regretting his misdeeds than as they +were attended with such disagreeable incidental consequences, composed his +ruffled features to a more serene expression by thinking of the admirable +manner in which he had disposed of Captain Cuttle (a reflection that seldom +failed to put him in a flow of spirits), and went to the Dombey Counting House +to receive his master’s orders. +</p> + +<p> +There his master, so subtle and vigilant of eye, that Rob quaked before him, +more than half expecting to be taxed with Mrs Brown, gave him the usual +morning’s box of papers for Mr Dombey, and a note for Mrs Dombey: merely +nodding his head as an enjoinder to be careful, and to use dispatch—a +mysterious admonition, fraught in the Grinder’s imagination with dismal +warnings and threats; and more powerful with him than any words. +</p> + +<p> +Alone again, in his own room, Mr Carker applied himself to work, and worked all +day. He saw many visitors; overlooked a number of documents; went in and out, +to and from, sundry places of mercantile resort; and indulged in no more +abstraction until the day’s business was done. But, when the usual +clearance of papers from his table was made at last, he fell into his +thoughtful mood once more. +</p> + +<p> +He was standing in his accustomed place and attitude, with his eyes intently +fixed upon the ground, when his brother entered to bring back some letters that +had been taken out in the course of the day. He put them quietly on the table, +and was going immediately, when Mr Carker the Manager, whose eyes had rested on +him, on his entrance, as if they had all this time had him for the subject of +their contemplation, instead of the office-floor, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, John Carker, and what brings you here?” +</p> + +<p> +His brother pointed to the letters, and was again withdrawing. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” said the Manager, “that you can come and go, +without inquiring how our master is”. +</p> + +<p> +“We had word this morning in the Counting House, that Mr Dombey was doing +well,” replied his brother. +</p> + +<p> +“You are such a meek fellow,” said the Manager, with a +smile,—“but you have grown so, in the course of years—that if +any harm came to him, you’d be miserable, I dare swear now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be truly sorry, James,” returned the other. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And have you nothing, Spaniel,” said the Manager, with unusual +irascibility, “to complain of in him? No proud treatment to resent, no +insolence, no foolery of state, no exaction of any sort! What the devil! are +you man or mouse?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be strange if any two persons could be together for so many +years, especially as superior and inferior, without each having something to +complain of in the other—as he thought, at all events,” replied +John Carker. “But apart from my history here—” +</p> + +<p> +“His history here!” exclaimed the Manager. “Why, there it is. +The very fact that makes him an extreme case, puts him out of the whole +chapter! Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a reason to be thankful +that I alone (happily for all the rest) possess, surely there is no one in the +House who would not say and feel at least as much. You do not think that +anybody here would be indifferent to a mischance or misfortune happening to the +head of the House, or anything than truly sorry for it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied his brother, mildly, “I have long believed that +I am kept here for more kind and disinterested reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you were going,” said the Manager, with the snarl of a +tiger-cat, “to recite some Christian precept, I observed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, James,” returned the other, “though the tie of +brotherhood between us has been long broken and thrown away—” +</p> + +<p> +“Who broke it, good Sir?” said the Manager. +</p> + +<p> +“I, by my misconduct. I do not charge it upon you.” +</p> + +<p> +The Manager replied, with that mute action of his bristling mouth, “Oh, +you don’t charge it upon me!” and bade him go on. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, though there is not that tie between us, do not, I entreat, +assail me with unnecessary taunts, or misinterpret what I say, or would say. I +was only going to suggest to you that it would be a mistake to suppose that it +is only you, who have been selected here, above all others, for advancement, +confidence and distinction (selected, in the beginning, I know, for your great +ability and trustfulness), and who communicate more freely with Mr Dombey than +anyone, and stand, it may be said, on equal terms with him, and have been +favoured and enriched by him—that it would be a mistake to suppose that +it is only you who are tender of his welfare and reputation. There is no one in +the House, from yourself down to the lowest, I sincerely believe, who does not +participate in that feeling.” +</p> + +<p> +“You lie!” said the Manager, red with sudden anger. +“You’re a hypocrite, John Carker, and you lie.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you,” said the Manager, “that your hypocrisy and +meekness—that all the hypocrisy and meekness of this place—is not +worth that to me,” snapping his thumb and finger, “and that I see +through it as if it were air! There is not a man employed here, standing +between myself and the lowest in place (of whom you are very considerate, and +with reason, for he is not far off), who wouldn’t be glad at heart to see +his master humbled: who does not hate him, secretly: who does not wish him evil +rather than good: and who would not turn upon him, if he had the power and +boldness. The nearer to his favour, the nearer to his insolence; the closer to +him, the farther from him. That’s the creed here!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said his brother, whose roused feelings had +soon yielded to surprise, “who may have abused your ear with such +representations; or why you have chosen to try me, rather than another. But +that you have been trying me, and tampering with me, I am now sure. You have a +different manner and a different aspect from any that I ever saw in you. I will +only say to you, once more, you are deceived.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know I am,” said the Manager. “I have told you so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not by me,” returned his brother. “By your informant, if you +have one. If not, by your own thoughts and suspicions.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no suspicions,” said the Manager. “Mine are +certainties. You pusillanimous, abject, cringing dogs! All making the same +show, all canting the same story, all whining the same professions, all +harbouring the same transparent secret.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +As he broke them up and strewed them in the grate, he looked on with a +thoughtful smile at what he was doing. “Without the same queen beckoner +too!” he added presently; “and there is pride there, not to be +forgotten—witness our own acquaintance!” With that he fell into a +deeper reverie, and sat pondering over the blackening grate, until he rose up +like a man who had been absorbed in a book, and looking round him took his hat +and gloves, went to where his horse was waiting, mounted, and rode away through +the lighted streets, for it was evening. +</p> + +<p> +He rode near Mr Dombey’s house; and falling into a walk as he approached +it, looked up at the windows The window where he had once seen Florence sitting +with her dog attracted his attention first, though there was no light in it; +but he smiled as he carried his eyes up the tall front of the house, and seemed +to leave that object superciliously behind. +</p> + +<p> +“Time was,” he said, “when it was well to watch even your +rising little star, and know in what quarter there were clouds, to shadow you +if needful. But a planet has arisen, and you are lost in its light.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned the white-legged horse round the street corner, and sought one +shining window from among those at the back of the house. Associated with it +was a certain stately presence, a gloved hand, the remembrance how the feathers +of a beautiful bird’s wing had been showered down upon the floor, and how +the light white down upon a robe had stirred and rustled, as in the rising of a +distant storm. These were the things he carried with him as he turned away +again, and rode through the darkening and deserted Parks at a quick rate. +</p> + +<p> +In fatal truth, these were associated with a woman, a proud woman, who hated +him, but who by slow and sure degrees had been led on by his craft, and her +pride and resentment, to endure his company, and little by little to receive +him as one who had the privilege to talk to her of her own defiant disregard of +her own husband, and her abandonment of high consideration for herself. They +were associated with a woman who hated him deeply, and who knew him, and who +mistrusted him because she knew him, and because he knew her; but who fed her +fierce resentment by suffering him to draw nearer and yet nearer to her every +day, in spite of the hate she cherished for him. In spite of it! For that very +reason; since in its depths, too far down for her threatening eye to pierce, +though she could see into them dimly, lay the dark retaliation, whose faintest +shadow seen once and shuddered at, and never seen again, would have been +sufficient stain upon her soul. +</p> + +<p> +Did the phantom of such a woman flit about him on his ride; true to the +reality, and obvious to him? +</p> + +<p> +Yes. He saw her in his mind, exactly as she was. She bore him company with her +pride, resentment, hatred, all as plain to him as her beauty; with nothing +plainer to him than her hatred of him. He saw her sometimes haughty and +repellent at his side, and some times down among his horse’s feet, fallen +and in the dust. But he always saw her as she was, without disguise, and +watched her on the dangerous way that she was going. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap47"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.<br /> +The Thunderbolt</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +barrier between Mr Dombey and his wife was not weakened by time. Ill-assorted +couple, unhappy in themselves and in each other, bound together by no tie but +the manacle that joined their fettered hands, and straining that so harshly, in +their shrinking asunder, that it wore and chafed to the bone, Time, consoler of +affliction and softener of anger, could do nothing to help them. Their pride, +however different in kind and object, was equal in degree; and, in their flinty +opposition, struck out fire between them which might smoulder or might blaze, +as circumstances were, but burned up everything within their mutual reach, and +made their marriage way a road of ashes. +</p> + +<p> +Let us be just to him. In the monstrous delusion of his life, swelling with +every grain of sand that shifted in its glass, he urged her on, he little +thought to what, or considered how; but still his feeling towards her, such as +it was, remained as at first. She had the grand demerit of unaccountably +putting herself in opposition to the recognition of his vast importance, and to +the acknowledgment of her complete submission to it, and so far it was +necessary to correct and reduce her; but otherwise he still considered her, in +his cold way, a lady capable of doing honour, if she would, to his choice and +name, and of reflecting credit on his proprietorship. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Was Mr Dombey’s master-vice, that ruled him so inexorably, an unnatural +characteristic? It might be worthwhile, sometimes, to inquire what Nature is, +and how men work to change her, and whether, in the enforced distortions so +produced, it is not natural to be unnatural. Coop any son or daughter of our +mighty mother within narrow range, and bind the prisoner to one idea, and +foster it by servile worship of it on the part of the few timid or designing +people standing round, and what is Nature to the willing captive who has never +risen up upon the wings of a free mind—drooping and useless soon—to +see her in her comprehensive truth! +</p> + +<p> +Alas! are there so few things in the world, about us, most unnatural, and yet +most natural in being so? Hear the magistrate or judge admonish the unnatural +outcasts of society; unnatural in brutal habits, unnatural in want of decency, +unnatural in losing and confounding all distinctions between good and evil; +unnatural in ignorance, in vice, in recklessness, in contumacy, in mind, in +looks, in everything. But follow the good clergyman or doctor, who, with his +life imperilled at every breath he draws, goes down into their dens, lying +within the echoes of our carriage wheels and daily tread upon the pavement +stones. Look round upon the world of odious sights—millions of immortal +creatures have no other world on earth—at the lightest mention of which +humanity revolts, and dainty delicacy living in the next street, stops her +ears, and lisps “I don’t believe it!” Breathe the polluted +air, foul with every impurity that is poisonous to health and life; and have +every sense, conferred upon our race for its delight and happiness, offended, +sickened and disgusted, and made a channel by which misery and death alone can +enter. Vainly attempt to think of any simple plant, or flower, or wholesome +weed, that, set in this foetid bed, could have its natural growth, or put its +little leaves off to the sun as GOD designed it. And then, calling up some +ghastly child, with stunted form and wicked face, hold forth on its unnatural +sinfulness, and lament its being, so early, far away from Heaven—but +think a little of its having been conceived, and born and bred, in Hell! +</p> + +<p> +Those who study the physical sciences, and bring them to bear upon the health +of Man, tell us that if the noxious particles that rise from vitiated air were +palpable to the sight, we should see them lowering in a dense black cloud above +such haunts, and rolling slowly on to corrupt the better portions of a town. +But if the moral pestilence that rises with them, and in the eternal laws of +our Nature, is inseparable from them, could be made discernible too, how +terrible the revelation! Then should we see depravity, impiety, drunkenness, +theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins against the natural affections +and repulsions of mankind, overhanging the devoted spots, and creeping on, to +blight the innocent and spread contagion among the pure. Then should we see how +the same poisoned fountains that flow into our hospitals and lazar-houses, +inundate the jails, and make the convict-ships swim deep, and roll across the +seas, and over-run vast continents with crime. Then should we stand appalled to +know, that where we generate disease to strike our children down and entail +itself on unborn generations, there also we breed, by the same certain process, +infancy that knows no innocence, youth without modesty or shame, maturity that +is mature in nothing but in suffering and guilt, blasted old age that is a +scandal on the form we bear, unnatural humanity! When we shall gather grapes +from thorns, and figs from thistles; when fields of grain shall spring up from +the offal in the bye-ways of our wicked cities, and roses bloom in the fat +churchyards that they cherish; then we may look for natural humanity, and find +it growing from such seed. +</p> + +<p> +Oh for a good spirit who would take the house-tops off, with a more potent and +benignant hand than the lame demon in the tale, and show a Christian people +what dark shapes issue from amidst their homes, to swell the retinue of the +Destroying Angel as he moves forth among them! For only one night’s view +of the pale phantoms rising from the scenes of our too-long neglect; and from +the thick and sullen air where Vice and Fever propagate together, raining the +tremendous social retributions which are ever pouring down, and ever coming +thicker! Bright and blest the morning that should rise on such a night: for +men, delayed no more by stumbling-blocks of their own making, which are but +specks of dust upon the path between them and eternity, would then apply +themselves, like creatures of one common origin, owing one duty to the Father +of one family, and tending to one common end, to make the world a better place! +</p> + +<p> +Not the less bright and blest would that day be for rousing some who never have +looked out upon the world of human life around them, to a knowledge of their +own relation to it, and for making them acquainted with a perversion of nature +in their own contracted sympathies and estimates; as great, and yet as natural +in its development when once begun, as the lowest degradation known. +</p> + +<p> +But no such day had ever dawned on Mr Dombey, or his wife; and the course of +each was taken. +</p> + +<p> +Through six months that ensued upon his accident, they held the same relations +one towards the other. A marble rock could not have stood more obdurately in +his way than she; and no chilled spring, lying uncheered by any ray of light in +the depths of a deep cave, could be more sullen or more cold than he. +</p> + +<p> +The hope that had fluttered within her when the promise of her new home dawned, +was quite gone from the heart of Florence now. That home was nearly two years +old; and even the patient trust that was in her, could not survive the daily +blight of such experience. If she had any lingering fancy in the nature of hope +left, that Edith and her father might be happier together, in some distant +time, she had none, now, that her father would ever love her. The little +interval in which she had imagined that she saw some small relenting in him, +was forgotten in the long remembrance of his coldness since and before, or only +remembered as a sorrowful delusion. +</p> + +<p> +Florence loved him still, but, by degrees, had come to love him rather as some +dear one who had been, or who might have been, than as the hard reality before +her eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which she loved the memory of +little Paul, or of her mother, seemed to enter now into her thoughts of him, +and to make them, as it were, a dear remembrance. Whether it was that he was +dead to her, and that partly for this reason, partly for his share in those old +objects of her affection, and partly for the long association of him with hopes +that were withered and tendernesses he had frozen, she could not have told; but +the father whom she loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her: hardly +more substantially connected with her real life, than the image she would +sometimes conjure up, of her dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, +who would protect and cherish her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She was often alone now, for the old association between her and her Mama was +greatly changed. At the time of her father’s accident, and when he was +lying in his room downstairs, Florence had first observed that Edith avoided +her. Wounded and shocked, and yet unable to reconcile this with her affection +when they did meet, she sought her in her own room at night, once more. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama,” said Florence, stealing softly to her side, “have I +offended you?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith answered “No.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must have done something,” said Florence. “Tell me what it +is. You have changed your manner to me, dear Mama. I cannot say how instantly I +feel the least change; for I love you with my whole heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“As I do you,” said Edith. “Ah, Florence, believe me never +more than now!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith signified assent with her dark eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are we to be estranged, Mama?” asked Florence, gazing at her like +one frightened. +</p> + +<p> +Edith’s silent lips formed “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence looked at her with increasing fear and wonder, until she could see her +no more through the blinding tears that ran down her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Florence! my life!” said Edith, hurriedly, “listen to me. I +cannot bear to see this grief. Be calmer. You see that I am composed, and is it +nothing to me?” +</p> + +<p> +She resumed her steady voice and manner as she said the latter words, and added +presently: +</p> + +<p> +“Not wholly estranged. Partially: and only that, in appearance, Florence, +for in my own breast I am still the same to you, and ever will be. But what I +do is not done for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it for me, Mama?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“It is enough,” said Edith, after a pause, “to know what it +is; why, matters little. Dear Florence, it is better—it is +necessary—it must be—that our association should be less frequent. +The confidence there has been between us must be broken off.” +</p> + +<p> +“When?” cried Florence. “Oh, Mama, when?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“For all time to come?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice died away into silence; and she sat, looking at Florence, and almost +shrinking from her, with the same strange dread and wild avoidance that +Florence had noticed once before. The same dark pride and rage succeeded, +sweeping over her form and features like an angry chord across the strings of a +wild harp. But no softness or humility ensued on that. She did not lay her head +down now, and weep, and say that she had no hope but in Florence. She held it +up as if she were a beautiful Medusa, looking on him, face to face, to strike +him dead. Yes, and she would have done it, if she had had the charm. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama,” said Florence, anxiously, “there is a change in you, +in more than what you say to me, which alarms me. Let me stay with you a +little.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Edith, “no, dearest. I am best left alone now, and +I do best to keep apart from you, of all else. Ask me no questions, but believe +that what I am when I seem fickle or capricious to you, I am not of my own +will, or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to each other than we have +been, that I am unchanged to you within. Forgive me for having ever darkened +your dark home—I am a shadow on it, I know well—and let us never +speak of this again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mama,” sobbed Florence, “we are not to part?” +</p> + +<p> +“We do this that we may not part,” said Edith. “Ask no more. +Go, Florence! My love and my remorse go with you!” +</p> + +<p> +She embraced her, and dismissed her; and as Florence passed out of her room, +Edith looked on the retiring figure, as if her good angel went out in that +form, and left her to the haughty and indignant passions that now claimed her +for their own, and set their seal upon her brow. +</p> + +<p> +From that hour, Florence and she were, as they had been, no more. For days +together, they would seldom meet, except at table, and when Mr Dombey was +present. Then Edith, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never looked at her. +Whenever Mr Carker was of the party, as he often was, during the progress of Mr +Dombey’s recovery, and afterwards, Edith held herself more removed from +her, and was more distant towards her, than at other times. Yet she and +Florence never encountered, when there was no one by, but she would embrace her +as affectionately as of old, though not with the same relenting of her proud +aspect; and often, when she had been out late, she would steal up to +Florence’s room, as she had been used to do, in the dark, and whisper +“Good-night,” on her pillow. When unconscious, in her slumber, of +such visits, Florence would sometimes awake, as from a dream of those words, +softly spoken, and would seem to feel the touch of lips upon her face. But less +and less often as the months went on. +</p> + +<p> +And now the void in Florence’s own heart began again, indeed, to make a +solitude around her. As the image of the father whom she loved had insensibly +become a mere abstraction, so Edith, following the fate of all the rest about +whom her affections had entwined themselves, was fleeting, fading, growing +paler in the distance, every day. Little by little, she receded from Florence, +like the retiring ghost of what she had been; little by little, the chasm +between them widened and seemed deeper; little by little, all the power of +earnestness and tenderness she had shown, was frozen up in the bold, angry +hardihood with which she stood, upon the brink of a deep precipice unseen by +Florence, daring to look down. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +So she tried to do. At times, and often too, wondering speculations on the +cause of this change in Edith, would obtrude themselves upon her mind and +frighten her; but in the calm of its abandonment once more to silent grief and +loneliness, it was not a curious mind. Florence had only to remember that her +star of promise was clouded in the general gloom that hung upon the house, and +to weep and be resigned. +</p> + +<p> +Thus living, in a dream wherein the overflowing love of her young heart +expended itself on airy forms, and in a real world where she had experienced +little but the rolling back of that strong tide upon itself, Florence grew to +be seventeen. Timid and retiring as her solitary life had made her, it had not +embittered her sweet temper, or her earnest nature. A child in innocent +simplicity; a woman in her modest self-reliance, and her deep intensity of +feeling; both child and woman seemed at once expressed in her face and fragile +delicacy of shape, and gracefully to mingle there;—as if the spring +should be unwilling to depart when summer came, and sought to blend the earlier +beauties of the flowers with their bloom. But in her thrilling voice, in her +calm eyes, sometimes in a sage ethereal light that seemed to rest upon her +head, and always in a certain pensive air upon her beauty, there was an +expression, such as had been seen in the dead boy; and the council in the +Servants’ Hall whispered so among themselves, and shook their heads, and +ate and drank the more, in a closer bond of good-fellowship. +</p> + +<p> +This observant body had plenty to say of Mr and Mrs Dombey, and of Mr Carker, +who appeared to be a mediator between them, and who came and went as if he were +trying to make peace, but never could. They all deplored the uncomfortable +state of affairs, and all agreed that Mrs Pipchin (whose unpopularity was not +to be surpassed) had some hand in it; but, upon the whole, it was agreeable to +have so good a subject for a rallying point, and they made a great deal of it, +and enjoyed themselves very much. +</p> + +<p> +The general visitors who came to the house, and those among whom Mr and Mrs +Dombey visited, thought it a pretty equal match, as to haughtiness, at all +events, and thought nothing more about it. The young lady with the back did not +appear for some time after Mrs Skewton’s death; observing to some +particular friends, with her usual engaging little scream, that she +couldn’t separate the family from a notion of tombstones, and horrors of +that sort; but when she did come, she saw nothing wrong, except Mr +Dombey’s wearing a bunch of gold seals to his watch, which shocked her +very much, as an exploded superstition. This youthful fascinator considered a +daughter-in-law objectionable in principle; otherwise, she had nothing to say +against Florence, but that she sadly wanted “style”—which +might mean back, perhaps. Many, who only came to the house on state occasions, +hardly knew who Florence was, and said, going home, “Indeed, was that +Miss Dombey, in the corner? Very pretty, but a little delicate and thoughtful +in appearance!” +</p> + +<p> +None the less so, certainly, for her life of the last six months. Florence took +her seat at the dinner-table, on the day before the second anniversary of her +father’s marriage to Edith (Mrs Skewton had been lying stricken with +paralysis when the first came round), with an uneasiness, amounting to dread. +She had no other warrant for it, than the occasion, the expression of her +father’s face, in the hasty glance she caught of it, and the presence of +Mr Carker, which, always unpleasant to her, was more so on this day, than she +had ever felt it before. +</p> + +<p> +Edith was richly dressed, for she and Mr Dombey were engaged in the evening to +some large assembly, and the dinner-hour that day was late. She did not appear +until they were seated at table, when Mr Carker rose and led her to her chair. +Beautiful and lustrous as she was, there was that in her face and air which +seemed to separate her hopelessly from Florence, and from everyone, for ever +more. And yet, for an instant, Florence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, +when they were turned on her, that made the distance to which she had withdrawn +herself a greater cause of sorrow and regret than ever. +</p> + +<p> +There was very little said at dinner. Florence heard her father speak to Mr +Carker sometimes on business matters, and heard him softly reply, but she paid +little attention to what they said, and only wished the dinner at an end. When +the dessert was placed upon the table, and they were left alone, with no +servant in attendance, Mr Dombey, who had been several times clearing his +throat in a manner that augured no good, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have instructed the housekeeper +that there will be some company to dinner here to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not dine at home,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not dine at home,” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs Dombey,” said Mr Dombey, +still going majestically on, as if she had not spoken, “to hold the +occasion in very pleasant remembrance just now, there are appearances in these +things which must be maintained before the world. If you have no respect for +yourself, Mrs Dombey—” +</p> + +<p> +“I have none,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” cried Mr Dombey, striking his hand upon the table, +“hear me if you please. I say, if you have no respect for +yourself—” +</p> + +<p> +“And <i>I</i> say I have none,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her; but the face she showed him in return would not have changed, +if death itself had looked. +</p> + +<p> +“Carker,” said Mr Dombey, turning more quietly to that gentleman, +“as you have been my medium of communication with Mrs Dombey on former +occasions, and as I choose to preserve the decencies of life, so far as I am +individually concerned, I will trouble you to have the goodness to inform Mrs +Dombey that if she has no respect for herself, I have some respect for myself, +and therefore insist on my arrangements for to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell your sovereign master, Sir,” said Edith, “that I will +take leave to speak to him on this subject by-and-bye, and that I will speak to +him alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your daughter is present, Sir,” said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +“My daughter will remain present,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +Florence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her face in her hands, and +trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“My daughter, Madam”—began Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not raised in the least, was +so clear, emphatic, and distinct, that it might have been heard in a whirlwind. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you I will speak to you alone,” she said. “If you are +not mad, heed what I say.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You shall!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must tell you first, that there is a threatening appearance in your +manner, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, “which does not become you.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair started and trembled. There are +fables of precious stones that would turn pale, their wearer being in danger. +Had these been such, their imprisoned rays of light would have taken flight +that moment, and they would have been as dull as lead. +</p> + +<p> +Carker listened, with his eyes cast down. +</p> + +<p> +“As to my daughter, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, resuming the thread of +his discourse, “it is by no means inconsistent with her duty to me, that +she should know what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very strong example +to her of this kind, and I hope she may profit by it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would not stop you now,” returned his wife, immoveable in eye, +and voice, and attitude; “I would not rise and go away, and save you the +utterance of one word, if the room were burning.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey moved his head, as if in a sarcastic acknowledgment of the attention, +and resumed. But not with so much self-possession as before; for Edith’s +quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and Edith’s indifference to +him and his censure, chafed and galled him like a stiffening wound. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Dombey,” said he, “it may not be inconsistent with my +daughter’s improvement to know how very much to be lamented, and how +necessary to be corrected, a stubborn disposition is, especially when it is +indulged in—unthankfully indulged in, I will add—after the +gratification of ambition and interest. Both of which, I believe, had some +share in inducing you to occupy your present station at this board.” +</p> + +<p> +“No! I would not rise, and go away, and save you the utterance of one +word,” she repeated, exactly as before, “if the room were +burning.” +</p> + +<p> +“It may be natural enough, Mrs Dombey,” he pursued, “that you +should be uneasy in the presence of any auditors of these disagreeable truths; +though why”—he could not hide his real feeling here, or keep his +eyes from glancing gloomily at Florence—“why anyone can give them +greater force and point than myself, whom they so nearly concern, I do not +pretend to understand. It may be natural enough that you should object to hear, +in anybody’s presence, that there is a rebellious principle within you +which you cannot curb too soon; which you must curb, Mrs Dombey; and which, I +regret to say, I remember to have seen manifested—with some doubt and +displeasure, on more than one occasion before our marriage—towards your +deceased mother. But you have the remedy in your own hands. I by no means +forgot, when I began, that my daughter was present, Mrs Dombey. I beg you will +not forget, to-morrow, that there are several persons present; and that, with +some regard to appearances, you will receive your company in a becoming +manner.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it is not enough,” said Edith, “that you know what has +passed between yourself and me; it is not enough that you can look here,” +pointing at Carker, who still listened, with his eyes cast down, “and be +reminded of the affronts you have put upon me; it is not enough that you can +look here,” pointing to Florence with a hand that slightly trembled for +the first and only time, “and think of what you have done, and of the +ingenious agony, daily, hourly, constant, you have made me feel in doing it; it +is not enough that this day, of all others in the year, is memorable to me for +a struggle (well-deserved, but not conceivable by such as you) in which I wish +I had died! You add to all this, do you, the last crowning meanness of making +her a witness of the depth to which I have fallen; when you know that you have +made me sacrifice to her peace, the only gentle feeling and interest of my +life, when you know that for her sake, I would now if I could—but I can +not, my soul recoils from you too much—submit myself wholly to your will, +and be the meekest vassal that you have!” +</p> + +<p> +This was not the way to minister to Mr Dombey’s greatness. The old +feeling was roused by what she said, into a stronger and fiercer existence than +it had ever had. Again, his neglected child, at this rough passage of his life, +put forth by even this rebellious woman, as powerful where he was powerless, +and everything where he was nothing! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand, Madam,” said Mr Dombey, with an angry flush of +triumph, “the spirit of opposition that turned your affections in that +channel, but they have been met, Mrs Dombey; they have been met, and turned +back!” +</p> + +<p> +“The worse for you!” she answered, with her voice and manner still +unchanged. “Ay!” for he turned sharply when she said so, +“what is the worse for me, is twenty million times the worse for you. +Heed that, if you heed nothing else.” +</p> + +<p> +The arch of diamonds spanning her dark hair, flashed and glittered like a +starry bridge. There was no warning in them, or they would have turned as dull +and dim as tarnished honour. Carker still sat and listened, with his eyes cast +down. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs Dombey,” he observed; “I +direct.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Carker,” said Mr Dombey, speaking with knitted brows, and after a +moment’s consideration, “Mrs Dombey is so forgetful of herself and +me in all this, and places me in a position so unsuited to my character, that I +must bring this state of matters to a close.” +</p> + +<p> +“Release me, then,” said Edith, immoveable in voice, in look, and +bearing, as she had been throughout, “from the chain by which I am bound. +Let me go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam?” exclaimed Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Loose me. Set me free!” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam?” he repeated, “Mrs Dombey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him,” said Edith, addressing her proud face to Carker, +“that I wish for a separation between us. That there had better be one. +That I recommend it to him. Tell him it may take place on his own +terms—his wealth is nothing to me—but that it cannot be too +soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heaven, Mrs Dombey!” said her husband, with supreme +amazement, “do you imagine it possible that I could ever listen to such a +proposition? Do you know who I am, Madam? Do you know what I represent? Did you +ever hear of Dombey and Son? People to say that Mr Dombey—Mr +Dombey!—was separated from his wife! Common people to talk of Mr Dombey +and his domestic affairs! Do you seriously think, Mrs Dombey, that I would +permit my name to be banded about in such connexion? Pooh, pooh, Madam! Fie for +shame! You’re absurd.” Mr Dombey absolutely laughed. +</p> + +<p> +But not as she did. She had better have been dead than laugh as she did, in +reply, with her intent look fixed upon him. He had better have been dead, than +sitting there, in his magnificence, to hear her. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mrs Dombey,” he resumed. “No, Madam. There is no +possibility of separation between you and me, and therefore I the more advise +you to be awakened to a sense of duty. And, Carker, as I was about to say to +you—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Carker, who had sat and listened all this time, now raised his eyes, in +which there was a bright unusual light. +</p> + +<p> +“—As I was about to say to you,” resumed Mr Dombey, “I +must beg you, now that matters have come to this, to inform Mrs Dombey, that it +is not the rule of my life to allow myself to be thwarted by +anybody—anybody, Carker—or to suffer anybody to be paraded as a +stronger motive for obedience in those who owe obedience to me than I am my +self. The mention that has been made of my daughter, and the use that is made +of my daughter, in opposition to me, are unnatural. Whether my daughter is in +actual concert with Mrs Dombey, I do not know, and do not care; but after what +Mrs Dombey has said today, and my daughter has heard today, I beg you to make +known to Mrs Dombey, that if she continues to make this house the scene of +contention it has become, I shall consider my daughter responsible in some +degree, on that lady’s own avowal, and shall visit her with my severe +displeasure. Mrs Dombey has asked ‘whether it is not enough,’ that +she had done this and that. You will please to answer no, it is not +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“A moment!” cried Carker, interposing, “permit me! painful as +my position is, at the best, and unusually painful in seeming to entertain a +different opinion from you,” addressing Mr Dombey, “I must ask, had +you not better reconsider the question of a separation. I know how incompatible +it appears with your high public position, and I know how determined you are +when you give Mrs Dombey to understand”—the light in his eyes fell +upon her as he separated his words each from each, with the distinctness of so +many bells—“that nothing but death can ever part you. Nothing else. +But when you consider that Mrs Dombey, by living in this house, and making it +as you have said, a scene of contention, not only has her part in that +contention, but compromises Miss Dombey every day (for I know how determined +you are), will you not relieve her from a continual irritation of spirit, and a +continual sense of being unjust to another, almost intolerable? Does this not +seem like—I do not say it is—sacrificing Mrs Dombey to the +preservation of your preeminent and unassailable position?” +</p> + +<p> +Again the light in his eyes fell upon her, as she stood looking at her husband: +now with an extraordinary and awful smile upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” said Carker, with an unusual and indefinable taunt in +his air, “you mistook my position, when you honoured me with the +negotiations in which I have been engaged here”—with a motion of +his hand towards Mrs Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Sir, not at all,” returned the other haughtily. +“You were employed—” +</p> + +<p> +“Being an inferior person, for the humiliation of Mrs Dombey. I forgot. +Oh, yes, it was expressly understood!” said Carker. “I beg your +pardon!” +</p> + +<p> +As he bent his head to Mr Dombey, with an air of deference that accorded ill +with his words, though they were humbly spoken, he moved it round towards her, +and kept his watching eyes that way. +</p> + +<p> +She had better have turned hideous and dropped dead, than have stood up with +such a smile upon her face, in such a fallen spirit’s majesty of scorn +and beauty. She lifted her hand to the tiara of bright jewels radiant on her +head, and, plucking it off with a force that dragged and strained her rich +black hair with heedless cruelty, and brought it tumbling wildly on her +shoulders, cast the gems upon the ground. From each arm, she unclasped a +diamond bracelet, flung it down, and trod upon the glittering heap. Without a +word, without a shadow on the fire of her bright eye, without abatement of her +awful smile, she looked on Mr Dombey to the last, in moving to the door; and +left him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Her father went out alone, that evening, and Florence issuing from her own +chamber soon afterwards, went about the house in search of Edith, but +unavailingly. She was in her own rooms, where Florence had long ceased to go, +and did not dare to venture now, lest she should unconsciously engender new +trouble. Still Florence hoping to meet her before going to bed, changed from +room to room, and wandered through the house so splendid and so dreary, without +remaining anywhere. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Her invincible repugnance to this man, and perhaps the stealthy act of watching +anyone, which, even under such innocent circumstances, is in a manner guilty +and oppressive, made Florence shake from head to foot. Her blood seemed to run +cold. As soon as she could—for at first she felt an insurmountable dread +of moving—she went quickly to her own room and locked her door; but even +then, shut in with her dog beside her, felt a chill sensation of horror, as if +there were danger brooding somewhere near her. +</p> + +<p> +It invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night. Rising in the morning, +unrefreshed, and with a heavy recollection of the domestic unhappiness of the +preceding day, she sought Edith again in all the rooms, and did so, from time +to time, all the morning. But she remained in her own chamber, and Florence saw +nothing of her. Learning, however, that the projected dinner at home was put +off, Florence thought it likely that she would go out in the evening to fulfil +the engagement she had spoken of; and resolved to try and meet her, then, upon +the staircase. +</p> + +<p> +When the evening had set in, she heard, from the room in which she sat on +purpose, a footstep on the stairs that she thought to be Edith’s. +Hurrying out, and up towards her room, Florence met her immediately, coming +down alone. +</p> + +<p> +What was Florence’s affright and wonder when, at sight of her, with her +tearful face, and outstretched arms, Edith recoiled and shrieked! +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t come near me!” she cried. “Keep away! Let me go +by!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mama!” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +As Florence stood transfixed before the haggard face and staring eyes, she +noted, as in a dream, that Edith spread her hands over them, and shuddering +through all her form, and crouching down against the wall, crawled by her like +some lower animal, sprang up, and fled away. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0607m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Mama?” was her first question. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone out to dinner,” said Mrs Pipchin. +</p> + +<p> +“And Papa?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey is in his own room, Miss Dombey,” said Mrs Pipchin, +“and the best thing you can do, is to take off your things and go to bed +this minute.” This was the sagacious woman’s remedy for all +complaints, particularly lowness of spirits, and inability to sleep; for which +offences, many young victims in the days of the Brighton Castle had been +committed to bed at ten o’clock in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +Without promising obedience, but on the plea of desiring to be very quiet, +Florence disengaged herself, as soon as she could, from the ministration of Mrs +Pipchin and her attendants. Left alone, she thought of what had happened on the +staircase, at first in doubt of its reality; then with tears; then with an +indescribable and terrible alarm, like that she had felt the night before. +</p> + +<p> +She determined not to go to bed until Edith returned, and if she could not +speak to her, at least to be sure that she was safe at home. What indistinct +and shadowy dread moved Florence to this resolution, she did not know, and did +not dare to think. She only knew that until Edith came back, there was no +repose for her aching head or throbbing heart. +</p> + +<p> +The evening deepened into night; midnight came; no Edith. +</p> + +<p> +Florence could not read, or rest a moment. She paced her own room, opened the +door and paced the staircase-gallery outside, looked out of window on the +night, listened to the wind blowing and the rain falling, sat down and watched +the faces in the fire, got up and watched the moon flying like a storm-driven +ship through the sea of clouds. +</p> + +<p> +All the house was gone to bed, except two servants who were waiting the return +of their mistress, downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +One o’clock. The carriages that rumbled in the distance, turned away, or +stopped short, or went past; the silence gradually deepened, and was more and +more rarely broken, save by a rush of wind or sweep of rain. Two o’clock. +No Edith! +</p> + +<p> +Florence, more agitated, paced her room; and paced the gallery outside; and +looked out at the night, blurred and wavy with the raindrops on the glass, and +the tears in her own eyes; and looked up at the hurry in the sky, so different +from the repose below, and yet so tranquil and solitary. Three o’clock! +There was a terror in every ash that dropped out of the fire. No Edith yet. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But now there was some cautious stir in the house; and Florence found that Mrs +Pipchin had been awakened by one of those who sat up, had risen and had gone +down to her father’s door. Stealing lower down the stairs, and observing +what passed, she saw her father come out in his morning gown, and start when he +was told his wife had not come home. He dispatched a messenger to the stables +to inquire whether the coachman was there; and while the man was gone, dressed +himself very hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +The man came back, in great haste, bringing the coachman with him, who said he +had been at home and in bed, since ten o’clock. He had driven his +mistress to her old house in Brook Street, where she had been met by Mr +Carker— +</p> + +<p> +Florence stood upon the very spot where she had seen him coming down. Again she +shivered with the nameless terror of that sight, and had hardly steadiness +enough to hear and understand what followed. +</p> + +<p> +—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. +</p> + +<p> +She saw her father turn white in the face, and heard him ask in a quick, +trembling voice, for Mrs Dombey’s maid. The whole house was roused; for +she was there, in a moment, very pale too, and speaking incoherently. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“But what! what was it?” Florence heard her father demand like a +madman. +</p> + +<p> +“But the inner dressing-room was locked and the key gone.” +</p> + +<p> +Her father seized a candle that was flaming on the ground—someone had put +it down there, and forgotten it—and came running upstairs with such fury, +that Florence, in her fear, had hardly time to fly before him. She heard him +striking in the door, as she ran on, with her hands widely spread, and her hair +streaming, and her face like a distracted person’s, back to her own room. +</p> + +<p> +When the door yielded, and he rushed in, what did he see there? No one knew. +But thrown down in a costly mass upon the ground, was every ornament she had +had, since she had been his wife; every dress she had worn; and everything she +had possessed. This was the room in which he had seen, in yonder mirror, the +proud face discard him. This was the room in which he had wondered, idly, how +these things would look when he should see them next! +</p> + +<p> +Heaping them back into the drawers, and locking them up in a rage of haste, he +saw some papers on the table. The deed of settlement he had executed on their +marriage, and a letter. He read that she was gone. He read that he was +dishonoured. He read that she had fled, upon her shameful wedding-day, with the +man whom he had chosen for her humiliation; and he tore out of the room, and +out of the house, with a frantic idea of finding her yet, at the place to which +she had been taken, and beating all trace of beauty out of the triumphant face +with his bare hand. +</p> + +<p> +Florence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl and bonnet, in a dream of +running through the streets until she found Edith, and then clasping her in her +arms, to save and bring her back. But when she hurried out upon the staircase, +and saw the frightened servants going up and down with lights, and whispering +together, and falling away from her father as he passed down, she awoke to a +sense of her own powerlessness; and hiding in one of the great rooms that had +been made gorgeous for this, felt as if her heart would burst with grief. +</p> + +<p> +Compassion for her father was the first distinct emotion that made head against +the flood of sorrow which overwhelmed her. Her constant nature turned to him in +his distress, as fervently and faithfully, as if, in his prosperity, he had +been the embodiment of that idea which had gradually become so faint and dim. +Although she did not know, otherwise than through the suggestions of a +shapeless fear, the full extent of his calamity, he stood before her, wronged +and deserted; and again her yearning love impelled her to his side. +</p> + +<p> +He was not long away; for Florence was yet weeping in the great room and +nourishing these thoughts, when she heard him come back. He ordered the +servants to set about their ordinary occupations, and went into his own +apartment, where he trod so heavily that she could hear him walking up and down +from end to end. +</p> + +<p> +Yielding at once to the impulse of her affection, timid at all other times, but +bold in its truth to him in his adversity, and undaunted by past repulse, +Florence, dressed as she was, hurried downstairs. As she set her light foot in +the hall, he came out of his room. She hastened towards him unchecked, with her +arms stretched out, and crying “Oh dear, dear Papa!” as if she +would have clasped him round the neck. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She did not sink down at his feet; she did not shut out the sight of him with +her trembling hands; she did not weep; she did not utter one word of reproach. +But she looked at him, and a cry of desolation issued from her heart. For as +she looked, she saw him murdering that fond idea to which she had held in spite +of him. She saw his cruelty, neglect, and hatred dominant above it, and +stamping it down. She saw she had no father upon earth, and ran out, orphaned, +from his house. +</p> + +<p> +Ran out of his house. A moment, and her hand was on the lock, the cry was on +her lips, his face was there, made paler by the yellow candles hastily put down +and guttering away, and by the daylight coming in above the door. Another +moment, and the close darkness of the shut-up house (forgotten to be opened, +though it was long since day) yielded to the unexpected glare and freedom of +the morning; and Florence, with her head bent down to hide her agony of tears, +was in the streets. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap48"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.<br /> +The Flight of Florence</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n 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. +</p> + +<p> +The cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the morning light, the +sight of the blue sky and airy clouds, the vigorous freshness of the day, so +flushed and rosy in its conquest of the night, awakened no responsive feelings +in her so hurt bosom. Somewhere, anywhere, to hide her head! somewhere, +anywhere, for refuge, never more to look upon the place from which she fled! +</p> + +<p> +But there were people going to and fro; there were opening shops, and servants +at the doors of houses; there was the rising clash and roar of the day’s +struggle. Florence saw surprise and curiosity in the faces flitting past her; +saw long shadows coming back upon the pavement; and heard voices that were +strange to her asking her where she went, and what the matter was; and though +these frightened her the more at first, and made her hurry on the faster, they +did her the good service of recalling her in some degree to herself, and +reminding her of the necessity of greater composure. +</p> + +<p> +Where to go? Still somewhere, anywhere! still going on; but where! She thought +of the only other time she had been lost in the wild wilderness of +London—though not lost as now—and went that way. To the home of +Walter’s Uncle. +</p> + +<p> +Checking her sobs, and drying her swollen eyes, and endeavouring to calm the +agitation of her manner, so as to avoid attracting notice, Florence, resolving +to keep to the more quiet streets as long as she could, was going on more +quietly herself, when a familiar little shadow darted past upon the sunny +pavement, stopped short, wheeled about, came close to her, made off again, +bounded round and round her, and Diogenes, panting for breath, and yet making +the street ring with his glad bark, was at her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Di! oh, dear, true, faithful Di, how did you come here? How could I +ever leave you, Di, who would never leave me?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence bent down on the pavement, and laid his rough, old, loving, foolish +head against her breast, and they got up together, and went on together; Di +more off the ground than on it, endeavouring to kiss his mistress flying, +tumbling over and getting up again without the least concern, dashing at big +dogs in a jocose defiance of his species, terrifying with touches of his nose +young housemaids who were cleaning doorsteps, and continually stopping, in the +midst of a thousand extravagances, to look back at Florence, and bark until all +the dogs within hearing answered, and all the dogs who could come out, came out +to stare at him. +</p> + +<p> +With this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the advancing morning, and +the strengthening sunshine, to the City. The roar soon grew more loud, the +passengers more numerous, the shops more busy, until she was carried onward in +a stream of life setting that way, and flowing, indifferently, past marts and +mansions, prisons, churches, market-places, wealth, poverty, good, and evil, +like the broad river side by side with it, awakened from its dreams of rushes, +willows, and green moss, and rolling on, turbid and troubled, among the works +and cares of men, to the deep sea. +</p> + +<p> +At length the quarters of the little Midshipman arose in view. Nearer yet, and +the little Midshipman himself was seen upon his post, intent as ever on his +observations. Nearer yet, and the door stood open, inviting her to enter. +Florence, who had again quickened her pace, as she approached the end of her +journey, ran across the road (closely followed by Diogenes, whom the bustle had +somewhat confused), ran in, and sank upon the threshold of the well-remembered +little parlour. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the fire, making his +morning’s cocoa, with that elegant trifle, his watch, upon the +chimney-piece, for easy reference during the progress of the cookery. Hearing a +footstep and the rustle of a dress, the Captain turned with a palpitating +remembrance of the dreadful Mrs MacStinger, at the instant when Florence made a +motion with her hand towards him, reeled, and fell upon the floor. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, pale as Florence, pale in the very knobs upon his face, raised her +like a baby, and laid her on the same old sofa upon which she had slumbered +long ago. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Heart’s Delight!” said the Captain, looking +intently in her face. “It’s the sweet creetur grow’d a +woman!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +But Florence did not stir. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Finding her insensible to this impressive adjuration also, Captain Cuttle +snatched from his breakfast-table a basin of cold water, and sprinkled some +upon her face. Yielding to the urgency of the case, the Captain then, using his +immense hand with extraordinary gentleness, relieved her of her bonnet, +moistened her lips and forehead, put back her hair, covered her feet with his +own coat which he pulled off for the purpose, patted her hand—so small in +his, that he was struck with wonder when he touched it—and seeing that +her eyelids quivered, and that her lips began to move, continued these +restorative applications with a better heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Cheerily,” said the Captain. “Cheerily! Stand by, my pretty +one, stand by! There! You’re better now. Steady’s the word, and +steady it is. Keep her so! Drink a little drop o’ this here,” said +the Captain. “There you are! What cheer now, my pretty, what cheer +now?” +</p> + +<p> +At this stage of her recovery, Captain Cuttle, with an imperfect association of +a Watch with a Physician’s treatment of a patient, took his own down from +the mantel-shelf, and holding it out on his hook, and taking Florence’s +hand in his, looked steadily from one to the other, as expecting the dial to do +something. +</p> + +<p> +“What cheer, my pretty?” said the Captain. “What cheer now? +You’ve done her some good, my lad, I believe,” said the Captain, +under his breath, and throwing an approving glance upon his watch. “Put +you back half-an-hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the +arternoon, and you’re a watch as can be ekalled by few and excelled by +none. What cheer, my lady lass!” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Cuttle! Is it you?” exclaimed Florence, raising herself a +little. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Walter’s Uncle here?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, pretty?” returned the Captain. “He ain’t been +here this many a long day. He ain’t been heerd on, since he sheered off +arter poor Wal”r. But,” said the Captain, as a quotation, +“Though lost to sight, to memory dear, and England, Home, and +Beauty!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you live here?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lady lass,” returned the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Captain Cuttle!” cried Florence, putting her hands together, +and speaking wildly. “Save me! keep me here! Let no one know where I am! +I’ll tell you what has happened by-and-by, when I can. I have no one in +the world to go to. Do not send me away!” +</p> + +<p> +“Send you away, my lady lass!” exclaimed the Captain. “You, +my Heart’s Delight! Stay a bit! We’ll put up this here deadlight, +and take a double turn on the key!” +</p> + +<p> +With these words, the Captain, using his one hand and his hook with the +greatest dexterity, got out the shutter of the door, put it up, made it all +fast, and locked the door itself. +</p> + +<p> +When he came back to the side of Florence, she took his hand, and kissed it. +The helplessness of the action, the appeal it made to him, the confidence it +expressed, the unspeakable sorrow in her face, the pain of mind she had too +plainly suffered, and was suffering then, his knowledge of her past history, +her present lonely, worn, and unprotected appearance, all so rushed upon the +good Captain together, that he fairly overflowed with compassion and +gentleness. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady lass,” said the Captain, polishing the bridge of his nose +with his arm until it shone like burnished copper, “don’t you say a +word to Ed’ard Cuttle, until such times as you finds yourself a riding +smooth and easy; which won’t be today, nor yet to-morrow. And as to +giving of you up, or reporting where you are, yes verily, and by God’s +help, so I won’t, Church catechism, make a note on!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Florence could do but one thing more to thank him, and to show him how she +trusted in him; and she did it. Clinging to this rough creature as the last +asylum of her bleeding heart, she laid her head upon his honest shoulder, and +clasped him round his neck, and would have kneeled down to bless him, but that +he divined her purpose, and held her up like a true man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle patted Diogenes when he made allusion to him, and Diogenes met +that overture graciously, half-way. During the administration of the +restoratives he had clearly been in two minds whether to fly at the Captain or +to offer him his friendship; and he had expressed that conflict of feeling by +alternate waggings of his tail, and displays of his teeth, with now and then a +growl or so. But by this time, his doubts were all removed. It was plain that +he considered the Captain one of the most amiable of men, and a man whom it was +an honour to a dog to know. +</p> + +<p> +In evidence of these convictions, Diogenes attended on the Captain while he +made some tea and toast, and showed a lively interest in his housekeeping. But +it was in vain for the kind Captain to make such preparations for Florence, who +sorely tried to do some honour to them, but could touch nothing, and could only +weep and weep again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well!” said the compassionate Captain, “arter turning +in, my Heart’s Delight, you’ll get more way upon you. Now, +I’ll serve out your allowance, my lad.” To Diogenes. “And you +shall keep guard on your mistress aloft.” +</p> + +<p> +Diogenes, however, although he had been eyeing his intended breakfast with a +watering mouth and glistening eyes, instead of falling to, ravenously, when it +was put before him, pricked up his ears, darted to the shop-door, and barked +there furiously: burrowing with his head at the bottom, as if he were bent on +mining his way out. +</p> + +<p> +“Can there be anybody there!” asked Florence, in alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If there should be someone listening and watching,” whispered +Florence. “Someone who saw me come—who followed me, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“It ain’t the young woman, lady lass, is it?” said the +Captain, taken with a bright idea. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan?” said Florence, shaking her head. “Ah no! Susan has +been gone from me a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not deserted, I hope?” said the Captain. “Don’t say +that that there young woman’s run, my pretty!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, no!” cried Florence. “She is one of the truest +hearts in the world!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was greatly relieved by this reply, and expressed his satisfaction +by taking off his hard glazed hat, and dabbing his head all over with his +handkerchief, rolled up like a ball, observing several times, with infinite +complacency, and with a beaming countenance, that he know’d it. +</p> + +<p> +“So you’re quiet now, are you, brother?” said the Captain to +Diogenes. “There warn’t nobody there, my lady lass, bless +you!” +</p> + +<p> +Diogenes was not so sure of that. The door still had an attraction for him at +intervals; and he went snuffing about it, and growling to himself, unable to +forget the subject. This incident, coupled with the Captain’s observation +of Florence’s fatigue and faintness, decided him to prepare Sol +Gills’s chamber as a place of retirement for her immediately. He +therefore hastily betook himself to the top of the house, and made the best +arrangement of it that his imagination and his means suggested. +</p> + +<p> +It was very clean already; and the Captain, being an orderly man, and +accustomed to make things ship-shape, converted the bed into a couch, by +covering it all over with a clean white drapery. By a similar contrivance, the +Captain converted the little dressing-table into a species of altar, on which +he set forth two silver teaspoons, a flower-pot, a telescope, his celebrated +watch, a pocket-comb, and a song-book, as a small collection of rarities, that +made a choice appearance. Having darkened the window, and straightened the +pieces of carpet on the floor, the Captain surveyed these preparations with +great delight, and descended to the little parlour again, to bring Florence to +her bower. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing would induce the Captain to believe that it was possible for Florence +to walk upstairs. If he could have got the idea into his head, he would have +considered it an outrageous breach of hospitality to allow her to do so. +Florence was too weak to dispute the point, and the Captain carried her up out +of hand, laid her down, and covered her with a great watch-coat. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady lass!” said the Captain, “you’re as safe here +as if you was at the top of St Paul’s Cathedral, with the ladder cast +off. Sleep is what you want, afore all other things, and may you be able to +show yourself smart with that there balsam for the still small woice of a +wounded mind! When there’s anything you want, my Heart’s Delight, +as this here humble house or town can offer, pass the word to Ed’ard +Cuttle, as’ll stand off and on outside that door, and that there man will +wibrate with joy.” The Captain concluded by kissing the hand that +Florence stretched out to him, with the chivalry of any old knight-errant, and +walking on tiptoe out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Descending to the little parlour, Captain Cuttle, after holding a hasty council +with himself, decided to open the shop-door for a few minutes, and satisfy +himself that now, at all events, there was no one loitering about it. +Accordingly he set it open, and stood upon the threshold, keeping a bright +look-out, and sweeping the whole street with his spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“How de do, Captain Gills?” said a voice beside him. The Captain, +looking down, found that he had been boarded by Mr Toots while sweeping the +horizon. +</p> + +<p> +“How are, you, my lad?” replied the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m pretty well, thank’ee, Captain Gills,” said +Mr Toots. “You know I’m never quite what I could wish to be, now. I +don’t expect that I ever shall be any more.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots never approached any nearer than this to the great theme of his life, +when in conversation with Captain Cuttle, on account of the agreement between +them. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “if I could have the pleasure +of a word with you, it’s—it’s rather particular.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you see, my lad,” replied the Captain, leading the way into +the parlour, “I ain’t what you may call exactly free this morning; +and therefore if you can clap on a bit, I should take it kindly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Captain Gills,” replied Mr Toots, who seldom had any +notion of the Captain’s meaning. “To clap on, is exactly what I +could wish to do. Naturally.” +</p> + +<p> +“If so be, my lad,” returned the Captain. “Do it!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was so impressed by the possession of his tremendous +secret—by the fact of Miss Dombey being at that moment under his roof, +while the innocent and unconscious Toots sat opposite to him—that a +perspiration broke out on his forehead, and he found it impossible, while +slowly drying the same, glazed hat in hand, to keep his eyes off Mr +Toots’s face. Mr Toots, who himself appeared to have some secret reasons +for being in a nervous state, was so unspeakably disconcerted by the +Captain’s stare, that after looking at him vacantly for some time in +silence, and shifting uneasily on his chair, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Captain Gills, but you don’t happen to see +anything particular in me, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lad,” returned the Captain. “No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you know,” said Mr Toots with a chuckle, “I know +I’m wasting away. You needn’t at all mind alluding to that. +I—I should like it. Burgess and Co. have altered my measure, I’m in +that state of thinness. It’s a gratification to me. I—I’m +glad of it. I—I’d a great deal rather go into a decline, if I +could. I’m a mere brute you know, grazing upon the surface of the earth, +Captain Gills.” +</p> + +<p> +The more Mr Toots went on in this way, the more the Captain was weighed down by +his secret, and stared at him. What with this cause of uneasiness, and his +desire to get rid of Mr Toots, the Captain was in such a scared and strange +condition, indeed, that if he had been in conversation with a ghost, he could +hardly have evinced greater discomposure. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Carry on, my lad!” said the Captain, in an admonitory voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots. “Perfectly true! +Happening to be this way early this morning (an hour or so ago), and finding +the door shut—” +</p> + +<p> +“What! were you waiting there, brother?” demanded the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Captain Gills,” returned Mr Toots. “I +didn’t stop a moment. I thought you were out. But the person +said—by the bye, you don’t keep a dog, you, Captain Gills?” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure,” said Mr Toots, “that’s exactly what I +said. I knew you didn’t. There is a dog, Captain Gills, connected +with—but excuse me. That’s forbidden ground.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain stared at Mr Toots until he seemed to swell to twice his natural +size; and again the perspiration broke out on the Captain’s forehead, +when he thought of Diogenes taking it into his head to come down and make a +third in the parlour. +</p> + +<p> +“The person said,” continued Mr Toots, “that he had heard a +dog barking in the shop: which I knew couldn’t be, and I told him so. But +he was as positive as if he had seen the dog.” +</p> + +<p> +“What person, my lad?” inquired the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you see there it is, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, with a +perceptible increase in the nervousness of his manner. “It’s not +for me to say what may have taken place, or what may not have taken place. +Indeed, I don’t know. I get mixed up with all sorts of things that I +don’t quite understand, and I think there’s something rather weak +in my—in my head, in short.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain nodded his own, as a mark of assent. +</p> + +<p> +“But the person said, as we were walking away,” continued Mr Toots, +“that you knew what, under existing circumstances, might occur—he +said ‘might,’ very strongly—and that if you were requested to +prepare yourself, you would, no doubt, come prepared.” +</p> + +<p> +“Person, my lad” the Captain repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what person, I’m sure, Captain Gills,” +replied Mr Toots, “I haven’t the least idea. But coming to the +door, I found him waiting there; and he said was I coming back again, and I +said yes; and he said did I know you, and I said, yes, I had the pleasure of +your acquaintance—you had given me the pleasure of your acquaintance, +after some persuasion; and he said, if that was the case, would I say to you +what I have said, about existing circumstances and coming prepared, and as soon +as ever I saw you, would I ask you to step round the corner, if it was only for +one minute, on most important business, to Mr Brogley’s the +Broker’s. Now, I tell you what, Captain Gills—whatever it is, I am +convinced it’s very important; and if you like to step round, now, +I’ll wait here till you come back.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, divided between his fear of compromising Florence in some way by +not going, and his horror of leaving Mr Toots in possession of the house with a +chance of finding out the secret, was a spectacle of mental disturbance that +even Mr Toots could not be blind to. But that young gentleman, considering his +nautical friend as merely in a state of preparation for the interview he was +going to have, was quite satisfied, and did not review his own discreet conduct +without chuckle. +</p> + +<p> +At length the Captain decided, as the lesser of two evils, to run round to +Brogley’s the Broker’s: previously locking the door that +communicated with the upper part of the house, and putting the key in his +pocket. “If so be,” said the Captain to Mr Toots, with not a little +shame and hesitation, “as you’ll excuse my doing of it, +brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” returned Mr Toots, “whatever you do, is +satisfactory to me.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain thanked him heartily, and promising to come back in less than five +minutes, went out in quest of the person who had entrusted Mr Toots with this +mysterious message. Poor Mr Toots, left to himself, lay down upon the sofa, +little thinking who had reclined there last, and, gazing up at the skylight and +resigning himself to visions of Miss Dombey, lost all heed of time and place. +</p> + +<p> +It was as well that he did so; for although the Captain was not gone long, he +was gone much longer than he had proposed. When he came back, he was very pale +indeed, and greatly agitated, and even looked as if he had been shedding tears. +He seemed to have lost the faculty of speech, until he had been to the cupboard +and taken a dram of rum from the case-bottle, when he fetched a deep breath, +and sat down in a chair with his hand before his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Toots, kindly, “I hope and trust +there’s nothing wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee, my lad, not a bit,” said the Captain. “Quite +contrairy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have the appearance of being overcome, Captain Gills,” +observed Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my lad, I am took aback,” the Captain admitted. “I +am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything I can do, Captain Gills?” inquired Mr Toots. +“If there is, make use of me.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain removed his hand from his face, looked at him with a remarkable +expression of pity and tenderness, and took him by the hand, and shook it hard. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank’ee,” said the Captain. “Nothing. Only +I’ll take it as a favour if you’ll part company for the present. I +believe, brother,” wringing his hand again, “that, after +Wal”r, and on a different model, you’re as good a lad as ever +stepped.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills,” returned Mr Toots, giving +the Captain’s hand a preliminary slap before shaking it again, +“it’s delightful to me to possess your good opinion. +Thank’ee.” +</p> + +<p> +“And bear a hand and cheer up,” said the Captain, patting him on +the back. “What! There’s more than one sweet creetur in the +world!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to me, Captain Gills,” replied Mr Toots gravely. “Not to +me, I assure you. The state of my feelings towards Miss Dombey is of that +unspeakable description, that my heart is a desert island, and she lives in it +alone. I’m getting more used up every day, and I’m proud to be so. +If you could see my legs when I take my boots off, you’d form some idea +of what unrequited affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I don’t +take it, for I don’t wish to have any tone whatever given to my +constitution. I’d rather not. This, however, is forbidden ground. Captain +Gills, goodbye!” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of Mr Toots’s farewell, +locked the door behind him, and shaking his head with the same remarkable +expression of pity and tenderness as he had regarded him with before, went up +to see if Florence wanted him. +</p> + +<p> +There was an entire change in the Captain’s face as he went upstairs. He +wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and he polished the bridge of his nose +with his sleeve as he had done already that morning, but his face was +absolutely changed. Now, he might have been thought supremely happy; now, he +might have been thought sad; but the kind of gravity that sat upon his features +was quite new to them, and was as great an improvement to them as if they had +undergone some sublimating process. +</p> + +<p> +He knocked softly, with his hook, at Florence’s door, twice or thrice; +but, receiving no answer, ventured first to peep in, and then to enter: +emboldened to take the latter step, perhaps, by the familiar recognition of +Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side of her couch, wagged his +tail, and winked his eyes at the Captain, without being at the trouble of +getting up. +</p> + +<p> +She was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her sleep; and Captain Cuttle, with a +perfect awe of her youth, and beauty, and her sorrow, raised her head, and +adjusted the coat that covered her, where it had fallen off, and darkened the +window a little more that she might sleep on, and crept out again, and took his +post of watch upon the stairs. All this, with a touch and tread as light as +Florence’s own. +</p> + +<p> +Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not easy of decision, which is +the more beautiful evidence of the Almighty’s goodness—the delicate +fingers that are formed for sensitiveness and sympathy of touch, and made to +minister to pain and grief, or the rough hard Captain Cuttle hand, that the +heart teaches, guides, and softens in a moment! +</p> + +<p> +Florence slept upon her couch, forgetful of her homelessness and orphanage, and +Captain Cuttle watched upon the stairs. A louder sob or moan than usual, +brought him sometimes to her door; but by degrees she slept more peacefully, +and the Captain’s watch was undisturbed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap49"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.<br /> +The Midshipman makes a Discovery</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was +long before Florence awoke. The day was in its prime, the day was in its wane, +and still, uneasy in mind and body, she slept on; unconscious of her strange +bed, of the noise and turmoil in the street, and of the light that shone +outside the shaded window. Perfect unconsciousness of what had happened in the +home that existed no more, even the deep slumber of exhaustion could not +produce. Some undefined and mournful recollection of it, dozing uneasily but +never sleeping, pervaded all her rest. A dull sorrow, like a half-lulled sense +of pain, was always present to her; and her pale cheek was oftener wet with +tears than the honest Captain, softly putting in his head from time to time at +the half-closed door, could have desired to see it. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was getting low in the west, and, glancing out of a red mist, pierced +with its rays opposite loopholes and pieces of fretwork in the spires of city +churches, as if with golden arrows that struck through and through +them—and far away athwart the river and its flat banks, it was gleaming +like a path of fire—and out at sea it was irradiating sails of +ships—and, looked towards, from quiet churchyards, upon hill-tops in the +country, it was steeping distant prospects in a flush and glow that seemed to +mingle earth and sky together in one glorious suffusion—when Florence, +opening her heavy eyes, lay at first, looking without interest or recognition +at the unfamiliar walls around her, and listening in the same regardless manner +to the noises in the street. But presently she started up upon her couch, gazed +round with a surprised and vacant look, and recollected all. +</p> + +<p> +“My pretty,” said the Captain, knocking at the door, “what +cheer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friend,” cried Florence, hurrying to him, “is it +you?” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain felt so much pride in the name, and was so pleased by the gleam of +pleasure in her face, when she saw him, that he kissed his hook, by way of +reply, in speechless gratification. +</p> + +<p> +“What cheer, bright di’mond?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“I have surely slept very long,” returned Florence. “When did +I come here? Yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“This here blessed day, my lady lass,” replied the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Has there been no night? Is it still day?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Getting on for evening now, my pretty,” said the Captain, drawing +back the curtain of the window. “See!” +</p> + +<p> +Florence, with her hand upon the Captain’s arm, so sorrowful and timid, +and the Captain with his rough face and burly figure, so quietly protective of +her, stood in the rosy light of the bright evening sky, without saying a word. +However strange the form of speech into which he might have fashioned the +feeling, if he had had to give it utterance, the Captain felt, as sensibly as +the most eloquent of men could have done, that there was something in the +tranquil time and in its softened beauty that would make the wounded heart of +Florence overflow; and that it was better that such tears should have their +way. So not a word spake Captain Cuttle. But when he felt his arm clasped +closer, and when he felt the lonely head come nearer to it, and lay itself +against his homely coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it gently with his rugged +hand, and understood it, and was understood. +</p> + +<p> +“Better now, my pretty!” said the Captain. “Cheerily, +cheerily, I’ll go down below, and get some dinner ready. Will you come +down of your own self, arterwards, pretty, or shall Ed’ard Cuttle come +and fetch you?” +</p> + +<p> +As Florence assured him that she was quite able to walk downstairs, the +Captain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in permitting it, +left her to do so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at the fire in the +little parlour. To achieve his cookery with the greater skill, he pulled off +his coat, tucked up his wristbands, and put on his glazed hat, without which +assistant he never applied himself to any nice or difficult undertaking. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight; she was ashamed and afraid of it; +but it moved her to no anger against him. Homeless and fatherless, she forgave +him everything; hardly thought that she had need to forgive him, or that she +did; but she fled from the idea of him as she had fled from the reality, and he +was utterly gone and lost. There was no such Being in the world. +</p> + +<p> +What to do, or where to live, Florence—poor, inexperienced +girl!—could not yet consider. She had indistinct dreams of finding, a +long way off, some little sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, +and to whom, under some feigned name, she might attach herself, and who would +grow up in their happy home, and marry, and be good to their old governess, and +perhaps entrust her, in time, with the education of their own daughters. And +she thought how strange and sorrowful it would be, thus to become a grey-haired +woman, carrying her secret to the grave, when Florence Dombey was forgotten. +But it was all dim and clouded to her now. She only knew that she had no Father +upon earth, and she said so, many times, with her suppliant head hidden from +all, but her Father who was in Heaven. +</p> + +<p> +Her little stock of money amounted to but a few guineas. With a part of this, +it would be necessary to buy some clothes, for she had none but those she wore. +She was too desolate to think how soon her money would be gone—too much a +child in worldly matters to be greatly troubled on that score yet, even if her +other trouble had been less. She tried to calm her thoughts and stay her tears; +to quiet the hurry in her throbbing head, and bring herself to believe that +what had happened were but the events of a few hours ago, instead of weeks or +months, as they appeared; and went down to her kind protector. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain had spread the cloth with great care, and was making some egg-sauce +in a little saucepan: basting the fowl from time to time during the process +with a strong interest, as it turned and browned on a string before the fire. +Having propped Florence up with cushions on the sofa, which was already wheeled +into a warm corner for her greater comfort, the Captain pursued his cooking +with extraordinary skill, making hot gravy in a second little saucepan, boiling +a handful of potatoes in a third, never forgetting the egg-sauce in the first, +and making an impartial round of basting and stirring with the most useful of +spoons every minute. Besides these cares, the Captain had to keep his eye on a +diminutive frying-pan, in which some sausages were hissing and bubbling in a +most musical manner; and there was never such a radiant cook as the Captain +looked, in the height and heat of these functions: it being impossible to say +whether his face or his glazed hat shone the brighter. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner being at length quite ready, Captain Cuttle dished and served it up, +with no less dexterity than he had cooked it. He then dressed for dinner, by +taking off his glazed hat and putting on his coat. That done, he wheeled the +table close against Florence on the sofa, said grace, unscrewed his hook, +screwed his fork into its place, and did the honours of the table. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady lass,” said the Captain, “cheer up, and try to eat a +deal. Stand by, my deary! Liver wing it is. Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And +potato!” all which the Captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and +pouring hot gravy on the whole with the useful spoon, set before his cherished +guest. +</p> + +<p> +“The whole row o’ dead lights is up, for’ard, lady +lass,” observed the Captain, encouragingly, “and everythink is made +snug. Try and pick a bit, my pretty. If Wal”r was here—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! If I had him for my brother now!” cried Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t! don’t take on, my pretty!” said the Captain, +“awast, to obleege me! He was your nat’ral born friend like, +warn’t he, Pet?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence had no words to answer with. She only said, “Oh, dear, dear +Paul! oh, Walter!” +</p> + +<p> +“The wery planks she walked on,” murmured the Captain, looking at +her drooping face, “was as high esteemed by Wal”r, as the water +brooks is by the hart which never rejices! I see him now, the wery day as he +was rated on them Dombey books, a speaking of her with his face a glistening +with doo—leastways with his modest sentiments—like a new blowed +rose, at dinner. Well, well! If our poor Wal”r was here, my lady +lass—or if he could be—for he’s drownded, ain’t +he?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; drownded,” said the Captain, soothingly; “as I was +saying, if he could be here he’d beg and pray of you, my precious, to +pick a leetle bit, with a look-out for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold +your own, my lady lass, as if it was for Wal”r’s sake, and lay your +pretty head to the wind.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r was a trim lad, warn’t he, precious?” said the +Captain, after sitting for some time silently rubbing his chin, with his eyes +fixed upon her, “and a brave lad, and a good lad?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence tearfully assented. +</p> + +<p> +“And he’s drownded, Beauty, ain’t he?” said the +Captain, in a soothing voice. +</p> + +<p> +Florence could not but assent again. +</p> + +<p> +“He was older than you, my lady lass,” pursued the Captain, +“but you was like two children together, at first; wam’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence answered “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Wal”r’s drownded,” said the Captain. +“Ain’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +The repetition of this inquiry was a curious source of consolation, but it +seemed to be one to Captain Cuttle, for he came back to it again and again. +Florence, fain to push from her her untasted dinner, and to lie back on her +sofa, gave him her hand, feeling that she had disappointed him, though truly +wishing to have pleased him after all his trouble, but he held it in his own +(which shook as he held it), and appearing to have quite forgotten all about +the dinner and her want of appetite, went on growling at intervals, in a +ruminating tone of sympathy, “Poor Wal”r. Ay, ay! Drownded. +Ain’t he?” And always waited for her answer, in which the great +point of these singular reflections appeared to consist. +</p> + +<p> +The fowl and sausages were cold, and the gravy and the egg-sauce stagnant, +before the Captain remembered that they were on the board, and fell to with the +assistance of Diogenes, whose united efforts quickly dispatched the banquet. +The Captain’s delight and wonder at the quiet housewifery of Florence in +assisting to clear the table, arrange the parlour, and sweep up the +hearth—only to be equalled by the fervency of his protest when she began +to assist him—were gradually raised to that degree, that at last he could +not choose but do nothing himself, and stand looking at her as if she were some +Fairy, daintily performing these offices for him; the red rim on his forehead +glowing again, in his unspeakable admiration. +</p> + +<p> +But when Florence, taking down his pipe from the mantel-shelf gave it into his +hand, and entreated him to smoke it, the good Captain was so bewildered by her +attention that he held it as if he had never held a pipe, in all his life. +Likewise, when Florence, looking into the little cupboard, took out the +case-bottle and mixed a perfect glass of grog for him, unasked, and set it at +his elbow, his ruddy nose turned pale, he felt himself so graced and honoured. +When he had filled his pipe in an absolute reverie of satisfaction, Florence +lighted it for him—the Captain having no power to object, or to prevent +her—and resuming her place on the old sofa, looked at him with a smile so +loving and so grateful, a smile that showed him so plainly how her forlorn +heart turned to him, as her face did, through grief, that the smoke of the pipe +got into the Captain’s throat and made him cough, and got into the +Captain’s eyes, and made them blink and water. +</p> + +<p> +The manner in which the Captain tried to make believe that the cause of these +effects lay hidden in the pipe itself, and the way in which he looked into the +bowl for it, and not finding it there, pretended to blow it out of the stem, +was wonderfully pleasant. The pipe soon getting into better condition, he fell +into that state of repose becoming a good smoker; but sat with his eyes fixed +on Florence, and, with a beaming placidity not to be described, and stopping +every now and then to discharge a little cloud from his lips, slowly puffed it +forth, as if it were a scroll coming out of his mouth, bearing the legend +“Poor Wal”r, ay, ay. Drownded, ain’t he?” after which +he would resume his smoking with infinite gentleness. +</p> + +<p> +Unlike as they were externally—and there could scarcely be a more decided +contrast than between Florence in her delicate youth and beauty, and Captain +Cuttle with his knobby face, his great broad weather-beaten person, and his +gruff voice—in simple innocence of the world’s ways and the +world’s perplexities and dangers, they were nearly on a level. No child +could have surpassed Captain Cuttle in inexperience of everything but wind and +weather; in simplicity, credulity, and generous trustfulness. Faith, hope, and +charity, shared his whole nature among them. An odd sort of romance, perfectly +unimaginative, yet perfectly unreal, and subject to no considerations of +worldly prudence or practicability, was the only partner they had in his +character. As the Captain sat, and smoked, and looked at Florence, God knows +what impossible pictures, in which she was the principal figure, presented +themselves to his mind. Equally vague and uncertain, though not so sanguine, +were her own thoughts of the life before her; and even as her tears made +prismatic colours in the light she gazed at, so, through her new and heavy +grief, she already saw a rainbow faintly shining in the far-off sky. A +wandering princess and a good monster in a storybook might have sat by the +fireside, and talked as Captain Cuttle and poor Florence talked—and not +have looked very much unlike them. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was not troubled with the faintest idea of any difficulty in +retaining Florence, or of any responsibility thereby incurred. Having put up +the shutters and locked the door, he was quite satisfied on this head. If she +had been a Ward in Chancery, it would have made no difference at all to Captain +Cuttle. He was the last man in the world to be troubled by any such +considerations. +</p> + +<p> +So the Captain smoked his pipe very comfortably, and Florence and he meditated +after their own manner. When the pipe was out, they had some tea; and then +Florence entreated him to take her to some neighbouring shop, where she could +buy the few necessaries she immediately wanted. It being quite dark, the +Captain consented: peeping carefully out first, as he had been wont to do in +his time of hiding from Mrs MacStinger; and arming himself with his large +stick, in case of an appeal to arms being rendered necessary by any unforeseen +circumstance. +</p> + +<p> +The pride Captain Cuttle had, in giving his arm to Florence, and escorting her +some two or three hundred yards, keeping a bright look-out all the time, and +attracting the attention of everyone who passed them, by his great vigilance +and numerous precautions, was extreme. Arrived at the shop, the Captain felt it +a point of delicacy to retire during the making of the purchases, as they were +to consist of wearing apparel; but he previously deposited his tin canister on +the counter, and informing the young lady of the establishment that it +contained fourteen pound two, requested her, in case that amount of property +should not be sufficient to defray the expenses of his niece’s little +outfit—at the word “niece,” he bestowed a most significant +look on Florence, accompanied with pantomime, expressive of sagacity and +mystery—to have the goodness to “sing out,” and he would make +up the difference from his pocket. Casually consulting his big watch, as a deep +means of dazzling the establishment, and impressing it with a sense of +property, the Captain then kissed his hook to his niece, and retired outside +the window, where it was a choice sight to see his great face looking in from +time to time, among the silks and ribbons, with an obvious misgiving that +Florence had been spirited away by a back door. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“May I put it back in its usual place,” said Florence, “and +keep it there?” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was not at all gratified by this proposal, but he answered, +“Ay, ay, put it anywheres, my lady lass, so long as you know where to +find it again. It ain’t o’ no use to me,” said the Captain. +“I wonder I haven’t chucked it away afore now. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain was quite disheartened for the moment, but he revived at the first +touch of Florence’s arm, and they returned with the same precautions as +they had come; the Captain opening the door of the little Midshipman’s +berth, and diving in, with a suddenness which his great practice only could +have taught him. During Florence’s slumber in the morning, he had engaged +the daughter of an elderly lady who usually sat under a blue umbrella in +Leadenhall Market, selling poultry, to come and put her room in order, and +render her any little services she required; and this damsel now appearing, +Florence found everything about her as convenient and orderly, if not as +handsome, as in the terrible dream she had once called Home. +</p> + +<p> +When they were alone again, the Captain insisted on her eating a slice of dry +toast, and drinking a glass of spiced negus (which he made to perfection); and, +encouraging her with every kind word and inconsequential quotation he could +possibly think of, led her upstairs to her bedroom. But he too had something on +his mind, and was not easy in his manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, dear heart,” said Captain Cuttle to her at her +chamber-door. +</p> + +<p> +Florence raised her lips to his face, and kissed him. +</p> + +<p> +At any other time the Captain would have been overbalanced by such a token of +her affection and gratitude; but now, although he was very sensible of it, he +looked in her face with even more uneasiness than he had testified before, and +seemed unwilling to leave her. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Wal”r!” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor, poor Walter!” sighed Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Drownded, ain’t he?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +Florence shook her head, and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, my lady lass!” said Captain Cuttle, putting out his +hand. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you, dear, kind friend!” +</p> + +<p> +But the Captain lingered still. +</p> + +<p> +“Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuttle?” said Florence, +easily alarmed in her then state of mind. “Have you anything to tell +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“To tell you, lady lass!” replied the Captain, meeting her eyes in +confusion. “No, no; what should I have to tell you, pretty! You +don’t expect as I’ve got anything good to tell you, sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Florence, shaking her head. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain looked at her wistfully, and repeated “No,”— +still lingering, and still showing embarrassment. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Wal”r!” said the Captain. “My Wal”r, as I +used to call you! Old Sol Gills’s nevy! Welcome to all as knowed you, as +the flowers in May! Where are you got to, brave boy? Drownded, ain’t +he?” +</p> + +<p> +Concluding his apostrophe with this abrupt appeal to Florence, the Captain bade +her good-night, and descended the stairs, while Florence remained at the top, +holding the candle out to light him down. He was lost in the obscurity, and, +judging from the sound of his receding footsteps, was in the act of turning +into the little parlour, when his head and shoulders unexpectedly emerged +again, as from the deep, apparently for no other purpose than to repeat, +“Drownded, ain’t he, pretty?” For when he had said that in a +tone of tender condolence, he disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Florence was very sorry that she should unwittingly, though naturally, have +awakened these associations in the mind of her protector, by taking refuge +there; and sitting down before the little table where the Captain had arranged +the telescope and song-book, and those other rarities, thought of Walter, and +of all that was connected with him in the past, until she could have almost +wished to lie down on her bed and fade away. But in her lonely yearning to the +dead whom she had loved, no thought of home—no possibility of going +back—no presentation of it as yet existing, or as sheltering her +father—once entered her thoughts. She had seen the murder done. In the +last lingering natural aspect in which she had cherished him through so much, +he had been torn out of her heart, defaced, and slain. The thought of it was so +appalling to her, that she covered her eyes, and shrunk trembling from the +least remembrance of the deed, or of the cruel hand that did it. If her fond +heart could have held his image after that, it must have broken; but it could +not; and the void was filled with a wild dread that fled from all confronting +with its shattered fragments—with such a dread as could have risen out of +nothing but the depths of such a love, so wronged. +</p> + +<p> +She dared not look into the glass; for the sight of the darkening mark upon her +bosom made her afraid of herself, as if she bore about her something wicked. +She covered it up, with a hasty, faltering hand, and in the dark; and laid her +weary head down, weeping. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain did not go to bed for a long time. He walked to and fro in the shop +and in the little parlour, for a full hour, and, appearing to have composed +himself by that exercise, sat down with a grave and thoughtful face, and read +out of a Prayer-book the forms of prayer appointed to be used at sea. These +were not easily disposed of; the good Captain being a mighty slow, gruff +reader, and frequently stopping at a hard word to give himself such +encouragement as “Now, my lad! With a will!” or, “Steady, +Ed’ard Cuttle, steady!” which had a great effect in helping him out +of any difficulty. Moreover, his spectacles greatly interfered with his powers +of vision. But notwithstanding these drawbacks, the Captain, being heartily in +earnest, read the service to the very last line, and with genuine feeling too; +and approving of it very much when he had done, turned in, under the counter +(but not before he had been upstairs, and listened at Florence’s door), +with a serene breast, and a most benevolent visage. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain turned out several times in the course of the night, to assure +himself that his charge was resting quietly; and once, at daybreak, found that +she was awake: for she called to know if it were he, on hearing footsteps near +her door. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lady lass,” replied the Captain, in a growling whisper. +“Are you all right, di’mond?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence thanked him, and said “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain could not lose so favourable an opportunity of applying his mouth +to the keyhole, and calling through it, like a hoarse breeze, “Poor +Wal”r! Drownded, ain’t he?” after which he withdrew, and +turning in again, slept till seven o’clock. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was he free from his uneasy and embarrassed manner all that day; though +Florence, being busy with her needle in the little parlour, was more calm and +tranquil than she had been on the day preceding. Almost always when she raised +her eyes from her work, she observed the captain looking at her, and +thoughtfully stroking his chin; and he so often hitched his arm-chair close to +her, as if he were going to say something very confidential, and hitched it +away again, as not being able to make up his mind how to begin, that in the +course of the day he cruised completely round the parlour in that frail bark, +and more than once went ashore against the wainscot or the closet door, in a +very distressed condition. +</p> + +<p> +It was not until the twilight that Captain Cuttle, fairly dropping anchor, at +last, by the side of Florence, began to talk at all connectedly. But when the +light of the fire was shining on the walls and ceiling of the little room, and +on the tea-board and the cups and saucers that were ranged upon the table, and +on her calm face turned towards the flame, and reflecting it in the tears that +filled her eyes, the Captain broke a long silence thus: +</p> + +<p> +“You never was at sea, my own?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said the Captain, reverentially; “it’s a almighty +element. There’s wonders in the deep, my pretty. Think on it when the +winds is roaring and the waves is rowling. Think on it when the stormy nights +is so pitch dark,” said the Captain, solemnly holding up his hook, +“as you can’t see your hand afore you, excepting when the wiwid +lightning reweals the same; and when you drive, drive, drive through the storm +and dark, as if you was a driving, head on, to the world without end, evermore, +amen, and when found making a note of. Them’s the times, my beauty, when +a man may say to his messmate (previously a overhauling of the wollume), +‘A stiff nor’wester’s blowing, Bill; hark, don’t you +hear it roar now! Lord help ’em, how I pitys all unhappy folks ashore +now!’” Which quotation, as particularly applicable to the terrors +of the ocean, the Captain delivered in a most impressive manner, concluding +with a sonorous “Stand by!” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you ever in a dreadful storm?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“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 ain’t of myself as I was a +meaning to speak. Our dear boy,” drawing closer to her, +“Wal”r, darling, as was drownded.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain spoke in such a trembling voice, and looked at Florence with a face +so pale and agitated, that she clung to his hand in affright. +</p> + +<p> +“Your face is changed,” cried Florence. “You are altered in a +moment. What is it? Dear Captain Cuttle, it turns me cold to see you!” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Lady lass,” returned the Captain, supporting her with his +hand, “don’t be took aback. No, no! All’s well, all’s +well, my dear. As I was a +saying—Wal”r—he’s—he’s drownded. +Ain’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence looked at him intently; her colour came and went; and she laid her +hand upon her breast. +</p> + +<p> +“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 given 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing there, my beauty,” said the Captain. +“Don’t look there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain murmured something about its being dull that way, and about the +fire being cheerful. He drew the door ajar, which had been standing open until +now, and resumed his seat. Florence followed him with her eyes, and looked +intently in his face. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The expression on Florence’s face alarmed the Captain, who was himself +very hot and flurried, and showed scarcely less agitation than she did. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go on, Beauty?” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, pray!” cried Florence. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain made a gulp as if to get down something that was sticking in his +throat, and nervously proceeded: +</p> + +<p> +“That there unfort’nate ship met with such foul weather, out at +sea, as don’t blow once in twenty year, my darling. There was hurricanes +ashore as tore up forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales at sea in +them latitudes, as not the stoutest wessel ever launched could live in. Day +arter day that there unfort’nate ship behaved noble, I’m told, and +did her duty brave, my pretty, but at one blow a’most her bulwarks was +stove in, her masts and rudder carved away, her best man swept overboard, and +she left to the mercy of the storm as had no mercy but blowed harder and harder +yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat her in, and every time they come +a thundering at her, broke her like a shell. Every black spot in every mountain +of water that rolled away was a bit o’ the ship’s life or a living +man, and so she went to pieces, Beauty, and no grass will never grow upon the +graves of them as manned that ship.” +</p> + +<p> +“They were not all lost!” cried Florence. “Some were +saved!—Was one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aboard o’ that there unfort’nate wessel,” said the +Captain, rising from his chair, and clenching his hand with prodigious energy +and exultation, “was a lad, a gallant lad—as I’ve heerd +tell—that had loved, when he was a boy, to read and talk about brave +actions in shipwrecks—I’ve heerd him! I’ve heerd +him!—and he remembered of ’em in his hour of need; for when the +stoutest 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And was he saved!” cried Florence. “Was he saved!” +</p> + +<p> +“That brave lad,” said the Captain,—“look at me, +pretty! Don’t look round—” +</p> + +<p> +Florence had hardly power to repeat, “Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because there’s nothing there, my deary,” said the Captain. +“Don’t be took aback, pretty creetur! Don’t, for the sake of +Wal”r, as was dear to all on us! That there lad,” said the Captain, +“arter working with the best, and standing by the faint-hearted, and +never making no complaint nor sign of fear, and keeping up a spirit in all +hands that made ’em honour him as if he’d been a admiral—that +lad, along with the second-mate and one seaman, was left, of all the +beatin’ hearts that went aboard that ship, the only living +creeturs—lashed to a fragment of the wreck, and driftin’ on the +stormy sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were they saved?” cried Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Days and nights they drifted on them endless waters,” said the +Captain, “until at last—No! Don’t look that way, +pretty!—a sail bore down upon ’em, and they was, by the +Lord’s mercy, took aboard: two living and one dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which of them was dead?” cried Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Not the lad I speak on,” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God! oh thank God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen!” returned the Captain hurriedly. “Don’t be took +aback! A minute more, my lady lass! with a good heart!—aboard that ship, +they went a long voyage, right away across 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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Was spared,” repeated Florence, “and—?” +</p> + +<p> +“And come home in that ship,” said the Captain, still looking in +the same direction, “and—don’t be frightened, +pretty—and landed; and one morning come cautiously to his own door to +take a obserwation, knowing that his friends would think him drownded, when he +sheered off at the unexpected—” +</p> + +<p> +“At the unexpected barking of a dog?” cried Florence, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” roared the Captain. “Steady, darling! courage! +Don’t look round yet. See there! upon the wall!” +</p> + +<p> +There was the shadow of a man upon the wall close to her. She started up, +looked round, and with a piercing cry, saw Walter Gay behind her! +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0633m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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 Walter! Welcome to this stricken +breast!” She felt the words, although she could not utter them, and held +him in her pure embrace. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, in a fit of delirium, attempted to wipe his head with the +blackened toast upon his hook: and finding it an uncongenial substance for the +purpose, put it into the crown of his glazed hat, put 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 completely taken out of his +shirt-collar, to say these words: +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my lad, here is a little bit of property as I should wish +to make over, jintly!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain hastily produced the big watch, the teaspoons, the sugar-tongs, and +the canister, and laying them on the table, swept them with his great hand into +Walter’s hat; but in handing that singular strong box to Walter, he was +so overcome again, that he was fain to make another retreat into the shop, and +absent himself for a longer space of time than on his first retirement. +</p> + +<p> +But Walter sought him out, and brought him back; and then the Captain’s +great apprehension was, that Florence would suffer from this new shock. He felt +it so earnestly, that he turned quite rational, and positively interdicted any +further allusion to Walter’s adventures for some days to come. Captain +Cuttle then became sufficiently composed to relieve himself of the toast in his +hat, and to take his place at the tea-board; but finding Walter’s grasp +upon his shoulder, on one side, and Florence whispering her tearful +congratulations on the other, the Captain suddenly bolted again, and was +missing for a good ten minutes. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The pride with which the Captain looked upon the bronzed cheek and the +courageous eyes of his recovered boy; with which he saw the generous fervour of +his youth, and all its frank and hopeful qualities, shining once more, in the +fresh, wholesome manner, and the ardent face, would have kindled something of +this light in his countenance. The admiration and sympathy with which he turned +his eyes on Florence, whose beauty, grace, and innocence could have won no +truer or more zealous champion than himself, would have had an equal influence +upon him. But the fulness of the glow he shed around him could only have been +engendered in his contemplation of the two together, and in all the fancies +springing out of that association, that came sparkling and beaming into his +head, and danced about it. +</p> + +<p> +How they talked of poor old Uncle Sol, and dwelt on every little circumstance +relating to his disappearance; how their joy was moderated by the old +man’s absence and by the misfortunes of Florence; how they released +Diogenes, whom the Captain had decoyed upstairs some time before, lest he +should bark again; the Captain, though he was in one continual flutter, and +made many more short plunges into the shop, fully comprehended. But he no more +dreamed that Walter looked on Florence, as it were, from a new and far-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 sat +beside him. He saw them together in their youth and beauty, and he knew the +story of their younger days, and he had no inch of room beneath his great blue +waistcoat for anything save admiration of such a pair, and gratitude for their +being reunited. +</p> + +<p> +They sat thus, until it grew late. The Captain would have been content to sit +so for a week. But Walter rose, to take leave for the night. +</p> + +<p> +“Going, Walter!” said Florence. “Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“He slings his hammock for the present, lady lass,” said Captain +Cuttle, “round at Brogley’s. Within hail, Heart’s +Delight.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am the cause of your going away, Walter,” said Florence. +“There is a houseless sister in your place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Miss Dombey,” replied Walter, hesitating—“if it +is not too bold to call you so!—” +</p> + +<p> +“Walter!” she exclaimed, surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“—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?” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled, and called him brother. +</p> + +<p> +“You are so changed,” said Walter— +</p> + +<p> +“I changed!” she interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“—To me,” said Walter, softly, as if he were thinking aloud, +“changed to me. I left you such a child, and find you—oh! something +so different—” +</p> + +<p> +“But your sister, Walter. You have not forgotten what we promised to each +other, when we parted?” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgotten!” But he said no more. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I would! Heaven knows I would!” said Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“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 labour in, and sometimes think of you as one who +will protect and care for me as for a sister! Oh, help me, Walter, for I need +help so much!” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey! Florence! I would die to help you. But your friends are +proud and rich. Your father—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! Walter!” She shrieked, and put her hands up to her head, +in an attitude of terror that transfixed him where he stood. “Don’t +say that word!” +</p> + +<p> +He never, from that hour, forgot the voice and look with which she stopped him +at the name. He felt that if he were to live a hundred years, he never could +forget it. +</p> + +<p> +Somewhere—anywhere—but never home! All past, all gone, all lost, +and broken up! The whole history of her untold slight and suffering was in the +cry and look; and he felt he never could forget it, and he never did. +</p> + +<p> +She laid her gentle face upon the Captain’s shoulder, and related how and +why she had fled. If every sorrowing tear she shed in doing so, had been a +curse upon the head of him she never named or blamed, it would have been better +for him, Walter thought, with awe, than to be renounced out of such a strength +and might of love. +</p> + +<p> +“There, precious!” said the Captain, when she ceased; and deep +attention the Captain had paid to her while she spoke; listening, with his +glazed hat all awry and his mouth wide open. “Awast, awast, my eyes! +Wal”r, dear lad, sheer off for tonight, and leave the pretty one to +me!” +</p> + +<p> +Walter took her hand in both of his, and put it to his lips, and kissed it. He +knew now that she was, indeed, a homeless 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. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, perplexed by no such meditations, guarded Florence to her room, +and watched at intervals upon the charmed ground outside her door—for +such it truly was to him—until he felt sufficiently easy in his mind +about her, to turn in under the counter. On abandoning his watch for that +purpose, he could not help calling once, rapturously, through the keyhole, +“Drownded. Ain’t he, pretty?”—or, when he got +downstairs, 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap50"></a>CHAPTER L.<br /> +Mr Toots’s Complaint</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here +was an empty room above-stairs at the wooden Midshipman’s, which, in days +of yore, had been Walter’s bedroom. Walter, rousing up the Captain +betimes in the morning, proposed that they should carry thither such furniture +out of the little parlour as would grace it best, so that Florence might take +possession of it when she rose. As nothing could be more agreeable to Captain +Cuttle than making himself very red and short of breath in such a cause, he +turned to (as he himself said) with a will; and, in a couple of hours, this +garret was transformed into a species of land-cabin, adorned with all the +choicest moveables out of the parlour, inclusive even of the Tartar frigate, +which the Captain hung up over the chimney-piece with such extreme delight, +that he could do nothing for half-an-hour afterwards but walk backward from it, +lost in admiration. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain could be induced by no persuasion of Walter’s to wind up the +big watch, or to take back the canister, or to touch the sugar-tongs and +teaspoons. “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 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. +</p> + +<p> +It was an advantage of the new arrangement, that besides the greater seclusion +it afforded Florence, it admitted of the Midshipman being restored to his usual +post of observation, and also of the shop shutters being taken down. The latter +ceremony, however little importance the unconscious Captain attached to it, was +not wholly superfluous; for, on the previous day, so much excitement had been +occasioned in the neighbourhood, by the shutters remaining unopened, that the +Instrument-maker’s house had been honoured with an unusual share of +public observation, and had been intently stared at from the opposite side of +the way, by groups of hungry gazers, at any time between sunrise and sunset. +The idlers and vagabonds had been 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 corner; +though this settlement of him was stoutly disputed by an opposite faction, who +were of opinion that he lay murdered with a hammer, on the stairs. It was not +without exciting some discontent, therefore, that the subject of these rumours +was seen early in the morning standing at his shop-door as hale and hearty as +if nothing had happened; and the beadle of that quarter, a man of an ambitious +character, who had expected to have the distinction of being present at the +breaking open of the door, and of giving evidence in full uniform before the +coroner, went so far as to say to an opposite neighbour, that the chap in the +glazed hat had better not try it on there—without more particularly +mentioning what—and further, that he, the beadle, would keep his eye upon +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, musing, when they stood resting from +their labours at the shop-door, looking down the old familiar street; it being +still early in the morning; “nothing at all of Uncle Sol, in all that +time!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing at all, my lad,” replied the Captain, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“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! Someone 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 London, who left this last remembrance and this last request to +you’.” +</p> + +<p> +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 thoughtful shake of his head, “Well said, my lad; wery well +said.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been thinking of this, or, at least,” said Walter, +colouring, “I have been thinking of one thing and another, all through a +sleepless night, and I cannot believe, Captain Cuttle, but that my Uncle Sol +(Lord bless him!) is alive, and will return. I don’t so much wonder at +his going away, because, leaving out of consideration that spice of the +marvellous which was always in his character, and his great affection for me, +before which every other consideration of his life became nothing, as no one +ought to know so well as I who had the best of fathers in +him,”—Walter’s voice was indistinct and husky here, and he +looked away, along the street,—“leaving that out of consideration, +I say, I have often read and heard of people who, having some near and dear +relative, who was supposed to be shipwrecked at sea, have gone down to live on +that part of the sea-shore where any tidings of the missing ship might be +expected to arrive, though only an hour or two sooner than elsewhere, or have +even gone upon her track to the place whither she was bound, as if their going +would create intelligence. I think I should do such a thing myself, as soon as +another, or sooner than many, perhaps. But why my Uncle shouldn’t write +to you, when he so clearly intended to do so, or how he should die abroad, and +you not know it through some other hand, I cannot make out.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 understand his disappearing, and leaving no trace behind. +But, being what he was—and is, I hope—I can’t believe +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my lad,” inquired the Captain, wistfully eyeing him +as he pondered and pondered, “what do you make of it, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Cuttle,” returned Walter, “I don’t know what +to make of it. I suppose he never has written! There is no doubt about +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“If so be as Sol Gills wrote, my lad,” replied the Captain, +argumentatively, “where’s his dispatch?” +</p> + +<p> +“Say that he entrusted it to some private hand,” suggested Walter, +“and that it has been forgotten, or carelessly thrown aside, or lost. +Even that is more probable to me, than the other event. In short, I not only +cannot bear to contemplate that other event, Captain Cuttle, but I can’t, +and won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hope, you see, Wal”r,” said the Captain, sagely, +“Hope. It’s that as animates you. Hope is a buoy, for which you +overhaul your Little Warbler, sentimental diwision, but Lord, my lad, like any +other buoy, it only floats; it can’t be steered nowhere. Along with the +figure-head of Hope,” said the Captain, “there’s a anchor; +but what’s the good of my having a anchor, if I can’t find no +bottom to let it go in?” +</p> + +<p> +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 enthusiasm, +“Hooroar, my lad! Indiwidually, I’m o’ your opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +Walter, with his cheerful laugh, returned the salutation, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Only one word more about my Uncle at present, Captain Cuttle. I suppose +it is impossible that he can have written in the ordinary course—by mail +packet, or ship letter, you understand—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, my lad,” said the Captain approvingly. +</p> + +<p> +“—And that you have missed the letter, anyhow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Wal”r,” said the Captain, turning his eyes upon him +with a faint approach to a severe expression, “ain’t I been on the +look-out for any tidings of that man o’ science, old Sol Gills, your +Uncle, day and night, ever since I lost him? Ain’t my heart been heavy +and watchful always, along of him and you? Sleeping and waking, ain’t I +been upon my post, and wouldn’t I scorn to quit it while this here +Midshipman held together!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Captain Cuttle,” replied Walter, grasping his hand, “I +know you would, and I know how faithful and earnest all you say and feel is. I +am sure of it. You don’t doubt that I am as sure of it as I am that my +foot is again upon this door-step, or that I again have hold of this true hand. +Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Wal”r,” returned the Captain, with his beaming +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll hazard no more conjectures,” said Walter, fervently +shaking the hard hand of the Captain, who shook his with no less goodwill. +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a change in Walter’s manner, as he came to these two words; and +when he uttered them, all his confidence and cheerfulness appeared to have +deserted him. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought, before Miss Dombey stopped me when I spoke of her father last +night,” said Walter, “—you remember how?” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain well remembered, and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain muttered a feeble “Awast!” or a “Stand by!” +or something or other, equally pertinent to the occasion; but it was rendered +so extremely feeble by the total discomfiture with which he received this +announcement, that what it was, is mere matter of conjecture. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” said Walter, “that is over. I think so, no longer. I +would sooner be put back again upon that piece of wreck, on which I have so +often floated, since my preservation, in my dreams, and there left to drift, +and drive, and die!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hooroar, my lad!” exclaimed the Captain, in a burst of +uncontrollable satisfaction. “Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!” +</p> + +<p> +“To think that she, so young, so good, and beautiful,” said Walter, +“so delicately brought up, and born to such a different fortune, should +strive with the rough world! But we have seen the gulf that cuts off all behind +her, though no one but herself can know how deep it is; and there is no +return.” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, without quite understanding this, greatly approved of it, and +observed in a tone of strong corroboration, that the wind was quite abaft. +</p> + +<p> +“She ought not to be alone here; ought she, Captain Cuttle?” said +Walter, anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my lad,” replied the Captain, after a little sagacious +consideration. “I don’t know. You being here to keep her company, +you see, and you two being jintly—” +</p> + +<p> +“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, familiarly, in that +character—if I pretended to forget that I am bound, in honour, not to do +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my lad,” hinted the Captain, with some revival of his +discomfiture, “ain’t there no other character as—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” returned Walter, “would you have me die in her +esteem—in such esteem as hers—and put a veil between myself and her +angel’s face for ever, by taking advantage of her being here for refuge, +so trusting and so unprotected, to endeavour to exalt myself into her lover? +What do I say? There is no one in the world who would be more opposed to me if +I could do so, than you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r, my lad,” said the Captain, drooping more and more, +“prowiding as there is any just cause or impediment 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 as promised and +wowed in the banns. So there ain’t no other character; ain’t there, +my lad?” +</p> + +<p> +Walter briskly waved his hand in the negative. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my lad,” growled the Captain slowly, “I won’t +deny but what I find myself wery much down by the head, along o’ this +here, or but what I’ve gone clean about. But as to Lady lass, +Wal”r, mind you, wot’s respect and duty to her, is respect and duty +in my articles, howsumever disapinting; and therefore I follows in your wake, +my lad, and feel as you are, no doubt, acting up to yourself. And there +ain’t no other character, ain’t there?” said the Captain, +musing over the ruins of his fallen castle, with a very despondent face. +</p> + +<p> +“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 someone +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said Walter, “do you ask Miss Dombey where +she’s gone, and we’ll try to find her. The morning’s getting +on, and Miss Dombey will soon be rising. You are her best friend. Wait for her +upstairs, and leave me to take care of all down here.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, very crest-fallen indeed, echoed the sigh with which Walter said +this, and complied. Florence was delighted with her new room, anxious to see +Walter, and overjoyed at the prospect of greeting her old friend Susan. But +Florence could not say where Susan was gone, except that it was in Essex, and +no one could say, she remembered, unless it were Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +With this information the melancholy Captain returned to Walter, and gave him +to understand that Mr Toots was the young gentleman whom he had encountered on +the door-step, and that he was a friend of his, and that he was a young +gentleman of property, and that he hopelessly adored Miss Dombey. The Captain +also related how the intelligence of Walter’s supposed fate had 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. +</p> + +<p> +The question then was, whether Florence could trust Mr Toots; and Florence +saying, with a smile, “Oh, yes, with her whole heart!” it became +important to find out where Mr Toots lived. This, Florence didn’t know, +and the Captain had forgotten; and the Captain was telling Walter, in the +little parlour, that Mr Toots was sure to be there soon, when in came Mr Toots +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, rushing into the parlour without +any ceremony, “I’m in a state of mind bordering on +distraction!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots had discharged those words, as from a mortar, before he observed +Walter, whom he recognised with what may be described as a chuckle of misery. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll excuse me, Sir,” said Mr Toots, holding his forehead, +“but I’m at present in that state that my brain is going, if not +gone, and anything approaching to politeness in an individual so situated would +be a hollow mockery. Captain Gills, I beg to request the favour of a private +interview.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Brother,” returned the Captain, taking him by the hand, +“you are the man as we was on the look-out for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “what a look-out that +must be, of which I 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!” +</p> + +<p> +All these indications of a disordered mind were verified in Mr Toots’s +appearance, which was wild and savage. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots took his hand from his forehead, and stared at Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He took the Captain by the coat, and going out with him whispered: +</p> + +<p> +“That then, Captain Gills, is the party you spoke of, when you said that +he and Miss Dombey were made for one another?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, ay, my lad,” replied the disconsolate Captain; “I was +of that mind once.” +</p> + +<p> +“And at this time!” exclaimed Mr Toots, with his hand to his +forehead again. “Of all others!—a hated rival! At least, he +ain’t a hated rival,” said Mr Toots, stopping short, on second +thoughts, and taking away his hand; “what should I hate him for? No. If +my affection has been truly disinterested, Captain Gills, let me prove it +now!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots shot back abruptly into the parlour, and said, wringing Walter by the +hand: +</p> + +<p> +“How-de-do? I hope you didn’t take any cold. I—I shall be +very glad if you’ll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. I wish you +many happy returns of the day. Upon my word and honour,” said Mr Toots, +warming as he became better acquainted with Walter’s face and figure, +“I’m very glad to see you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, heartily,” said Walter. “I couldn’t desire +a more genuine and genial welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +All these good wishes, and better intentions, Walter responded to manfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “I should wish to be strictly +honourable; but I trust I may be allowed now, to allude to a certain subject +that—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, my lad,” returned the Captain. “Freely, +freely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “and Lieutenant +Walters—are you aware that the most dreadful circumstances have been +happening at Mr Dombey’s house, and that Miss Dombey herself has left her +father, who, in my opinion,” said Mr Toots, with great excitement, +“is a Brute, that it would be a flattery to call a—a marble +monument, or a bird of prey,—and that she is not to be found, and has +gone no one knows where?” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask how you heard this?” inquired Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Lieutenant Walters,” said Mr Toots, who had arrived at that +appellation by a process peculiar to himself; probably by jumbling up his +Christian name with the seafaring 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 reason, +Lieutenant Walters, for I am well aware that the most able thing I could do for +all parties would be to put an end to my existence, which can only be regarded +as an inconvenience—I have been in the habit of bestowing a trifle now +and then upon a footman; a most respectable young man, of the name of +Towlinson, who has lived in the family some time; and Towlinson informed me, +yesterday evening, that this was the state of things. Since which, Captain +Gills—and Lieutenant Walters—I have been perfectly frantic, and +have been lying down on the sofa all night, the Ruin you behold.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Toots,” said Walter, “I am happy to be able to relieve +your mind. Pray calm yourself. Miss Dombey is safe and well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir!” cried Mr Toots, starting from his chair and shaking hands +with him anew, “the relief is so excessive, and unspeakable, that if you +were to tell me now that Miss Dombey was married even, I could smile. Yes, +Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, appealing to him, “upon my soul and +body, I really think, whatever I might do to myself immediately afterwards, +that I could smile, I am so relieved.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 upstairs?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Mr Toots’s amazement and pleasure at sight of her were such, that +they could find a vent in nothing but extravagance. He ran up to her, seized +her hand, kissed it, dropped it, seized it again, fell upon one knee, shed +tears, chuckled, and was quite regardless of his danger of being pinned by +Diogenes, who, inspired by the belief that there was something hostile to his +mistress in these demonstrations, worked round and round him, as if only +undecided at what particular point to go in for the assault, but quite resolved +to do him a fearful mischief. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh Di, you bad, forgetful dog! Dear Mr Toots, I am so rejoiced to see +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thankee,” said Mr Toots, “I am pretty well, I’m much +obliged to you, Miss Dombey. I hope all the family are the same.” +</p> + +<p> +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 exhibit. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have mentioned, Miss Dombey,” +gasped Mr Toots, “that I can do you some service. If I could by any means +wash out the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I conducted +myself—much more like a Parricide than a person of independent +property,” said Mr Toots, with severe self-accusation, “I should +sink into the silent tomb with a gleam of joy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, Mr Toots,” said Florence, “do not wish me to forget +anything in our acquaintance. I never can, believe me. You have been far too +kind and good to me always.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey,” returned Mr Toots, “your consideration for my +feelings is a part of your angelic character. Thank you a thousand times. +It’s of no consequence at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why I do not certainly, Miss Dombey,” said Mr Toots, after a +little consideration, “remember the exact name of the place that was on +the coach; and I do recollect that she said she was not going to stop there, +but was going farther on. But, Miss Dombey, if your object is to find her, and +to have her here, myself and the Chicken will produce her with every dispatch +that devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the Chicken’s, can +ensure.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived by the prospect of being +useful, and the disinterested sincerity of his devotion was so unquestionable, +that it would have been cruel to refuse him. Florence, with an instinctive +delicacy, forbore to urge the least obstacle, though she did not forbear to +overpower him with thanks; and Mr Toots proudly took the commission upon +himself for immediate execution. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey,” said Mr Toots, touching her proffered hand, with a +pang of hopeless love visibly shooting through him, and flashing out in his +face, “Good-bye! Allow me to take the liberty of saying, that your +misfortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you may trust me, next to +Captain Gills himself. I am quite aware, Miss Dombey, of my own +deficiencies—they’re not of the least consequence, thank +you—but I am entirely to be relied upon, I do assure you, Miss +Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +With that Mr Toots came out of the room, again accompanied by the Captain, who, +standing at a little distance, holding his hat under his arm and arranging his +scattered locks with his hook, had been a not uninterested witness of what +passed. And when the door closed behind them, the light of Mr Toots’s +life was darkly clouded again. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said that gentleman, stopping near the bottom of +the stairs, and turning round, “to tell you the truth, I am not in a +frame of mind at the present moment, in which I could see Lieutenant Walters +with that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should wish to harbour +in my breast. We cannot always command our feelings, Captain Gills, and I +should take it as a particular favour if you’d let me out at the private +door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Brother,” returned the Captain, “you shall shape your own +course. Wotever course you take, is plain and seamanlike, I’m wery +sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “you’re extremely kind. +Your good opinion is a consolation to me. There is one thing,” said Mr +Toots, standing in the passage, behind the half-opened door, “that I hope +you’ll bear in mind, Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieutenant +Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite come into my property now, you +know, and—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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots said no more, but slipped out quietly and shut the door upon himself, +to cut the Captain off from any reply. +</p> + +<p> +Florence thought of this good creature, long after he had left her, with +mingled emotions of pain and pleasure. He was so honest and warm-hearted, that +to see him again and be assured of his truth to her in her distress, was a joy +and comfort beyond all price; but for that very reason, it was so affecting to +think that she caused him a moment’s unhappiness, or ruffled, by a +breath, the harmless current of his life, that her eyes filled with tears, and +her bosom overflowed with pity. Captain Cuttle, in his different way, thought +much of Mr Toots too; and so did Walter; and when the evening came, and they +were all sitting together in Florence’s new room, Walter praised him in a +most impassioned manner, and told Florence what he had said on leaving the +house, with every graceful setting-off in the way of comment and appreciation +that his own honesty and sympathy could surround it with. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots did not return upon the next day, or the next, or for several days; +and in the meanwhile Florence, without any new alarm, lived like a quiet bird +in a cage, at the top of the old Instrument-maker’s house. But Florence +drooped and hung her head more and more plainly, as the days went on; and the +expression that had been seen in the face of the dead child, was often turned +to the sky from her high window, as if it sought his angel out, on the bright +shore of which he had spoken: lying on his little bed. +</p> + +<p> +Florence had been weak and delicate of late, and the agitation she had +undergone was not without its influences on her health. But it was no bodily +illness that affected her now. She was distressed in mind; and the cause of her +distress was Walter. +</p> + +<p> +Interested in her, anxious for her, proud and glad to serve her, and showing +all this with the enthusiasm and ardour of his character, Florence saw that he +avoided her. All the long day through, he seldom approached her room. If she +asked for him, he came, again for the moment as earnest and as bright as she +remembered him when she was a lost child in the staring streets; but he soon +became constrained—her quick affection was too watchful not to know +it—and uneasy, and soon left her. Unsought, he never came, all day, +between the morning and the night. When the evening closed in, he was always +there, and that was her happiest time, for then she half believed that the old +Walter of her childhood was not changed. But, even then, some trivial word, +look, or circumstance would show her that there was an indefinable division +between them which could not be passed. +</p> + +<p> +And she could not but see that these revealings of a great alteration in Walter +manifested themselves in despite of his utmost efforts to hide them. In his +consideration for her, she thought, and in the earnestness of his desire to +spare her any wound from his kind hand, he resorted to innumerable little +artifices and disguises. So much the more did Florence feel the greatness of +the alteration in him; so much the oftener did she weep at this estrangement of +her brother. +</p> + +<p> +The good Captain—her untiring, tender, ever zealous friend—saw it, +too, Florence thought, and it pained him. He was less cheerful and hopeful than +he had been at first, and would steal looks at her and Walter, by turns, when +they were all three together of an evening, with quite a sad face. +</p> + +<p> +Florence resolved, at last, to speak to Walter. She believed she knew now what +the cause of his estrangement was, and she thought it would be a relief to her +full heart, and 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think he’s down below, my lady lass,” returned the +Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to speak to him,” said Florence, rising hurriedly as +if to go downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll rouse him up here, Beauty,” said the Captain, “in +a trice.” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the Captain, with much alacrity, shouldered his book—for he +made it a point of duty to read none but very large books on a Sunday, as +having a more staid appearance: and had bargained, years ago, for a prodigious +volume at a book-stall, five lines of which utterly confounded him at any time, +insomuch that he had not yet ascertained of what subject it treated—and +withdrew. Walter soon appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Cuttle tells me, Miss Dombey,” he eagerly began on coming +in—but stopped when he saw her face. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not so well today. You look distressed. You have been +weeping.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremor in his voice, that the tears +gushed into her eyes at the sound of his words. +</p> + +<p> +“Walter,” said Florence, gently, “I am not quite well, and I +have been weeping. I want to speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful and innocent face; and +his own turned pale, and his lips trembled. +</p> + +<p> +“You said, upon the night when I knew that you were saved—and oh! +dear Walter, what I felt that night, and what I hoped!—” +</p> + +<p> +He put his trembling hand upon the table between them, and sat looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +“—that I was changed. I was surprised to hear you say so, but I +understand, now, that I am. Don’t be angry with me, Walter. I was too +much overjoyed to think of it, then.” +</p> + +<p> +She seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenuous, confiding, loving child +he saw and heard. Not the dear woman, at whose feet he would have laid the +riches of the earth. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember the last time I saw you, Walter, before you went +away?” +</p> + +<p> +He put his hand into his breast, and took out a little purse. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will wear it still, Walter, for my old sake?” +</p> + +<p> +“Until I die!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think so, Walter. Do you +recollect that a thought of this change seemed to come into our minds at the +same time that evening, when we were talking together?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he answered, in a wondering tone. +</p> + +<p> +“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 know all!” +</p> + +<p> +Walter had looked upon her while she said this, with a face so full of wonder +and amazement, that it had room for nothing else. Now he caught up the hand +that touched his, so entreatingly, and held it between his own. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss Dombey,” he said, “is it possible that while I have +been suffering so much, in striving with my sense of what is due to you, and +must be rendered to you, I have made you suffer what your words disclose to me? +Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you but as the single, bright, +pure, blessed recollection of my boyhood and my youth. Never have I from the +first, and never shall I to the last, regard your part in my life, but as +something sacred, never to be lightly thought of, never to be esteemed enough, +never, until death, to be forgotten. Again to see you look, and hear you speak, +as you did on that night when 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 gift I +could receive and prize!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Respect,” said Walter, in a low tone. “Reverence.” +</p> + +<p> +The colour dawned in her face, and she timidly and thoughtfully withdrew her +hand; still looking at him with unabated earnestness. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not a brother’s right,” said Walter. “I have +not a brother’s claim. I left a child. I find a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +The colour overspread her face. She made a gesture as if of entreaty that he +would say no more, and her face dropped upon her hands. +</p> + +<p> +They were both silent for a time; she weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good,” said Walter, +“even to tear myself from it, though I rend my own. How dare I say it is +my sister’s!” +</p> + +<p> +She was weeping still. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had been happy; surrounded as you should be by loving and +admiring friends, and by all that makes the station you were born to +enviable,” said Walter; “and if you had called me brother, then, in +your affectionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered to the name +from my distant place, with no inward assurance that I wronged your spotless +truth by doing so. But here—and now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh thank you, thank you, Walter! Forgive my having wronged you so much. +I had no one to advise me. I am quite alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Florence!” said Walter, passionately. “I am hurried on to +say, what I thought, but a few moments ago, nothing could have forced from my +lips. If I had been prosperous; if I had any means or hope of being one 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 honour that I bore you, and in my whole heart being yours. I would +have told you that it was the only claim that you could give me to defend and +guard you, which I dare accept and dare assert; but that if I had that right, I +would regard it as a trust so precious and so priceless, that the undivided +truth and fervour of my life would poorly acknowledge its worth.” +</p> + +<p> +The head was still bent down, the tears still falling, and the bosom swelling +with its sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Florence! Dearest Florence! whom I called so in my thoughts before +I could consider how presumptuous and wild it was. One last time let me call +you by your own dear name, and touch this gentle hand in token of your sisterly +forgetfulness of what I have said.” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her head, and spoke to him with such a solemn sweetness in her eyes; +with such a calm, bright, placid smile shining on him through her tears; with +such a low, soft tremble in her frame and voice; that the innermost chords of +his heart were touched, and his sight was dim as he listened. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget it, for the world. +Are you—are you very poor?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am but a wanderer,” said Walter, “making voyages to live, +across the sea. That is my calling now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you soon going away again, Walter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very soon.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat looking at him for a moment; then timidly put her trembling hand in +his. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will take me for your wife, Walter, I will love you dearly. If +you will let me go with you, Walter, I will go to the world’s end without +fear. I can give up nothing for you—I have nothing to resign, and no one +to forsake; but all my love and life shall be devoted to you, and with my last +breath I will breathe your name to God if I have sense and memory left.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Blessed Sunday Bells, ringing so tranquilly in their entranced and happy ears! +Blessed Sunday peace and quiet, harmonising with the calmness in their souls, +and making holy air around them! Blessed twilight stealing on, and shading her +so soothingly and gravely, as she falls asleep, like a hushed child, upon the +bosom she has clung to! +</p> + +<p> +Oh load of love and trustfulness that lies to lightly there! 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! +</p> + +<p> +The Captain remained in the little parlour until it was quite dark. He took the +chair on which Walter had been sitting, and looked up at the 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 upstairs, and why they didn’t call him to tea. +</p> + +<p> +Florence came to his side while he was in the height of his wonderment. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! lady lass!” cried the Captain. “Why, you and Wal”r +have had a long spell o’ talk, my beauty.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence put her little hand round one of the great buttons of his coat, and +said, looking down into his face: +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Captain, I want to tell you something, if you please. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Heart’s Delight!” cried the Captain, suddenly elated, +“Is it that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” said Florence, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Wal”r! Husband! THAT?” roared the Captain, tossing up his +glazed hat into the skylight. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” cried Florence, laughing and crying together. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain immediately hugged her; and then, picking up the glazed hat and +putting it on, drew her arm through his, and conducted her upstairs again; +where he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be made. +</p> + +<p> +“What, Wal”r my lad!” said the Captain, looking in at the +door, with his face like an amiable warming-pan. “So there ain’t NO +other character, ain’t there?” +</p> + +<p> +He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleasantry, which he repeated +at least forty times during tea; polishing his radiant face with the sleeve of +his coat, and dabbing his head all over with his pocket-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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your +life, than when you made that there little property over, jintly!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap51"></a>CHAPTER LI.<br /> +Mr Dombey and the World</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hat +is the proud man doing, while the days go by? Does he ever think of his +daughter, or wonder where she is gone? Does he suppose she has come home, and +is leading her old life in the weary house? No one can answer for him. He has +never uttered her name, since. His household dread him too much to approach a +subject on which he is resolutely dumb; and the only person who dares question +him, he silences immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +With this speech feelingly reminiscent of her not having been asked to dinner +on the day of the first party, Mrs Chick makes great use of her +pocket-handkerchief, and falls on Mr Dombey’s neck. But Mr Dombey +frigidly lifts her off, and hands her to a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you, Louisa,” he says, “for this mark of your +affection; but desire that our conversation may refer to any other subject. +When I bewail my fate, Louisa, or express myself as being in want of +consolation, you can offer it, if you will have the goodness.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Paul,” rejoins his sister, with her handkerchief 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Louisa!” says her brother, sternly, “silence! Not another +word of this!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick can only shake her head, and use her handkerchief, and moan over +degenerate Dombeys, who are no Dombeys. But whether Florence has been +inculpated in the flight of Edith, or has followed her, or has done too much, +or too little, or anything, or nothing, she has not the least idea. +</p> + +<p> +He goes on, without deviation, keeping his thoughts and feelings close within +his own breast, and imparting them to no one. He makes no search for his +daughter. He may think that she is with his sister, or that she is under his +own roof. He may think of her constantly, or he may never think about her. It +is all one for any sign he makes. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Though he hide the world within him from the world without—which he +believes has but one purpose for the time, and that, to watch him eagerly +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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0654m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +The world. What the world thinks of him, how it looks at him, what it sees in +him, and what it says—this is the haunting demon of his mind. It is +everywhere where he is; and, worse than that, it is everywhere where he is not. +It comes out with him among his servants, and yet he leaves it whispering +behind; he sees it pointing after him in the street; it is 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, +steaming to and fro on railroads and in ships; restless and busy everywhere, +with nothing else but him. +</p> + +<p> +It is not a phantom of his imagination. It is as active in other people’s +minds as in his. Witness Cousin Feenix, who comes from Baden-Baden, purposely +to talk to him. Witness Major Bagstock, who accompanies Cousin Feenix on that +friendly mission. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey receives them with his usual dignity, and stands erect, in his old +attitude, before the fire. He feels that the world is looking at him out of +their eyes. That it is in the stare of the pictures. That Mr Pitt, upon the +bookcase, represents it. That there are eyes in its own map, hanging on the +wall. +</p> + +<p> +“An unusually cold spring,” says Mr Dombey—to deceive the +world. +</p> + +<p> +“Damme, Sir,” says the Major, in the warmth of friendship, +“Joseph Bagstock is a bad hand at a counterfeit. If you want to hold your +friends 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 honour to say, deservedly or +undeservedly—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.’” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey intimates his acquiescence. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Dombey,” says the Major, “I am a man of the world. Our +friend Feenix—if I may presume to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Honoured, I am sure,” says Cousin Feenix. +</p> + +<p> +“—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 appealing to Cousin Feenix. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” says Cousin Feenix, “most friendly.” +</p> + +<p> +“—and are friends,” resumes the Major, “Old Joe’s +opinion is (I may be wrong), that the opinion of the world on any particular +subject, is very easily got at.” +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly,” says Cousin Feenix. “In point of fact, +it’s quite a self-evident sort of thing. I am extremely anxious, Major, +that my friend Dombey should hear me express my very great astonishment and +regret, that my lovely and accomplished relative, who was possessed of every +qualification to make a man happy, should have so far forgotten what was due +to—in point of fact, to the world—as to commit herself in such a +very extraordinary manner. I have been in a devilish state of depression ever +since; and said indeed to Long Saxby last night—man of six foot ten, with +whom my friend Dombey is probably acquainted—that it had upset me in a +confounded way, and made me bilious. It induces a man to reflect, this kind of +fatal catastrophe,” says Cousin Feenix, “that events do occur in +quite a providential manner; for if my Aunt had been living at the time, I +think the effect upon a devilish lively woman like herself, would have been +prostration, and that she would have fallen, in point of fact, a victim.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Dombey!—” says the Major, resuming his discourse with +great energy. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” interposes Cousin Feenix. “Allow me +another word. My friend Dombey will permit me to say, that if any circumstance +could have added to the most infernal state of pain in which I find myself on +this occasion, it would be the natural amazement of the world at my lovely and +accomplished relative (as I must still beg leave to call her) being supposed to +have so committed herself with a person—man with white teeth, in point of +fact—of very inferior station to her husband. But while I must, rather +peremptorily, request my friend Dombey not to criminate my lovely and +accomplished relative 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 obstacle in his +way, and will be happy to assent to any honourable course of proceeding, with a +view to the future, that he may point out. I trust my friend Dombey will give +me credit for the intentions by which I am animated in this very melancholy +affair, and—a—in point of fact, I am not aware that I need trouble +my friend Dombey with any further observations.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey bows, without raising his eyes, and is silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Dombey,” says the Major, “our friend Feenix having, +with an amount of eloquence that Old Joe B. has never heard surpassed—no, +by the Lord, Sir! never!”—says the Major, very blue, indeed, and +grasping his cane in the middle—“stated the case as regards the +lady, I shall presume upon our friendship, Dombey, to offer a word on another +aspect of it. Sir,” says the Major, with the horse’s cough, +“the world in these things has opinions, which must be satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it,” rejoins Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not,” replies Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey!” says the Major, “you will guess the rest. I speak +out—prematurely, perhaps—because the Bagstock breed have always +spoke 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Major,” returns Mr Dombey, “I am obliged. I shall put myself +in your hands when the time comes. The time not being come, I have forborne to +speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the fellow, Dombey?” inquires the Major, after gasping +and looking at him, for a minute. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any intelligence of him?” asks the Major. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dombey, I am rejoiced to hear it,” says the Major. “I +congratulate you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will excuse—even you, Major,” replies Mr Dombey, +“my entering into any further detail at present. The intelligence is of a +singular kind, and singularly obtained. It may turn out to be valueless; it may +turn out to be true; I cannot say at present. My explanation must stop +here.” +</p> + +<p> +Although this is but a dry reply to the Major’s purple enthusiasm, the +Major receives it graciously, and is delighted to think that the world has such +a fair prospect of soon receiving its due. Cousin Feenix is then presented with +his meed of acknowledgment by the husband of his lovely and accomplished +relative, and Cousin Feenix and Major Bagstock retire, leaving that husband to +the world again, and to ponder at leisure on their representation of its state +of mind concerning his affairs, and on its just and reasonable expectations. +</p> + +<p> +But who sits in the housekeeper’s room, shedding tears, and talking to +Mrs Pipchin in a low tone, with uplifted hands? It is a lady with her face +concealed in a very close black bonnet, 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 +Pipchin, in order to get certain information of the state of Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“How does he bear it, my dear creature?” asks Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” says Mrs Pipchin, in her snappish way, “he’s +pretty much as usual.” +</p> + +<p> +“Externally,” suggests Miss Tox “But what he feels +within!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin’s hard grey eye looks doubtful as she answers, in three +distinct jerks, “Ah! Perhaps. I suppose so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 weazen +little girl of tender years; “to tell you my mind, Lucretia, I think +it’s a good riddance. I don’t want any of your brazen faces here, +myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Brazen indeed! Well may you say brazen, Mrs Pipchin!” returned +Miss Tox. “To leave him! Such a noble figure of a man!” And here +Miss Tox is overcome. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty well, Towlinson, I thank you,” says Miss Tox. “I beg +you’ll have the goodness, when you happen to see me here, not to mention +it. My visits are merely to Mrs Pipchin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, Miss,” says Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +“Shocking circumstances occur, Towlinson,” says Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Very much so indeed, Miss,” rejoins Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, Towlinson,” says Miss Tox, who, in her instruction of the +Toodle family, has acquired an admonitorial tone, and a habit of improving +passing occasions, “that what has happened here, will be a warning to +you, Towlinson.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Miss, I’m sure,” says Towlinson. +</p> + +<p> +He appears to be falling into a consideration of the manner in which this +warning ought to operate in his particular case, when the vinegary Mrs Pipchin, +suddenly stirring him up with a “What are you doing? Why don’t you +show the lady to the door?” he ushers Miss Tox forth. As she passes Mr +Dombey’s room, she shrinks into the inmost depths of the black bonnet, +and walks, on tip-toe; and there is not another atom in the world which haunts +him so, that feels such sorrow and solicitude about him, as Miss Tox takes out +under the black bonnet into the street, and tries to carry home shadowed it +from the newly-lighted lamps. +</p> + +<p> +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 ask how he does, and how he bears his misfortune: but she has nothing to do +with Mr Dombey’s world. Exacting and harassing as ever, it goes on +without her; and she, a by no means bright or particular star, moves in her +little orbit in the corner of another system, and knows it quite well, and +comes, and cries, and goes away, and is satisfied. Verily Miss Tox is easier of +satisfaction than the world that troubles Mr Dombey so much! +</p> + +<p> +At the Counting House, the clerks discuss the great disaster in all its lights +and shades, but chiefly wonder who will get Mr Carker’s place. They are +generally of opinion that it will be shorn of some of its emoluments, and made +uncomfortable by newly-devised checks and restrictions; and those who are +beyond all hope of it are quite sure they would rather not have it, and +don’t at all envy the person for whom it may prove to be reserved. +Nothing like the prevailing sensation has existed in the Counting House since +Mr Dombey’s little son died; but all such excitements there take a +social, not to say a jovial turn, and lead to the cultivation of good +fellowship. A reconciliation is established on this propitious occasion between +the acknowledged wit of the Counting House and an aspiring rival, with whom he +has been at deadly feud for months; and a little dinner being proposed, in +commemoration of their happily restored amity, takes place at a neighbouring +tavern; the wit in the chair; the rival acting as Vice-President. The orations +following the removal of the cloth are opened by the Chair, who says, +Gentlemen, he can’t disguise from 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 an 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 for ever to deny that good feeling in the general cause, for +which he has reason to think and hope that the gentlemen in Dombey’s +House have always been distinguished. Robinson replies to this like a man and a +brother; and one gentleman who has been in the office three years, under +continual notice to quit on account of lapses in his arithmetic, appears 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, beginning with +“May he never again,” which are received with thunders of applause. +In short, a most delightful evening is passed, only interrupted by a difference +between two juniors, who, quarrelling about the probable amount of Mr +Carker’s late receipts per annum, defy each other with decanters, and are +taken out greatly excited. Soda water is in general request at the office next +day, and most of the party deem the bill an imposition. +</p> + +<p> +As to Perch, the messenger, he is in a fair way of being ruined for life. He +finds himself again constantly in bars of public-houses, being treated and +lying dreadfully. It appears that he met 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 each shuddered from head to foot, and said, “Oh, Perch!” and +ran away. Either the consciousness of these enormities, or the reaction +consequent on liquor, reduces Mr Perch to an extreme state of low spirits at +that hour of the evening when he usually seeks consolation in the society of +Mrs Perch at Balls Pond; and Mrs Perch frets a good deal, for she fears his +confidence in woman is shaken now, and that he half expects on coming home at +night to find her gone off with some Viscount—“which,” as she +observes to an intimate female friend, “is what these wretches in the +form of woman have to answer for, Mrs P. It ain’t the harm they do +themselves so much as what they reflect upon us, Ma’am; and I see it in +Perch’s eye.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey’s servants are becoming, at the same time, quite dissipated, +and unfit for other service. They have hot suppers every night, and “talk +it over” with smoking drinks upon the board. Mr Towlinson is always +maudlin after half-past ten, and frequently begs to know whether he +didn’t say that no good would ever come of living in a corner house? They +whisper about Miss Florence, and wonder where she is; but agree that if Mr +Dombey 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 housemaid (who is very virtuous), entreats that you will never talk to her +any more about people who hold their heads up, as if the ground wasn’t +good enough for ’em. +</p> + +<p> +Everything that is said and done about it, except by Mr Dombey, is done in +chorus. Mr Dombey and the world are alone together. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap52"></a>CHAPTER LII.<br /> +Secret Intelligence</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>ood +Mrs Brown and her daughter Alice kept silent company together, in their own +dwelling. It was 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, without heeding these changes in its expression, though her eyes +were often turned towards it, sat mumbling and munching, and listening +confidently. +</p> + +<p> +Their abode, though poor and miserable, was not so utterly wretched as in the +days when only Good Mrs Brown inhabited it. Some few attempts at cleanliness +and order were manifest, though made in a reckless, gipsy way, that might have +connected them, at a glance, with the younger woman. The shades of evening +thickened and deepened as the two kept silence, until the blackened walls were +nearly lost in the prevailing gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Then Alice broke the silence which had lasted so long, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“You may give him up, mother. He’ll not come here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Death give him up!” returned the old woman, impatiently. “He +will come here.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see,” said Alice. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see him,” returned her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“And doomsday,” said the daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Was it so angry?” asked her daughter, roused to interest in a +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Angry? ask if it was bloody. That’s more like the word. Angry? Ha, +ha! To call that only angry!” said the old woman, hobbling to the +cupboard, and lighting a candle, which displayed the workings of her mouth to +ugly advantage, as she brought it to the table. “I might as well call +your face only angry, when you think or talk about ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +It was something different from that, truly, as she sat as still as a crouched +tigress, with her kindling eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark!” said the old woman, triumphantly. “I hear a step +coming. It’s not the tread of anyone that lives about here, or comes this +way often. We don’t walk like that. We should grow proud on such +neighbours! Do you hear him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you are right, mother,” replied Alice, in a low voice. +“Peace! open the door.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a poor place for a great gentleman like your worship,” +said the old woman, curtseying and chattering. “I told you so, but +there’s no harm in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that?” asked Mr Dombey, looking at her companion. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my handsome daughter,” said the old woman. +“Your worship won’t mind her. She knows all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +A shadow fell upon his face not less expressive than if he had groaned aloud, +“Who does not know all about it!” but he looked at her steadily, +and she, without any acknowledgment of his presence, looked at him. The shadow +on his face was darker when he turned his glance away from her; and even then +it wandered back again, furtively, as if he were haunted by her bold eyes, and +some remembrance they inspired. +</p> + +<p> +“Woman,” said Mr Dombey to the old witch who was chuckling and +leering close at his elbow, and who, when he turned to address her, pointed +stealthily at her daughter, and rubbed her hands, and pointed again, +“Woman! I believe that I am weak and forgetful of my station in coming +here, but you know why I come, and what you offered when you stopped me in the +street the other day. What is it that you have to tell me concerning what I +want to know; and how does it happen that I can find voluntary intelligence in +a hovel like this,” with a disdainful glance about him, “when I +have exerted my power and means to obtain it in vain? I do not think,” he +said, after a moment’s pause, during which he had observed her, sternly, +“that you are so audacious as to mean to trifle with me, or endeavour to +impose upon me. But if you have that purpose, you had better stop on the +threshold of your scheme. My humour is not a trifling one, and my +acknowledgment will be severe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh a proud, hard gentleman!” chuckled the old woman, shaking her +head, and rubbing her shrivelled hands, “oh hard, hard, hard! But your +worship shall see with 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, honourable deary?” +</p> + +<p> +“Money,” returned Mr Dombey, apparently relieved, and assured 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know nothing more powerful than money?” asked the younger +woman, without rising, or altering her attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“Not here, I should imagine,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“You should know of something that is more powerful elsewhere, as I +judge,” she returned. “Do you know nothing of a woman’s +anger?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have a saucy tongue, Jade,” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Not usually,” she answered, without any show of emotion: “I +speak to you now, that you may understand us better, and rely more on us. A +woman’s anger is pretty much the same here, as in your fine house. I 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.” +</p> + +<p> +He started, in spite of himself, and looked at her with astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, with a kind of laugh. “Wide as the distance +may seem between us, it is so. How it is so, is no matter; that is my story, +and I keep my story to myself. I would bring you and him together, because I +have a rage against him. My mother there, is avaricious and poor; and she would +sell any tidings she could glean, or anything, or anybody, for money. It is +fair enough, perhaps, that you should pay her some, if she can help you to what +you want to know. But that is not my motive. I have told you what mine is, and +it would be as strong and all-sufficient with me if you haggled and bargained +with her for a sixpence. I have done. My saucy tongue says no more, if you wait +here till sunrise tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman, who had shown great uneasiness during 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 glared at them both, by turns, +with a haggard look, and said, in a deeper voice than was usual with him: +</p> + +<p> +“Go on—what do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, not so fast, your worship! we must wait for someone,” answered +the old woman. “It’s to be got from someone else—wormed +out—screwed and twisted from him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” said Mr Dombey. +</p> + +<p> +“Patience,” she croaked, laying her hand, like a claw, upon his +arm. “Patience. I’ll get at it. I know I can! If he was to hold it +back from me,” said Good Mrs Brown, crooking her ten fingers, +“I’d tear it out of him!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey followed her with his eyes as she hobbled to the door, and looked out +again: and then his glance sought her daughter; but she remained impassive, +silent, and regardless of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you tell me, woman,” he said, when the bent figure of Mrs Brown +came back, shaking its head and chattering to itself, “that there is +another person expected here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” said the old woman, looking up into his face, and nodding. +</p> + +<p> +“From whom you are to exact the intelligence that is to be useful to +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the old woman, nodding again. +</p> + +<p> +“A stranger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Chut!” said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. “What +signifies! Well, well; no. No stranger to your worship. But he won’t see +you. He’d be afraid of you, and wouldn’t talk. You’ll stand +behind that door, 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! Look at it, then.” +</p> + +<p> +Her sharp eye had detected an involuntary expression of this feeling on his +part, which was not unreasonable under the circumstances. In satisfaction of it +she now took the candle to the door she spoke of. Mr Dombey looked in; assured +himself that it was an empty, crazy room; and signed to her to put the light +back in its place. +</p> + +<p> +“How long,” he asked, “before this person comes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not long,” she answered. “Would your worship sit down for a +few odd minutes?” +</p> + +<p> +He made no answer; but began pacing the room with an irresolute air, as if he +were undecided whether to remain or depart, and as if he had some quarrel with +himself for being there at all. But soon his tread grew slower and heavier, and +his face more sternly thoughtful; as the object with which he had come, fixed +itself in his mind, and dilated there again. +</p> + +<p> +While he thus walked up and down with his eyes on the ground, Mrs Brown, in the +chair from which she had risen to receive him, sat listening anew. The monotony +of his step, or the uncertainty of age, made her so slow of hearing, that a +footfall without had sounded in her daughter’s ears for some moments, and +she had looked up hastily to warn her mother of its approach, before the old +woman was roused by it. But then she started from her seat, and whispering +“Here he is!” hurried her visitor to his place of observation, and +put a bottle and glass upon the table, with such alacrity, as to be ready to +fling her arms round the neck of Rob the Grinder on his appearance at the door. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0665m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“And here’s my bonny boy,” cried Mrs Brown, “at +last!—oho, oho! You’re like my own son, Robby!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Misses Brown!” remonstrated the Grinder. “Don’t! +Can’t you be fond of a cove without squeedging and throttling of him? +Take care of the birdcage in my hand, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thinks of a birdcage, afore me!” cried the old woman, +apostrophizing the ceiling. “Me that feels more than a mother for +him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, Misses +Brown,” said the unfortunate youth, greatly aggravated; “but +you’re so jealous of a cove. I’m very fond of you myself, and all +that, of course; but I don’t smother you, do I, Misses Brown?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked and spoke as if he would have been far from objecting to do so, +however, on a favourable occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“And to talk about birdcages, too!” whimpered the Grinder. +“As if that was a crime! Why, look’ee here! Do you know who this +belongs to?” +</p> + +<p> +“To Master, dear?” said the old woman with a grin. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Carker’s parrot, Rob?” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?” returned the goaded +Grinder. “What do you go naming names for? I’m blest,” said +Rob, pulling his hair with both hands in the exasperation of his feelings, +“if she ain’t enough to make a cove run wild!” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Do you snub me, thankless boy!” cried the old woman, with +ready vehemence. +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious, Misses Brown, no!” returned the Grinder, with tears +in his eyes. “Was there ever such a—! Don’t I dote upon you, +Misses Brown?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you, sweet Rob? Do you truly, chickabiddy?” With that, Mrs +Brown held him in her fond embrace once more; and did not release him until he +had made several violent and ineffectual struggles with his legs, and his hair +was standing on end all over his head. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Not here since this night week!” said the old woman, +contemplating him with a look of reproach. +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder, “I said +tonight’s a week, that I’d come tonight, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Drink a little drop to comfort you, my Robin,” said the old woman, +filling the glass from the bottle and giving it to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder. +“Here’s your health. And long may you—et ceterer.” +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!” +</p> + +<p> +He drained the glass to these two sentiments, and set it down. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cost!” repeated Mrs Brown. +</p> + +<p> +“Satisfaction, I mean,” returned the Grinder. “How you do +take up a cove, Misses Brown! You’ve put it all out of my head +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Judge of birds, Robby,” suggested the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the Grinder. “Well, I’ve got to take care of +this parrot—certain things being sold, and a certain establishment broke +up—and as I don’t want no notice took at present, I wish +you’d attend to her for a week or so, and give her board and lodging, +will you? If I must come backwards and forwards,” mused the Grinder with +a dejected face, “I may as well have something to come for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something to come for?” screamed the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He don’t care for me! He don’t care for me, as I care for +him!” cried Mrs Brown, lifting up her skinny hands. “But I’ll +take care of his bird.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take good care of it too, you know, Mrs 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so sharp as that, Rob?” said Mrs Brown, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Sharp, Misses Brown!” repeated Rob. “But this is not to be +talked about.” +</p> + +<p> +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 parrot’s +cage by way of a diversion from the dangerous theme that had just been +broached. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman eyed him slily, and hitching her chair nearer his, and looking in +at the parrot, who came down from the gilded dome at her call, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Out of place now, Robby?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never you mind, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder, shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“Board wages, perhaps, Rob?” said Mrs Brown. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty Polly!” said the Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman darted a glance at him that might have warned him to consider his +ears in danger, but it was his turn to look in at the parrot now, and however +expressive his imagination may have made her angry scowl, it was unseen by his +bodily eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, Rob,” said the old +woman, in a wheedling voice, but with increased malignity of aspect. +</p> + +<p> +Rob was so absorbed in contemplation of the parrot, and in trolling his +forefinger on the wires, that he made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Robby, my child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +“I say I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never you mind, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Brown instantly directed the clutch of her right hand at his hair, and the +clutch of her left hand at his throat, and held on to the object of her fond +affection with such extraordinary fury, that his face began to blacken in a +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Misses Brown!” exclaimed the Grinder, “let go, will you? +What are you doing of? Help, young woman! Misses Brow—Brow—!” +</p> + +<p> +The young woman, however, equally unmoved by his direct appeal to her, and by +his inarticulate utterance, remained quite neutral, until, after struggling +with his assailant into a corner, 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 energies for +another swoop upon him. At this crisis Alice interposed her voice, but not in +the Grinder’s favour, by saying, +</p> + +<p> +“Well done, mother. Tear him to pieces!” +</p> + +<p> +“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-cuff at his eye. “I’m surprised at you! +Where’s your feminine tenderness?” +</p> + +<p> +“You thankless dog!” gasped Mrs Brown. “You impudent +insulting dog!” +</p> + +<p> +“What have I been and done to go and give you offence, Misses +Brown?” retorted the fearful Rob. “You was very much attached to me +a minute ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“To cut me off with his short answers and his sulky words,” said +the old woman. “Me! Because I happen to be curious to have a little bit +of gossip about Master and the lady, to dare to play at fast and loose with me! +But I’ll talk to you no more, my lad. Now go!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure, Misses Brown,” returned the abject Grinder, +“I never insiniwated that I wished to go. Don’t talk like that, +Misses Brown, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t talk at all,” said Mrs Brown, with an action of her +crooked fingers that made him shrink into half his natural compass in the +corner. “Not another word with him shall pass my lips. He’s an +ungrateful hound. I cast him off. Now let him go! And I’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 foxes. 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +repeating these words, and shaking her fist above her head, and working her +mouth about. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk to me,” said Mrs Brown, still wrathfully pursuing +her circle. “Now let him go, now let him go!” +</p> + +<p> +“Misses Brown,” urged the tormented Grinder, “I didn’t +mean to—Oh, what a thing it is for a cove to get into such a line as +this!—I was only careful of talking, Misses Brown, because I always am, +on account of his being up to everything; but I might have known it +wouldn’t have gone any further. I’m sure I’m quite +agreeable,” with a wretched face, “for any little bit of gossip, +Misses Brown. Don’t go on like this, if you please. Oh, couldn’t +you have the goodness to put in a word for a miserable cove, here?” said +the Grinder, appealing in desperation to the daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, mother, you hear what he says,” she interposed, in her stern +voice, and with an impatient action of her head; “try him once more, and +if you fall out with him again, ruin him, if you like, and have done with +him.” +</p> + +<p> +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, combating very +expressive physiognomical revelations of an opposite character to draw his arm +through hers, and keep it there. +</p> + +<p> +“And how’s Master, deary dear?” said Mrs Brown, when, sitting +in this amicable posture, they had pledged each other. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! If you’d be so good, Misses Brown, as to speak a little +lower,” Rob implored. “Why, he’s pretty well, thank’ee, +I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not out of place, Robby?” said Mrs Brown, in a +wheedling tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I’m not exactly out of place, nor in,” faltered Rob. +“I—I’m still in pay, Misses Brown.” +</p> + +<p> +“And nothing to do, Rob?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing particular to do just now, Misses Brown, but to—keep my +eyes open,” said the Grinder, rolling them in a forlorn way. +</p> + +<p> +“Master abroad, Rob?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Misses Brown, couldn’t you gossip +with a cove about anything else?” cried the Grinder, in a burst of +despair. +</p> + +<p> +The impetuous Mrs Brown rising directly, the tortured Grinder detained her, +stammering “Ye-es, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Misses Brown, what lady?” cried the Grinder in a tone of +piteous supplication. +</p> + +<p> +“What lady?” she retorted. “The lady; Mrs Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I believe I see her once,” replied Rob. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you know it was that night, you know, Misses Brown,” +replied Rob, “it’s no use putting pinchers into a cove to make him +say so. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did they go that night, Rob? Straight away? How did they go? Where +did you see her? Did she laugh? Did she cry? Tell me all about it,” cried +the old hag, holding him closer yet, patting the hand that was drawn through +his arm against her other hand, and searching every line in his face with her +bleared eyes. “Come! Begin! I want to be told all about it. What, Rob, +boy! You and me can keep a secret together, eh? We’ve done so before now. +Where did they go first, Rob?” +</p> + +<p> +The wretched Grinder made a gasp, and a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you dumb?” said the old woman, angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say?” asked the old woman, with a grin. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m wishing my love to you, Misses Brown,” returned the +false Rob, seeking consolation in the glass. “Where did they go to first +was it? Him and her, do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the old woman, eagerly. “Them two.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, they didn’t go nowhere—not together, I mean,” +answered Rob. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That was the art of it,” said the reluctant Grinder; +“that’s the way nobody saw ’em go, or has been able to say +how they did go. They went different ways, I tell you Misses Brown.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, ay! To meet at an appointed place,” chuckled the old +woman, after a moment’s silent and keen scrutiny of his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, if they weren’t a going to meet somewhere, I suppose they +might as well have stayed at home, mightn’t they, Brown?” returned +the unwilling Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Rob? Well?” said the old woman, drawing his arm yet tighter +through her own, as if, in her eagerness, she were afraid of his slipping away. +</p> + +<p> +“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 coats into one or other of his eyes, and uttered an +unavailing whine of remonstrance. “Did she laugh that night, was it? +Didn’t you ask if she laughed, Misses Brown?” +</p> + +<p> +“Or cried?” added the old woman, nodding assent. +</p> + +<p> +“Neither,” said the Grinder. “She kept as steady when she and +me—oh, I see you will have it out of me, Misses Brown! But take your +solemn oath now, that you’ll never tell anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +This Mrs Brown very readily did: being naturally Jesuitical; and having no +other intention in the matter than that her concealed visitor should hear for +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“She kept as steady, then, when she and me went 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, Misses +Brown?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Rob. Not yet,” answered Mrs Brown, decisively. +</p> + +<p> +“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, Misses Brown?” +</p> + +<p> +“What became of Master? Where did he go?” she inquired, still +holding him tight, and looking close into his face, with her sharp eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my soul, I don’t know, Misses Brown,” answered 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 +tongue, when we parted; and I tell you this, Misses 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 a-fire, +for there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, to be revenged upon you. You +don’t know him half as well as I do, Misses Brown. You’re never +safe from him, I tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t I taken an oath,” retorted the old woman, “and +won’t I keep it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her as he gave her this friendly caution, and emphasized it with a +nodding of his head; but finding it uncomfortable to encounter the yellow face +with its grotesque action, and the ferret eyes with their keen old wintry gaze, +so close to his own, he looked down uneasily and sat skulking 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 raising the forefinger of her right hand, in the air, as a +stealthy signal to the concealed observer to give particular attention to what +was about to follow. +</p> + +<p> +“Rob,” she said, in her most coaxing tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious, Misses Brown, what’s the matter now?” +returned the exasperated Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Rob! where did the lady and Master appoint to meet?” +</p> + +<p> +Rob shuffled more and more, and looked up and looked down, and bit his thumb, +and dried it on his waistcoat, and finally said, eyeing his tormentor askance, +“How should I know, Misses Brown?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you have heard it said, Robby,” she retorted firmly, +“and you know what it sounded like. Come!” +</p> + +<p> +“I never heard it said, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” retorted the old woman quickly, “you have seen it +written, and you can spell it.” +</p> + +<p> +Rob, with a petulant exclamation between laughing and crying—for he was +penetrated with some admiration of Mrs Brown’s cunning, even through this +persecution—after some reluctant fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, +produced from it a little piece of chalk. The old woman’s eyes sparkled +when she saw it between his thumb and finger, and hastily clearing a space on +the deal table, that he might write the word there, she once more made her +signal with a shaking hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I tell you beforehand what it is, Misses Brown,” said Rob, +“it’s no use asking me anything else. I won’t answer anything +else; I can’t. How long it was to be before they met, or whose plan it +was that they was to go away alone, I don’t know no more than you do. I +don’t know any more about it. If I was to tell you how I found out this +word, you’d believe that. Shall I tell you, Misses Brown?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Rob.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, Misses Brown. The way—now you won’t ask any more, +you know?” said Rob, turning his eyes, which were now fast getting drowsy +and stupid, upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“Not another word,” said Mrs Brown. +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, the way was this. When a certain person left the lady with +me, he put a piece of paper with a direction written on it in the lady’s +hand, saying it was in case she should forget. She wasn’t afraid of +forgetting, for she tore it up as soon as his back was turned, and when I put +up the carriage steps, I shook out one of the pieces—she sprinkled the +rest out of the window, I suppose, for there was none there afterwards, though +I looked for ’em. There was only one word on it, and that was this, if +you must and will know. But remember! You’re upon your oath, Misses +Brown!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Brown knew that, she said. Rob, having nothing more to say, began to chalk, +slowly and laboriously, on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“‘D,’” the old woman read aloud, when he had formed the +letter. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?” he exclaimed, covering +it with his hand, and turning impatiently upon her. “I won’t have +it read out. Be quiet, will you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then write large, Rob,” she returned, repeating her secret signal; +“for my eyes are not good, even at print.” +</p> + +<p> +Muttering to himself, and returning to his work with an ill will, Rob went on +with the word. As he bent his head down, the person for whose information he so +unconsciously laboured, moved from the door behind him to within a short stride +of his shoulder, and looked eagerly towards the creeping track of his hand upon +the table. At the same time, Alice, from her opposite chair, watched it +narrowly as it shaped the letters, and repeated each one on her lips as he made +it, without articulating it aloud. At the end of every letter her eyes and Mr +Dombey’s met, as if each of them sought to be confirmed by the other; and +thus they both spelt D.I.J.O.N. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” said the Grinder, moistening the palm of his hand hastily, +to obliterate the word; and not content with smearing it out, rubbing and +planing all trace of it away with his coat-sleeve, until the very colour of the +chalk was gone from the table. “Now, I hope you’re contented, +Misses Brown!” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman, in token of her being so, released his arm and patted his back; +and the Grinder, overcome with mortification, cross-examination, and liquor, +folded his arms on the table, laid his head upon them, and fell asleep. +</p> + +<p> +Not until he had been heavily asleep some time, and was snoring roundly, did +the old woman turn towards the door where Mr Dombey stood concealed, and beckon +him to come through the room, and pass out. Even then, she hovered over Rob, +ready to blind him with her hands, or strike his head down, if he should raise +it while the secret step was crossing to the door. But though her glance took +sharp cognizance of the sleeper, it was sharp too for the waking man; and when +he touched her hand with his, and in spite of all his caution, made a chinking, +golden sound, it was as bright and greedy as a raven’s. +</p> + +<p> +The daughter’s dark gaze followed him to the door, and noted well how +pale he was, and how his hurried tread indicated that the least delay was an +insupportable restraint upon him, and how he was burning to be active and away. +As he closed the door behind him, she looked round at her mother. The old woman +trotted to her; opened her hand to show what was within; and, tightly closing +it again in her jealousy and avarice, whispered: +</p> + +<p> +“What will he do, Ally?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mischief,” said the daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Murder?” asked the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a madman, in his wounded pride, and may do that, for anything +we can say, or he either.” +</p> + +<p> +Her glance was brighter than her mother’s, and the fire that shone in it +was fiercer; but her face was colourless, even to her lips. +</p> + +<p> +They said no more, but sat apart; the mother communing with her money; the +daughter with her thoughts; the glance of each, shining in the gloom of the +feebly lighted room. Rob slept and snored. The disregarded parrot only was in +action. It twisted and pulled at the wires of its cage, with its crooked beak, +and crawled up to the dome, and along its roof like a fly, and down again head +foremost, and shook, and bit, and rattled at every slender bar, as if it knew +its master’s danger, and was wild to force a passage out, and fly away to +warn him of it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap53"></a>CHAPTER LIII.<br /> +More Intelligence</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here +were two of the traitor’s own blood—his renounced brother and +sister—on whom the weight of his guilt rested almost more heavily, at +this time, than on the man whom he had so deeply injured. Prying and tormenting +as the world was, it did Mr Dombey the service of nerving him to pursuit and +revenge. It roused his passion, stung his pride, twisted the one idea of his +life into a new shape, and made some gratification of his wrath, the object +into which his whole intellectual existence resolved itself. All the +stubbornness and implacability of his nature, all its hard impenetrable +quality, all its gloom and moroseness, all its exaggerated sense of personal +importance, all its jealous disposition to resent the least flaw in the ample +recognition of his importance by others, set this way like many streams united +into one, and bore him on upon their tide. The most impetuously passionate and +violently impulsive of mankind would have been a milder enemy to encounter than +the sullen Mr Dombey wrought to this. A wild beast would have been easier +turned or soothed than the grave gentleman without a wrinkle in his starched +cravat. +</p> + +<p> +But the very intensity of his purpose became almost a substitute for action in +it. While he was yet uninformed of the traitor’s retreat, it served to +divert his mind from his own calamity, and to entertain it with another +prospect. The brother and sister of his false favourite had no such relief; +everything in their history, past and present, gave his delinquency a more +afflicting meaning to them. +</p> + +<p> +The sister may have sometimes sadly thought that if she had remained with him, +the companion and friend she had been once, he might have escaped the crime +into which he had fallen. If she ever thought so, it was still without regret +for what she had done, without the least doubt of her duty, without any pricing +or enhancing of her self-devotion. But when this possibility presented itself +to the erring and repentant brother, as it sometimes did, it smote upon his +heart with such a keen, reproachful touch as he could hardly bear. No idea of +retort upon his cruel brother came into his mind. New accusation of himself, +fresh inward lamentings over his own unworthiness, and the ruin in which it was +at once his consolation and his self-reproach that he did not stand alone, were +the sole kind of reflections to which the discovery gave rise in him. +</p> + +<p> +It was on the very same day whose evening set upon the last chapter, and when +Mr Dombey’s world was busiest with the elopement of his wife, that the +window of the room in which the brother and sister sat at their early +breakfast, was darkened by the unexpected shadow of a man coming to the little +porch: which man was Perch the Messenger. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve stepped over from Balls Pond at a early hour,” said Mr +Perch, confidentially looking in at the room door, and stopping on the mat to +wipe his shoes all round, which had no mud upon them, “agreeable to my +instructions last night. They was, to be sure and bring a note to you, Mr +Carker, before you went out in the morning. I should have been here a good hour +and a half ago,” said Mr Perch, meekly, “but for the state of +health of Mrs P., who I thought I should have lost in the night, I do assure +you, five distinct times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your wife so ill?” asked Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you see,” said Mr Perch, first turning round to shut the door +carefully, “she takes what has happened in our House so much to heart, +Miss. Her nerves is so very delicate, you see, and soon unstrung. Not but what +the strongest nerves had good need to be shook, I’m sure. You feel it +very much yourself, no doubts.” +</p> + +<p> +Harriet repressed a sigh, and glanced at her brother. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I feel it myself, in my humble way,” Mr Perch went +on to say, with a shake of his head, “in a manner I couldn’t have +believed if I hadn’t been called upon to undergo. It has almost the +effect of drink upon me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been +taking more than was good for me over-night.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Therefore I can judge,” said Mr Perch, shaking his head and +speaking in a silvery murmur, “of the feelings of such as is at all +peculiarly sitiwated in this most painful rewelation.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Mr Perch waited to be confided in; and receiving no confidence, coughed +behind his hand. This leading to nothing, he coughed behind his hat; and that +leading to nothing, he put his hat on the ground and sought in his breast +pocket for the letter. +</p> + +<p> +“If I rightly recollect, there was no answer,” said Mr Perch, with +an affable smile; “but perhaps you’ll be so good as cast your eye +over it, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +John Carker broke the seal, which was Mr Dombey’s, and possessing himself +of the contents, which were very brief, replied, “No. No answer is +expected.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I shall wish you good morning, Miss,” said Perch, taking a +step toward the door, and hoping, I’m sure, that you’ll not permit +yourself to be more reduced in mind than you can help, by the late painful +rewelation. The Papers,” said Mr Perch, taking two steps back again, and +comprehensively addressing both the brother and sister in a whisper of +increased mystery, “is more eager for news of it than you’d suppose +possible. One of the Sunday ones, in a blue cloak and a white hat, that had +previously offered for to bribe me—need I say with what +success?—was dodging about our court last night as late as twenty minutes +after eight o’clock. I see him myself, with his eye at the counting-house +keyhole, which being patent is impervious. Another one,” said Mr Perch, +“with military frogs, is in the parlour of the King’s Arms all the +blessed day. I happened, last week, to let a little obserwation fall there, and +next morning, which was Sunday, I see it worked up in print, in a most +surprising manner.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Perch resorted to his breast pocket, as if to produce the paragraph but +receiving no encouragement, pulled out his beaver gloves, picked up his hat, +and took his leave; and before it was high noon, Mr Perch had related to +several select audiences at the King’s Arms and elsewhere, how Miss +Carker, bursting into tears, had caught him by both hands, and said, “Oh! +dear dear Perch, the sight of you is all the comfort I have left!” and +how Mr John Carker had said, in an awful voice, “Perch, I disown him. +Never let me hear him mentioned as a brother more!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear John,” said Harriet, when they were left alone, and had +remained silent for some few moments. “There are bad tidings in that +letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But nothing unexpected,” he replied. “I saw the writer +yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“The writer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Dombey. He passed twice through the Counting House while I was there. +I had been able to avoid him before, but of course could not hope to do that +long. I know how natural it was that he should regard my presence as something +offensive; I felt it must be so, myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“He did not say so?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; he said nothing: but I saw that his glance rested on me for a +moment, and I was prepared for what would happen—for what has happened. I +am dismissed!” +</p> + +<p> +She looked as little shocked and as hopeful as she could, but it was +distressing news, for many reasons. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I need not tell you,’” said John Carker, reading the +letter, “‘why your name would henceforth have an unnatural sound, +in however remote a connexion with mine, or why the daily sight of anyone who +bears it, would be unendurable to me. I have to notify the cessation 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 +notice, and this is my discharge. Heaven knows, Harriet, it is a lenient and +considerate one, when we remember all!” +</p> + +<p> +“If it be lenient and considerate to punish you at all, John, for the +misdeed of another,” she replied gently, “yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Brother, don’t speak like this. If you have any special reason, as +you say you have, and think you have—though I say, No!—to love me, +spare me the hearing of such wild mad words!” +</p> + +<p> +He covered his face with both his hands; but soon permitted her, coming near +him, to take one in her own. +</p> + +<p> +“After so many years, this parting is a melancholy thing, I know,” +said his sister, “and the cause of it is dreadful to us both. We have to +live, too, and must look about us for the means. Well, well! We can do so, +undismayed. It is our pride, not our trouble, to strive, John, and to strive +together!” +</p> + +<p> +A smile played on her lips, as she kissed his cheek, and entreated him to be +of good cheer. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“John!” she laid her hand hastily upon his lips, “for my +sake! In remembrance of our long companionship!” He was silent +“Now, let me tell you, dear,” quietly sitting by his side, “I +have, as you have, expected this; and when I have been thinking of it, and +fearing that it would happen, and preparing myself for it, as well as I could, +I have resolved to tell you, if it should be so, that I have kept a secret from +you, and that we have a friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s our friend’s name, Harriet?” he answered with a +sorrowful smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I don’t know, but he once made a very earnest protestation +to me of his friendship and his wish to serve us: and to this day I believe +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Harriet!” exclaimed her wondering brother, “where does this +friend live?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here! Has he been here, Harriet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, in this room. Once.” +</p> + +<p> +“What kind of man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not young. ‘Grey-headed,’ as he said, ‘and fast +growing greyer.’ But generous, and frank, and good, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“And only seen once, Harriet?” +</p> + +<p> +“In this room only once,” said his sister, with the slightest and +most transient glow upon her cheek; “but when here, he entreated me to +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And once a week—” +</p> + +<p> +“Once every week since then, and always on the same day, and at the same +hour, he his gone past; always on foot; always going in the same +direction—towards London; and never pausing longer than to bow to me, and +wave his hand cheerfully, as a kind guardian might. He made that promise when +he proposed these curious interviews, and has kept it so faithfully and +pleasantly, that if I ever felt any trifling uneasiness about them in the +beginning (which I don’t think I did, John; his manner was so plain and +true) it very soon vanished, and left me quite glad when the day was coming. +Last Monday—the first since this terrible event—he did not go by; +and I have wondered whether his absence can have been in any way connected with +what has happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” inquired her brother. +</p> + +<p> +“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 gave him my +promise that if we ever wanted a friend, I would remember him. Then his name +was to be no secret.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +His sister painted, as vividly as she could, the features, stature, and dress +of her visitor; but John Carker, either from having no knowledge of the +original, or from some fault in her description, or from some abstraction of +his thoughts as he walked to and fro, pondering, could not recognise the +portrait she presented to him. +</p> + +<p> +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 grey-haired man, late Junior of +Dombey’s, devoted the first day of his unwonted liberty to working in the +garden. +</p> + +<p> +It was quite late at night, and the brother was reading aloud while the sister +plied her needle, when they were interrupted by a knocking at the door. In the +atmosphere of vague anxiety and dread that lowered about them in connexion with +their fugitive brother, this sound, unusual there, became almost alarming. The +brother going to the door, the sister sat and listened timidly. Someone spoke +to him, and he replied and seemed surprised; and after a few words, the two +approached together. +</p> + +<p> +“Harriet,” said her brother, lighting in their late visitor, and +speaking in a low voice, “Mr Morfin—the gentleman so long in +Dombey’s House with James.” +</p> + +<p> +His sister started back, as if a ghost had entered. In the doorway stood the +unknown friend, with the dark hair sprinkled with grey, the ruddy face, the +broad clear brow, and hazel eyes, whose secret she had kept so long! +</p> + +<p> +“John!” she said, half-breathless. “It is the gentleman I +told you of, today!” +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman, Miss Harriet,” said the visitor, coming +in—for he had stopped a moment in the doorway—“is greatly +relieved to hear you say that: he has been devising ways and means, all the way +here, of explaining himself, and has been satisfied with none. Mr John, I am +not quite a stranger here. You were stricken with astonishment when you saw me +at your door just now. I observe you are more astonished at present. Well! +That’s reasonable enough under existing circumstances. If we were not +such creatures of habit as we are, we shouldn’t have reason to be +astonished half so often.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time, he had greeted Harriet with that able mingling of cordiality and +respect which she recollected so well, and had sat down near her, pulled off +his gloves, and thrown them into his hat upon the table. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing astonishing,” he said, “in my having +conceived a desire to see your sister, Mr John, or in my having gratified it in +my own way. As to the regularity of my visits since (which she may have +mentioned to you), there is nothing extraordinary in that. They soon grew into +a habit; and we are creatures of habit—creatures of habit!” +</p> + +<p> +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 villainy—more of us in indifference —that hardens +us from day to day, according to the temper of our clay, like images, and +leaves us as susceptible as images to new impressions and convictions. You +shall judge of its influence on me, John. For more years than I need name, I +had my small, and exactly defined share, in the management of Dombey’s +House, and saw your brother (who has proved himself a scoundrel! Your sister +will forgive my being obliged to mention it) extending and extending his +influence, until the business and its owner were his football; and saw you +toiling at your obscure desk every day; and was quite content to be as little +troubled as I might be, out of my own strip of duty, and to let everything +about me go on, day by day, unquestioned, like a great machine—that was +its habit and mine—and to take it all for granted, and consider it all +right. My Wednesday nights came regularly round, our quartette parties came +regularly off, my violoncello was in good tune, and there was nothing wrong in +my world—or if anything not much—or little or much, it was no +affair of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can answer for your being more respected and beloved during all that +time than anybody in the House, Sir,” said John Carker. +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! Good-natured and easy enough, I daresay,” returned the +other, “a habit I had. It suited the Manager; it suited the man he +managed: it suited me best of all. I did what was allotted to me to 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have whistled, hummed tunes, gone accurately through the whole of +Beethoven’s Sonata in B, to let him know that I was within +hearing,” said Mr Morfin; “but he never heeded me. It happened +seldom enough that I was within hearing of anything of a private nature, +certainly. But when I was, and couldn’t otherwise avoid knowing 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It referred, Harriet,” said her brother in a low voice, “to +the past, and to our relative positions in the House.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 brothers, +and to ponder on it. I think it was almost the first time in my life when I +fell into this train of reflection—how will many things that are +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Before I knew what to do, or whether I could do anything, there was a +second conversation between the same two brothers, in which their sister was +mentioned. I had no scruples of conscience in suffering all the waifs and +strays of that conversation to float to me as freely as they would. I +considered them mine by right. After that, I came here to see the sister for +myself. The first time I stopped at the garden gate, I made a pretext of +inquiring into the character of a poor neighbour; but I wandered out of that +tract, and I think Miss Harriet mistrusted me. The second time I asked leave to +come in; came in; and said what I wished to say. Your sister showed me reasons +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 I was prevented, by important matters that have +lately devolved upon me, from maintaining them.” +</p> + +<p> +“How little I have suspected this,” said John Carker, “when I +have seen you every day, Sir! If Harriet could have guessed your +name—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 distractions of death, courtship, marriage, and domestic unhappiness, +have left us no head but your brother for this long, long time. And it would +have been better for us,” said the visitor, dropping his voice, “to +have been a lifeless trunk.” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed conscious that these latter words had escaped him against his will, +and stretching out a hand to the brother, and a hand to the sister, continued: +</p> + +<p> +“All I could desire to say, and more, I have now said. All I mean goes +beyond words, as I hope you understand and believe. The time has come, +John—though most unfortunately and unhappily come—when I may help +you without interfering with that redeeming struggle, which has lasted through +so many years; since you were discharged from it today by no act of your own. +It is late; I need say no more tonight. You will guard the treasure you have +here, without advice or reminder from me.” +</p> + +<p> +With these words he rose to go. +</p> + +<p> +“But go you first, John,” he said goodhumouredly, “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.” +</p> + +<p> +Following him out with his eyes, he turned kindly to Harriet, and said in a +lower voice, and with an altered and graver manner: +</p> + +<p> +“You wish to ask me something of the man whose sister it is your +misfortune to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dread to ask,” said Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“You have looked so earnestly at me more than once,” rejoined the +visitor, “that I think I can divine your question. Has he taken money? Is +it that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank Heaven!” said Harriet. “For the sake of John.” +</p> + +<p> +“That he has abused his trust in many ways,” said Mr Morfin; +“that he has oftener dealt and speculated to advantage for himself, than +for the House he represented; that he has led the House on, to prodigious +ventures, often resulting in enormous losses; that he has always pampered the +vanity and ambition of his employer, when it was his duty to have held them in +check, and shown, as it was in his power to do, to what they tended here or +there; will not, perhaps, surprise you now. Undertakings have been entered on, +to swell the reputation of the House for vast resources, and to exhibit it in +magnificent contrast to other merchants’ Houses, of which it requires a +steady head to contemplate the possibly—a few 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 clue: he has had the opportunity, and +he seems to have used it, of keeping the various results afloat, when +ascertained, and substituting estimates and generalities for facts. But +latterly—you follow me, Miss Harriet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly, perfectly,” she answered, with her frightened face +fixed on his. “Pray tell me all the worst at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 his constant +practice to minister to that passion basely, and to flatter it corruptly, is +indubitable. In that, his criminality, as it is connected with the affairs of +the House, chiefly consists.” +</p> + +<p> +“One other word before you leave me, dear Sir,” said Harriet. +“There is no danger in all this?” +</p> + +<p> +“How danger?” he returned, with a little hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“To the credit of the House?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help answering you plainly, and trusting you completely,” +said Mr Morfin, after a moment’s survey of her face. +</p> + +<p> +“You may. Indeed you may!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I may. Danger to the House’s credit? No; none There may +be difficulty, greater or less difficulty, but no danger, unless—unless, +indeed—the head of the House, unable to bring his mind to the reduction +of its enterprises, and positively refusing to believe that it is, or can be, +in any position but the position in which he has always represented it to +himself, should urge it beyond its strength. Then it would totter.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is no apprehension of that?” said Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“There shall be no half-confidence,” he replied, shaking her hand, +“between us. Mr Dombey is unapproachable by anyone, and his state of mind +is haughty, rash, unreasonable, and ungovernable, now. But he is disturbed and +agitated now beyond all common bounds, and it may pass. You now know all, both +worst and best. No more tonight, and good-night!” +</p> + +<p> +With that he kissed her hand, and, passing out to the door where her brother +stood awaiting his coming, put him cheerfully aside when he essayed to speak; +told him that, as they would see each other soon and often, he might speak at +another time, if he would, but there was no leisure for it then; and went away +at a round pace, in order that no word of gratitude might follow him. +</p> + +<p> +The brother and sister sat conversing by the fireside, until it was almost day; +made sleepless by this glimpse of the new world that opened before them, and +feeling like two people shipwrecked long ago, upon a solitary coast, to whom a +ship had come at last, when they were old in resignation, and had lost all +thought of any other home. But another and different kind of disquietude kept +them waking too. The darkness out of which this light had broken on them +gathered around; and the shadow of their guilty brother was in the house where +his foot had never trod. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was it to be driven out, nor did it fade before the sun. Next morning it +was there; at noon; at night Darkest and most distinct at night, as is now to +be told. +</p> + +<p> +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, and a deepening twilight, were not favourable to the +removal of the oppression on her spirits. The idea of this brother, long unseen +and unknown, flitted about her in frightful shapes. He was dead, dying, calling +to her, staring at her, frowning on her. The pictures in her mind were so +obtrusive and exact that, as the twilight deepened, she dreaded to raise her +head and look at the dark corners of the room, lest his wraith, the offspring +of her excited imagination, should be waiting there, to startle her. Once she +had such a fancy of his being in the next room, hiding—though she knew +quite well what a distempered fancy it was, and had no belief in it—that +she forced herself to go there, for her own conviction. But in vain. The room +resumed its shadowy terrors, the moment she left it; and she had no more power +to divest herself of these vague impressions of dread, than if they had been +stone giants, rooted in the solid earth. +</p> + +<p> +It was almost dark, and she was sitting near the window, with her head upon her +hand, looking down, when, sensible of a sudden increase in the gloom of the +apartment, she raised her eyes, and uttered an 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me in! Let me in! I want to speak to you!” and the hand +rattled on the glass. +</p> + +<p> +She recognised immediately the woman with the long dark hair, to whom she had +given warmth, food, and shelter, one wet night. Naturally afraid of her, +remembering her violent behaviour, Harriet, retreating a little from the +window, stood undecided and alarmed. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me in! Let me speak to you! I am +thankful—quiet—humble—anything you like. But let me speak to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May I come in, or shall I speak here?” said the woman, catching at +her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it that you want? What is it that you have to say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not much, but let me say it out, or I shall never say it. I am tempted +now to go away. There seem to be hands dragging me from the door. Let me come +in, if you can trust me for this once!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit there,” said Alice, kneeling down beside her, “and look +at me. You remember me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You remember what I told you I had been, and where I came from, ragged +and lame, with the fierce wind and weather beating on my head?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know how I came back that night, and threw your money in the dirt, +and you and your race. Now, see me here, upon my knees. Am I less earnest now, +than I was then?” +</p> + +<p> +“If what you ask,” said Harriet, gently, “is +forgiveness—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Still upon her knees, and with her eyes upon the fire, and the fire shining on +her ruined beauty and her wild black hair, one long tress of which she pulled +over her shoulder, and wound about her hand, and thoughtfully bit and tore +while speaking, she went on: +</p> + +<p> +“When I was young and pretty, and this,” plucking contemptuously at +the hair she held, “was only handled delicately, and couldn’t be +admired enough, my mother, who had not been very mindful of me as a child, +found out my merits, and was fond of me, and proud of me. She was covetous and +poor, and thought to make a sort of property of me. No great lady ever thought +that of a daughter yet, I’m sure, or acted as if she did—it’s +never done, we all know—and that shows that the only instances of mothers +bringing up their daughters wrong, and evil coming of it, are among such +miserable folks as us.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What came of that, I needn’t say. Wretched marriages don’t +come of such things, in our degree; only wretchedness and ruin. Wretchedness +and ruin came on me—came on me.” +</p> + +<p> +Raising her eyes swiftly from their moody gaze upon the fire, to +Harriet’s face, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“I am wasting time, and there is none to spare; yet if I hadn’t +thought of all, I shouldn’t be here now. Wretchedness and ruin came on +me, I say. I was made a short-lived toy, and flung aside more cruelly and +carelessly than even such things are. By whose hand do you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask me?” said Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you tremble?” rejoined Alice, with an eager look. +“His usage made a Devil of me. I sunk in wretchedness and ruin, lower and +lower yet. I was concerned in a robbery—in every part of it but the +gains—and was found out, and sent to be tried, without a friend, without +a penny. Though I was but a girl, I would have gone to Death, sooner than ask +him for a word, if a word of his could have saved me. I would! To any death +that could have been invented. But my mother, covetous always, sent to him in +my name, told the true story of my case, and humbly prayed and petitioned for a +small last gift—for not so many pounds as I have fingers on this hand. +Who was it, do you think, who snapped his fingers at me in my misery, lying, as +he believed, at his feet, and left me without even this poor sign of +remembrance; well satisfied that I should be sent abroad, beyond the reach of +farther trouble to him, and should die, and rot there? Who was this, do you +think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask me?” repeated Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Harriet trembled more and more, but did not avert her eyes from the eager look +that rested on them. +</p> + +<p> +“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 I could +have found him in a lonely place with no one near. Do you believe that I was +earnest in all that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do! Good Heaven, why are you come again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Since then,” said Alice, with the same grasp of her arm, and the +same look in her face, “I have seen him! I have followed him with my +eyes. In the broad day. If any spark of my resentment slumbered in my bosom, it +sprung into a blaze when my eyes rested on him. You know he has wronged a proud +man, and made him his deadly enemy. What if I had given information of him to +that man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Information!” repeated Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“What if I had found out one who knew your brother’s secret; who +knew the manner of his flight, who knew where he and the companion of his +flight were gone? What if I had made him utter all his knowledge, word by word, +before his enemy, concealed to hear it? What if I had sat by at the time, +looking into this enemy’s face, and seeing it change till it was scarcely +human? What if I had seen him rush away, mad, in pursuit? What if I knew, now, +that he was on his road, more fiend than man, and must, in so many hours, come +up with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Remove your hand!” said Harriet, recoiling. “Go away! Your +touch is dreadful to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done this,” pursued the other, with her eager look, +regardless of the interruption. “Do I speak and look as if I really had? +Do you believe what I am saying?” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear I must. Let my arm go!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet. A moment more. You can think what my revengeful purpose must +have been, to last so long, and urge me to do this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dreadful!” said Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“Then when you see me now,” said Alice hoarsely, “here again, +kneeling quietly on the ground, with my touch upon your arm, with my eyes upon +your face, you may believe that there is no common earnestness in what I say, +and that no common struggle has been battling in my breast. 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 possible. I wouldn’t have them come +together while his pursuer is so blind and headlong. If you had seen him as he +went out last night, you would know the danger better.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can it be prevented? What can I do?” cried Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“All night long,” pursued the other, hurriedly, “I had dreams +of him—and yet I didn’t sleep—in his blood. All day, I have +had him near me.” +</p> + +<p> +“What can I do?” cried Harriet, shuddering at these words. +</p> + +<p> +“If there is anyone who’ll write, or send, or go to him, let them +lose no time. He is at Dijon. Do you know the name, and where it is?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Warn him that the man he has made his enemy is in a frenzy, and that he +doesn’t know him if he makes light of his approach. Tell him that he is +on the road—I know he is!—and hurrying on. Urge him to get away +while there is time—if there is time—and not to meet him yet. A +month or so will make years of difference. Let them not encounter, through me. +Anywhere but there! Any time but now! Let his foe follow him, and find him for +himself, but not through me! There is enough upon my head without.” +</p> + +<p> +The fire ceased to be reflected in her jet black hair, uplifted face, and eager +eyes; her hand was gone from Harriet’s arm; and the place where she had +been was empty. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap54"></a>CHAPTER LIV.<br /> +The Fugitives</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">T</span>ea-time, an hour short of midnight; the place, a French +apartment, comprising some half-dozen rooms;—a dull cold hall or +corridor, a dining-room, a drawing-room, a bed-room, and an inner drawingroom, +or boudoir, smaller and more retired than the rest. All these shut in by one +large pair of doors on the main staircase, but each room provided with two or +three pairs of doors of its own, establishing several means of communication +with the remaining portion of the apartment, or with certain small passages +within the wall, leading, as is not unusual in such houses, to some back stairs +with an obscure outlet below. The whole situated on the first floor of so large +an Hotel, that it did not absorb one entire row of windows upon one side of the +square court-yard in the centre, upon which the whole four sides of the mansion +looked. +</p> + +<p> +An air of splendour, sufficiently faded to be melancholy, and sufficiently +dazzling to clog and embarrass the details of life with a show of state, +reigned in these rooms. The walls and ceilings were gilded and painted; the +floors were waxed and polished; crimson drapery hung in festoons from window, +door, and mirror; and candelabra, gnarled and intertwisted like the branches of +trees, or horns of animals, stuck out from the panels of the wall. But in the +day-time, when the lattice-blinds (now closely shut) were opened, and the light +let in, traces were discernible among this finery, of wear and tear and dust, +of sun and damp and smoke, and lengthened intervals of want of use and +habitation, when such shows and toys of life seem sensitive like life, and +waste as men shut up in prison do. Even night, and clusters of burning candles, +could not wholly efface them, though the general glitter threw them in the +shade. +</p> + +<p> +The glitter of bright tapers, and their reflection in looking-glasses, scraps +of gilding and gay colours, were confined, on this night, to one +room—that smaller room 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 precious as a gem. In the heart of its radiance +sat a beautiful woman—Edith. +</p> + +<p> +She was alone. The same defiant, scornful woman still. The cheek a little worn, +the eye a little larger in appearance, and more lustrous, but the haughty +bearing just the same. No shame upon her brow; no late repentance bending her +disdainful neck. Imperious and stately yet, and yet regardless of herself and +of all else, she sat with her dark eyes cast down, waiting for someone. +</p> + +<p> +No book, no work, no occupation of any kind but her own thought, beguiled the +tardy time. Some purpose, strong enough to fill up any pause, possessed her. +With her lips pressed together, and quivering if for a moment she released them +from her control; with her nostril inflated; her hands clasped in one another; +and her purpose swelling in her breast; she sat, and waited. +</p> + +<p> +At the sound of a key in the outer door, and a footstep in the hall, she +started up, and cried “Who’s that?” The answer was in French, +and two men came in with jingling trays, to make preparation for supper. +</p> + +<p> +“Who had bade them to do so?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur had commanded it, when it was his pleasure to take the +apartment. Monsieur had said, when he stayed there for an hour, en route, and +left the letter for Madame—Madame had received it surely?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand pardons! The sudden apprehension that it might have been +forgotten had struck him;” a bald man, with a large beard from a +neighbouring restaurant; “with despair! Monsieur had said that supper was +to be ready at that hour: also that he had forewarned Madame of the commands he +had given, in his letter. Monsieur had done the Golden Head the honour to +request that the supper should be choice and delicate. Monsieur would find that +his confidence in the Golden Head was not misplaced.” +</p> + +<p> +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 bed-chamber and into the drawing-room, where +she hurriedly but narrowly examined all the doors; particularly one in the +former room that opened on the passage in the wall. From this she took the key, +and put it on the outer side. She then came back. +</p> + +<p> +The men—the second of whom was a dark, bilious subject, in a jacket, +close shaved, and with a black head of hair close cropped—had completed +their preparation of the table, and were standing looking at it. He who had +spoken before, inquired whether Madame thought it would be long before Monsieur +arrived? +</p> + +<p> +“She couldn’t say. It was all one.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +In effect, Monsieur, admitted by the other of the two, came, with his gleaming +teeth, through the dark rooms, like a mouth; and arriving in that sanctuary of +light and colour, a figure at full length, embraced Madame, and addressed her +in the French tongue as his charming wife. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! Madame is going to faint. Madame is overcome with joy!” +The bald man with the beard observed it, and cried out. +</p> + +<p> +Madame had only shrunk and shivered. Before the words were spoken, she was +standing with her hand upon the velvet back of a great chair; her figure drawn +up to its full height, and her face immoveable. +</p> + +<p> +“Francois has flown over to the Golden Head for supper. He flies on these +occasions like an angel or a bird. The baggage of Monsieur is in his room. All +is arranged. The supper will be here this moment.” These facts the bald +man notified with bows and smiles, and presently the supper came. +</p> + +<p> +The hot dishes were on a chafing-dish; the cold already set forth, with the +change of service on a sideboard. Monsieur was satisfied with this arrangement. +The supper table being small, it pleased him very well. Let them set the +chafing-dish upon the floor, and go. He would remove the dishes with his own +hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon!” said the bald man, politely. “It was +impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur was of another opinion. He required no further attendance that night. +</p> + +<p> +“But Madame—” the bald man hinted. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” replied Monsieur, “had her own maid. It was +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“A million pardons! No! Madame had no maid!” +</p> + +<p> +“I came here alone,” said Edith “It was my choice to do so. I +am well used to travelling; I want no attendance. They need send nobody to me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As the sound of Carker’s fastening the door resounded through the +intermediate rooms, and seemed to come hushed and stilled 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 came back towards her, laying a long train of footsteps through the +silence, and shutting all the doors behind him as he came along. Her hand, for +a moment, left the velvet chair to bring a knife within her reach upon the +table; then she stood as she had stood before. +</p> + +<p> +“How strange to come here by yourself, my love!” he said as he +entered. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” she returned. +</p> + +<p> +Her tone was so harsh; the quick turn of her head so fierce; her attitude so +repellent; and her frown so black; that he stood, with the lamp in his hand, +looking at her, as if she had struck him motionless. +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” he at length repeated, putting down the lamp, and smiling +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes gleamed strangely on him, but she stood with her hand resting on the +chair, and said not a word. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0692m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“I have never,” resumed Carker, “seen you look so handsome, +as you do tonight. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Not a word. Not a look Her eyes completely hidden by their drooping lashes, but +her head held up. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +compensation for old slavery.” +</p> + +<p> +He was coming gaily towards her, when, in an instant, she caught the knife up +from the table, and started one pace back. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand still!” she said, “or I shall murder you!” +</p> + +<p> +The sudden change in her, the towering fury and intense abhorrence sparkling in +her eyes and lighting up her brow, made him stop as if a fire had stopped him. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand still!” she said, “come no nearer me, upon your +life!” +</p> + +<p> +They both stood looking at each other. Rage and astonishment were in his face, +but he controlled them, and said lightly, +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come! Tush, we are alone, and out of everybody’s sight and +hearing. Do you think to frighten me with these tricks of virtue?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is that,” he said, “you handsome shrew? Handsomer +so, than any other woman in her best humour?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you nothing,” she returned, until you go back to that +chair—except this, once again—Don’t come near me! Not a step +nearer. I tell you, if you do, as Heaven sees us, I shall murder you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mistake me for your husband?” he retorted, with a grin. +</p> + +<p> +Disdaining to reply, she stretched her arm out, pointing to the chair. He bit +his lip, frowned, laughed, and sat down in it, with a baffled, irresolute, +impatient air, he was unable to conceal; and biting his nail nervously, and +looking at her sideways, with bitter discomfiture, even while he feigned to be +amused by her caprice. +</p> + +<p> +She put the knife down upon the table, and touching her bosom with her hand, +said: +</p> + +<p> +“I have something lying here that is no love trinket, and sooner than +endure your touch once more, I would use it on you—and you know it, while +I speak—with less reluctance than I would on any other creeping thing +that lives.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, if,” she said, surveying him with a haughty contempt and +disgust, that he shrunk under, let him brave it as he would, “if all my +other reasons for despising him could have been blown away like feathers, his +having you for his counsellor and favourite, would have almost been enough to +hold their place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that a reason why you have run away with me?” he asked her, +tauntingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and why we are face to face for the last time. Wretch! We meet +tonight, and part tonight. For not one moment after I have ceased to speak, +will I stay here!” +</p> + +<p> +He turned upon her with his ugliest look, and gripped the table with his hand; +but neither rose, nor otherwise answered or threatened her. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a woman,” she said, confronting him steadfastly, “who +from her 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 me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I imagined that,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And calculated on it,” she rejoined, “and so pursued me. +Grown too indifferent for any opposition but indifference, to the daily working +of the hands that had moulded me to this; and knowing that my marriage would at +least prevent their hawking of me up and down; I suffered myself to be sold, as +infamously as any woman with a halter round her neck is sold in any +market-place. You know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, showing all his teeth “I know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And calculated on it,” she rejoined once more, “and so +pursued me. From my marriage day, I found myself exposed to such new +shame—to such solicitation and pursuit (expressed as clearly as if it had +been written in the coarsest words, and thrust into my hand at every turn) from +one mean villain, that I felt as if I had never known humiliation till that +time. This shame my husband fixed upon me; hemmed me round with, himself; +steeped me in, with his own hands, and of his own act, repeated hundreds of +times. And thus—forced by the two from every point of rest I +had—forced by the two to yield up the last retreat of love and gentleness +within me, or to be a new misfortune on its innocent object—driven from +each to each, and beset by one when I escaped the other—my anger rose +almost to distraction against both. I do not know against which it rose +higher—the master or the man!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What should I say of honour or of chastity to you!” she went on. +“What meaning would it have to you; what meaning would it have from me! +But if I tell you that the lightest touch of your hand makes my blood cold with +antipathy; that from the hour when I first saw and hated you, to now, when my +instinctive repugnance is enhanced by every minute’s knowledge of you I +have since had, you have been a loathsome creature to me which has not its like +on earth; how then?” +</p> + +<p> +He answered with a faint laugh, “Ay! How then, my queen?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders, and laughed +</p> + +<p> +“What passed?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Your memory is so distinct,” he said, “that I have no doubt +you can recall it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 fit; and in the having suffered you to be alone with +me many times before,—and having made the opportunities, you +said,—and in the having openly avowed to you that I had no feeling for my +husband but aversion, and no care for myself—I was lost; I had given you +the power to traduce my name; and I lived, in virtuous reputation, at the +pleasure of your breath.” +</p> + +<p> +“All stratagems in love—-” he interrupted, smiling. +“The old adage—” +</p> + +<p> +“On that night,” said Edith, “and then, the struggle that I +long had had with something that was not respect for my good fame—that +was I know not what—perhaps the clinging to that last retreat—was +ended. On that night, and then, I turned from everything but passion and +resentment. I struck a blow that laid your lofty master in the dust, and set +you there, before me, looking at me now, and knowing what I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +He sprung up from his chair with a great oath. She put her hand into her bosom, +and not a finger trembled, not a hair upon her head was stirred. He stood +still: she too: the table and chair between them. +</p> + +<p> +“When I forget that this man put his lips to mine that night, and held me +in his arms as he has done again tonight,” said Edith, pointing at him; +“when I forget the taint of his kiss upon my cheek—the cheek that +Florence would have laid her guiltless face against—when I forget my +meeting with her, while that taint was hot upon me, and in what a flood the +knowledge rushed upon me when I saw her, that in releasing her from the +persecution I had caused 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Her flashing eyes, uplifted for a moment, lighted again on Carker, and she held +some letters out in her left hand. +</p> + +<p> +“See these!” she said, contemptuously. “You have addressed +these to me in the false name you go by; one here, some elsewhere on my road. +The seals are unbroken. Take them back!” +</p> + +<p> +She crunched them in her hand, and tossed them to his feet. And as she looked +upon him now, a smile was on her face. +</p> + +<p> +“We meet and part tonight,” she said. “You have fallen on +Sicilian days and sensual rest, too soon. You might have cajoled, and fawned, +and played your traitor’s part, a little longer, and grown richer. You +purchase your voluptuous retirement dear!” +</p> + +<p> +“Edith!” he retorted, menacing her with his hand. “Sit down! +Have done with this! What devil possesses you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Their name is Legion,” she replied, uprearing her proud form as if +she would have crushed him; “you and your master have raised them in a +fruitful house, and they shall tear you both. False to him, false to his +innocent child, false every way and everywhere, go forth and boast of me, and +gnash your teeth, for once, to know that you are lying!” +</p> + +<p> +He stood before her, muttering and menacing, and scowling round as if for +something that would help him to conquer her; but with the same indomitable +spirit she opposed him, without faltering. +</p> + +<p> +“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 tonight; you know how you stand +cowering there; you see yourself in colours quite as despicable, if not as +odious, as those in which I see you. Boast then, and revenge me on +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +The foam was on his lips; the wet stood on his forehead. If she would have +faltered once for only one half-moment, he would have pinioned her; but she was +as firm as rock, and her searching eyes never left him. +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t part so,” he said. “Do you think I am +drivelling, to let you go in your mad temper?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think,” she answered, “that I am to be stayed?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try, my dear,” he said with a ferocious gesture of his +head. +</p> + +<p> +“God’s mercy on you, if you try by coming near me!” she +replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And what,” he said, “if there are none of these same boasts +and vaunts on my part? What if I were to turn too? Come!” and his teeth +fairly shone again. “We must make a treaty of this, or I may take some +unexpected course. Sit down, sit down!” +</p> + +<p> +“Too late!” she cried, with eyes that seemed to sparkle fire. +“I have thrown my fame and good name to the winds! I have resolved to +bear the shame that will attach to me—resolved to know that it attaches +falsely—that you know it too—and that he does not, never can, and +never shall. I’ll die, and make no sign. For this, I am here alone with +you, at the dead of night. For this, I have met you here, in a false name, as +your wife. For this, I have been seen here by those men, and left here. Nothing +can save you now.” +</p> + +<p> +He would have sold his soul to root her, in her beauty, to the floor, and make +her arms drop at her sides, and have her at his mercy. But he could not look at +her, and not be afraid of her. He saw a strength within her that was +resistless. He saw that she was desperate, and that her unquenchable hatred of +him would stop at nothing. His eyes followed the hand that was put with such +rugged uncongenial purpose into her white bosom, and he thought that if it +struck at him, and failed, it would strike there, just as soon. +</p> + +<p> +He did not venture, therefore, to advance towards her; but the door by which he +had entered was behind him, and he stepped back to lock it. +</p> + +<p> +“Lastly, take my warning! Look to yourself!” she said, and smiled +again. “You have been betrayed, as all betrayers are. It has been made +known that you are in this place, or were to be, or have been. If I live, I saw +my husband in a carriage in the street tonight!” +</p> + +<p> +“Strumpet, it’s false!” cried Carker. +</p> + +<p> +At the moment, the bell rang loudly in the hall. He turned white, as she held +her hand up like an enchantress, at whose invocation the sound had come. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark! do you hear it?” +</p> + +<p> +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 bed-chamber, and they shut upon her. +</p> + +<p> +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 subdued her; not the less readily, for her overwrought +condition. Throwing open the doors, he followed, almost instantly. +</p> + +<p> +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 behind screens +and couches; but she was not there. No, nor in the hall, which was so bare that +he could see that, at a glance. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He took up his lamp again, and came back quickly through all the rooms, +stopping as he quitted each, and looking round for her, with the light raised +above his head. He was standing thus in the bed-chamber, when the door, leading +to the little passage in the wall, caught his eye. He went to it, and found it +fastened on the other side; but she had dropped a veil in going through, and +shut it in the door. +</p> + +<p> +All this time the people on the stairs were ringing at the bell, and knocking +with their hands and feet. +</p> + +<p> +He was not a coward: but these sounds; what had gone before; the strangeness of +the place, which had confused him, even in his return from the hall; the +frustration of his schemes (for, strange to say, he would have been much +bolder, if they had succeeded); the unseasonable time; the recollection of +having no one near to whom he could appeal for any friendly office; above all, +the sudden sense, which made even his heart beat like lead, that the man whose +confidence he had outraged, and whom he had so treacherously deceived, was +there to recognise and challenge him with his mask plucked off his face; struck +a panic through him. He tried the door in which the veil was 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. +</p> + +<p> +The ringing and knocking still continuing—his panic too—he went +back to the door in the bed-chamber, 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 his hat and coat, +made the door as secure after him as he could, crept down lamp in hand, +extinguished it on seeing the street, and having put it in a corner, went out +where the stars were shining. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap55"></a>CHAPTER LV.<br /> +Rob the Grinder loses his Place</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +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 of the great staircase. Lifting the latch softly, +Carker crept out, and shutting the jangling gate after him with as little noise +as possible, hurried off. +</p> + +<p> +In the fever of his mortification and unavailing rage, the panic that had +seized upon him mastered him completely. It rose to such a height that he would +have blindly encountered almost any risk, rather than meet the man of whom, two +hours ago, he had been utterly regardless. His fierce arrival, which he had +never expected; the sound of his voice; their having been so near a meeting, +face to face; he would have braved out this, after the first momentary shock of +alarm, and would have put as bold a front upon his guilt as any villain. But +the springing of his mine upon himself, seemed to have rent and shivered all +his hardihood and self-reliance. Spurned like any reptile; entrapped and +mocked; turned upon, and trodden down by the proud 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 +off, he sneaked away, abashed, degraded, and afraid. +</p> + +<p> +Some other terror came upon him quite removed from this of being pursued, +suddenly, like an electric shock, as he was creeping through the streets Some +visionary terror, unintelligible and inexplicable, associated with a trembling +of the ground,—a rush and sweep of something through the air, like Death +upon the wing. He shrunk, as if to let the thing go by. It was not gone, it +never had been there, yet what a startling horror it had left behind. +</p> + +<p> +He raised his wicked face so full of trouble, to the night sky, where the +stars, so full of peace, were shining on him as they had been when he first +stole out into the air; and stopped to think what he should do. The dread of +being hunted in a strange remote place, where the laws might not protect +him—the novelty of the feeling that it 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am safer there, in any case. If I should not decide,” he +thought, “to give this fool a meeting, I am less likely to be traced +there, than abroad here, now. And if I should (this cursed fit being over), at +least I shall not be alone, without a soul to speak to, or advise with, or +stand by me. I shall not be run in upon and worried like a rat.” +</p> + +<p> +He muttered Edith’s name, and clenched his hand. As he crept along, in +the shadow of the massive buildings, he set his teeth, and muttered dreadful +imprecations on her head, and looked from side to side, as if in search of her. +Thus, he stole on to the gate of an inn-yard. The people were a-bed; but his +ringing at the bell soon produced a man with a lantern, in company with whom he +was presently in a dim coach-house, bargaining for the hire of an old phaeton, +to Paris. +</p> + +<p> +The bargain was a short one; and the horses were soon sent for. Leaving word +that the carriage was to follow him when they came, he stole away again, beyond +the town, past the old ramparts, out on the open road, which seemed to glide +away along the dark plain, like a stream. +</p> + +<p> +Whither did it flow? What was the end of it? As he paused, with some such +suggestion within him, looking over the gloomy flat where the slender trees +marked out the way, again that flight of Death came rushing up, again went on, +impetuous and resistless, again was nothing but a horror in his mind, dark as +the scene and undefined as its remotest verge. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He went forward for what appeared a long time, and a long way; often stopping +to listen. At last the ringing of horses’ bells greeted his anxious ears. +Now softer, and now louder, now inaudible, now ringing very slowly over bad +ground, now brisk and merry, it came on; until with a loud shouting and +lashing, a shadowy postillion muffled to the eyes, checked his four struggling +horses at his side. +</p> + +<p> +“Who goes there! Monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur has walked a long way in the dark midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“No matter. Everyone to his task. Were there any other horses ordered at +the Post-house?” +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand devils!—and pardons! other horses? at this hour? +No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa! whoop! Halloa! Hi!” Away, at a gallop, over the black +landscape, scattering the dust and dirt like spray! +</p> + +<p> +The clatter and commotion echoed to the hurry and discordance of the +fugitive’s ideas. Nothing clear without, and nothing clear within. +Objects flitting past, merging into one another, dimly descried, confusedly +lost sight of, gone! Beyond the changing scraps of fence and cottage +immediately upon the road, a lowering waste. Beyond the shifting images that +rose up in his mind and vanished as they showed themselves, a black expanse of +dread and rage and baffled villainy. Occasionally, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The lamps, gleaming on the medley of horses’ heads, jumbled with the +shadowy driver, and the fluttering of his cloak, made a thousand indistinct +shapes, answering to his thoughts. Shadows of familiar people, stooping at +their desks and books, in their remembered attitudes; strange 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; confusions of time and +place, making last night a month ago, a month ago last night—home now +distant beyond hope, now instantly accessible; commotion, discord, hurry, +darkness, and confusion in his mind, and all around him.—Hallo! Hi! away +at a gallop over the black landscape; dust and dirt flying like spray, the +smoking horses snorting and plunging as if each of them were ridden by a demon, +away in a frantic triumph on the dark road—whither? +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0703m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +He could not think to any purpose. He could not separate one subject of +reflection from another, sufficiently to dwell upon it, by itself, for a minute +at a time. The crash of his project for the gaining of a voluptuous +compensation for past restraint; the overthrow of his treachery to one who had +been true and generous to him, but whose least proud word and look he had +treasured up, at interest, for years—for false and subtle men will always +secretly despise and dislike the object upon which they fawn and always resent +the payment and receipt of homage that they know to be worthless; these were +the themes uppermost in his mind. A lurking rage against the woman who had so +entrapped him and avenged herself was always there; crude and misshapen schemes +of retaliation upon her, floated in his brain; but nothing was distinct. A +hurry and contradiction pervaded all his thoughts. Even while he was so busy +with this fevered, ineffectual thinking, his one constant idea was, that he +would postpone reflection until some indefinite time. +</p> + +<p> +Then, the old days before the second marriage rose up in 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 this to be flying now, like a scared thief, from only the poor dupe? +</p> + +<p> +He could have laid hands upon himself for his cowardice, but it was the very +shadow of his defeat, and could not be separated from it. To have his +confidence in his own knavery so shattered at a blow—to be within his own +knowledge such a miserable tool—was like being paralysed. With an +impotent ferocity he raged at Edith, and hated Mr Dombey and hated himself, but +still he fled, and could do nothing else. +</p> + +<p> +Again and again he listened for the sound of wheels behind. Again and again his +fancy heard it, coming on louder and louder. At last he was so persuaded of +this, that he cried out, “Stop” preferring even the loss of ground +to such uncertainty. +</p> + +<p> +The word soon brought carriage, horses, driver, all in a heap together, across +the road. +</p> + +<p> +“The devil!” cried the driver, looking over his shoulder, +“what’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hark! What’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“That noise?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed brigand!” to a horse who shook his +bells “What noise?” +</p> + +<p> +“Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop? There! what’s +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, nothing but the day yonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed. Go on!” +</p> + +<p> +The entangled equipage, half hidden in the reeking 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. +</p> + +<p> +And now the stars faded, and the day glimmered, and standing in the carriage, +looking back, he could discern the track by which he had come, and see that +there was no traveller within view, on all the heavy expanse. And soon it was +broad day, and the sun began to shine on cornfields and vineyards; and solitary +labourers, risen from little temporary huts by heaps of stones upon the road, +were, here and there, at work repairing the highway, or eating bread. By and +by, there were peasants going to their daily labour, or to market, or lounging +at the doors of poor cottages, gazing idly at him as he passed. And then there +was a postyard, ankle-deep in mud, with steaming dunghills and vast outhouses +half ruined; and looking on this dainty prospect, an immense, old, shadeless, +glaring, stone chateau, with half its windows blinded, and green damp crawling +lazily over it, from the balustraded terrace to the taper tips of the +extinguishers upon the turrets. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Shame, disappointment, and discomfiture gnawed at his heart; a constant +apprehension of being overtaken, or met—for he was groundlessly afraid +even of travellers, who came towards him by the way he was +going—oppressed him heavily. The same intolerable awe and dread that had +come upon him in the night, returned unweakened in the day. The monotonous +ringing of the bells and tramping of the horses; the monotony of his anxiety, +and useless rage; the monotonous wheel of fear, regret, and passion, he kept +turning round and round; made the journey like a vision, in which nothing was +quite real but his own torment. +</p> + +<p> +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 mudbespattered +cows and oxen were tied up for sale in the long narrow streets, butting and +lowing, and receiving blows on their blunt heads from bludgeons that might have +beaten them in; of bridges, crosses, churches, postyards, new horses being put +in against their wills, and the horses of the last stage reeking, panting, and +laying their drooping heads together dolefully at stable doors; of little +cemeteries with black crosses settled sideways in the graves, and withered +wreaths upon them dropping away; again of long, long roads, dragging themselves +out, up hill and down, to the treacherous horizon. +</p> + +<p> +Of morning, noon, and sunset; night, and the rising of an early moon. Of long +roads temporarily left behind, and a rough pavement reached; of battering and +clattering over it, and looking up, among house-roofs, at a 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 beggars—blind +men with quivering eyelids, led by old women holding candles to their faces; +idiot girls; the lame, the epileptic, and the palsied—of passing through +the clamour, and looking from his seat at the upturned countenances and +outstretched hands, with a hurried dread of recognising some pursuer pressing +forward—of 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. +</p> + +<p> +Of never sleeping, but sometimes dozing with unclosed 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 not having confronted +and defied him. Of having a deadly quarrel with the whole world, but chiefly +with himself. Of blighting everything with his black mood as he was carried on +and away. +</p> + +<p> +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 he must go. Of old scenes starting up among the novelties through which +he travelled. Of musing and brooding over what was past and distant, and +seeming to take no notice of the actual objects he encountered, but with a +wearisome exhausting consciousness of being bewildered by them, and having +their images all crowded in his hot brain after they were gone. +</p> + +<p> +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, postyards, +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 villages, less thinly scattered +on the road than formerly, and sitting shrouded in his corner, with his cloak +up to his face, as people passing by looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +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 comprehend the points of time and place in his journey. Of being parched and +giddy, and half mad. Of pressing on, in spite of all, as if he could not stop, +and coming into Paris, where the turbid river held its swift course +undisturbed, between two brawling streams of life and motion. +</p> + +<p> +A troubled vision, then, of bridges, quays, interminable 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 gradual subsidence +of that noise as he passed out in another carriage by a different barrier from +that by which he had entered. Of the restoration, as he travelled on towards +the seacoast, of the monotony of bells and wheels, and horses’ feet, and +no rest. +</p> + +<p> +Of sunset once again, and nightfall. Of long roads again, 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 tolling 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 harbour when the tide was at its full, and +seeing fishing-boats float on, and glad women and children waiting for them. Of +nets and seamen’s clothes spread out to dry upon the shore; of busy +sailors, and their voices high among ships’ masts and rigging; of the +buoyancy and brightness of the water, and the universal sparkling. +</p> + +<p> +Of receding from the coast, and looking back upon it from the deck when it was +a haze upon the water, with here and there a little opening of bright land +where the Sun struck. Of the swell, and flash, and murmur of the calm sea. Of +another grey line on the ocean, on the vessel’s track, fast growing +clearer and higher. Of cliffs and buildings, and a windmill, and a church, +becoming more and more visible upon it. Of steaming on at last into smooth +water, and mooring to a pier whence groups of people looked down, greeting +friends on board. Of disembarking, passing among them quickly, shunning every +one; and of being at last again in England. +</p> + +<p> +He had thought, in his dream, of going down into a remote country-place he +knew, and lying quiet there, while he secretly informed himself of what +transpired, and determined how to act, Still in the same stunned condition, he +remembered a certain station on the railway, where he would have to branch off +to his place of destination, and where there was a quiet Inn. Here, he +indistinctly resolved to tarry and rest. +</p> + +<p> +With this purpose he slunk into a railway carriage as quickly as he could, and +lying there wrapped in his cloak as if he were asleep, was soon borne far away +from the sea, and deep into the inland green. Arrived at his destination he +looked out, and surveyed it carefully. He was not mistaken in his impression of +the place. It was a retired spot, on the borders of a little wood. Only one +house, newly-built or altered for the purpose, stood there, surrounded by its +neat garden; the small town that was nearest, was some miles away. Here he +alighted then; and going straight into the tavern, unobserved by anyone, +secured two rooms upstairs communicating with each other, and sufficiently +retired. +</p> + +<p> +His object was to rest, and recover the command of himself, and the balance of +his mind. Imbecile discomfiture and rage—so that, as he walked about his +room, he ground his teeth—had complete possession of him. His thoughts, +not to be stopped or directed, still wandered where they would, and dragged him +after them. He was stupefied, and he was wearied to death. +</p> + +<p> +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 had been another man’s. It was not +that they forced him to take note of present sounds and objects, but that they +would not be diverted from the whole 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 pavement, hill +and valley, height and hollow, jaded and scared by the monotony of bells and +wheels, and horses’ feet, and no rest. +</p> + +<p> +“What day is this?” he asked of the waiter, who was making +preparations for his dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“Day, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it Wednesday?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wednesday, Sir? No, Sir. Thursday, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I forgot. How goes the time? My watch is unwound.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wants a few minutes of five o’clock, Sir. Been travelling a long +time, Sir, perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes” +</p> + +<p> +“By rail, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes” +</p> + +<p> +“Very confusing, Sir. Not much in the habit of travelling by rail myself, +Sir, but gentlemen frequently say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do many gentlemen come here? +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty well, Sir, in general. Nobody here at present. Rather slack just +now, Sir. Everything is slack, Sir.” +</p> + +<p> +He made no answer; but had risen into a sitting posture on the sofa where he +had been lying, and leaned forward with an arm on each knee, staring at the +ground. He could not master his own attention for a minute together. It rushed +away where it would, but it never, for an instant, lost itself in sleep. +</p> + +<p> +He drank a quantity of wine after dinner, in vain. No such artificial means +would bring sleep to his eyes. His thoughts, more incoherent, dragged him more +unmercifully after them—as if a wretch, condemned to such expiation, were +drawn at the heels of wild horses. No oblivion, and no rest. +</p> + +<p> +How long he sat, drinking and brooding, and being dragged in imagination hither +and thither, no one could have told less correctly than he. But he knew that he +had been sitting a long time by candle-light, when he started up and listened, +in a sudden terror. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A curse upon the fiery devil, thundering along so smoothly, tracked through the +distant valley by a glare of light and lurid smoke, and gone! He felt as if he +had been plucked out of its path, and saved from being torn asunder. It made +him shrink and shudder even now, when its faintest hum was hushed, and when the +lines of iron road he could trace in the moonlight, running to a point, were as +empty and as silent as a desert. +</p> + +<p> +Unable to rest, and irresistibly attracted—or he thought so—to this +road, he went out, and lounged on the brink of it, marking the way the train +had gone, by the yet smoking cinders that were lying in its track. After a +lounge of some half hour in the direction by which it had disappeared, he +turned and walked the other way—still keeping to the brink of the +road—past the inn garden, and a long way down; looking curiously at the +bridges, signals, lamps, and wondering when another Devil would come by. +</p> + +<p> +A trembling of the ground, and quick vibration in his ears; a distant shriek; a +dull light advancing, quickly changed to two red eyes, and a fierce fire, +dropping glowing coals; an irresistible bearing on of a great roaring and +dilating mass; a high wind, and a rattle—another come and gone, and he +holding to a gate, as if to save himself! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +So in his bed, whither he repaired with no hope of sleep. He still lay +listening; and when he felt the trembling and vibration, got up and went to the +window, to watch (as he could from its position) the dull light changing to the +two red eyes, and the fierce fire dropping glowing coals, and the rush of the +giant as it fled past, and the track of glare and smoke along the valley. Then +he would glance in the direction by which he intended to depart at sunrise, as +there was no rest for him there; and would lie down again, to be troubled by +the vision of his journey, and the old monotony of bells and wheels and +horses’ feet, until another came. This lasted all night. So far from +resuming the mastery of himself, he seemed, if possible, to lose it more and +more, as the night crept on. When the dawn appeared, he was still tormented +with thinking, still postponing thought 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. +</p> + +<p> +“At what time,” he asked the man who had waited on him over-night, +now entering with a candle, “do I leave here, did you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“About a quarter after four, Sir. Express comes through at four, +Sir.—It don’t stop.” +</p> + +<p> +He passed his hand across his throbbing head, and looked at his watch. Nearly +half-past three. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody going with you, Sir, probably,” observed the man. +“Two gentlemen here, Sir, but they’re waiting for the train to +London.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not then, sir. Two gentlemen came in the night by the short train that +stops here, Sir. Warm water, Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; and take away the candle. There’s day enough for me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. He bathed his +head and face with water—there was no cooling influence in it for +him—hurriedly put on his clothes, paid what he owed, and went out. +</p> + +<p> +The air struck chill and comfortless as it breathed upon him. There was a heavy +dew; and, hot as he was, it made him shiver. After a glance at the place where +he had walked last night, and at the signal-lights burning in the morning, and +bereft of their significance, he turned to where the sun was rising, and beheld +it, in its glory, as it broke upon the scene. +</p> + +<p> +So awful, so transcendent in its beauty, so divinely solemn. As he cast his +faded eyes upon it, where it rose, tranquil and serene, unmoved by all the +wrong and wickedness on which its beams had shone since the beginning of the +world, who shall say that some weak sense of virtue upon Earth, and its 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? +</p> + +<p> +He needed some such touch then. Death was on him. He was marked off—the +living world, and going down into his grave. +</p> + +<p> +He paid the money for his journey to the country-place he had thought of; and +was walking to and fro, alone, looking along the lines of iron, across the +valley in one direction, and towards a dark bridge near at hand in the other; +when, turning in his walk, where it was bounded by one end of the wooden stage +on which he paced up and down, he saw the man from whom he had fled, emerging +from the door by which he himself had entered. And their eyes met. +</p> + +<p> +In the quick unsteadiness of the surprise, he staggered, and slipped on to the +road below him. But recovering his feet immediately, he stepped back a pace or +two upon that road, to interpose some wider space between them, and looked at +his pursuer, breathing short and quick. +</p> + +<p> +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 fragments in the air. +</p> + +<p> +When the traveller, who had been recognised, recovered from a swoon, he saw +them bringing from a distance something covered, that lay heavy and still, upon +a board, between four men, and saw that others drove some dogs away that +sniffed upon the road, and soaked his blood up, with a train of ashes. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap56"></a>CHAPTER LVI.<br /> +Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +Midshipman was all alive. Mr Toots and Susan had arrived at last. Susan had run +upstairs like a young woman bereft of her senses, and Mr Toots and the Chicken +had gone into the Parlour. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Pouring out these words, without the faintest indication of a stop, of any +sort, Miss Nipper, on her knees beside her mistress, hugged her close. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Susan, dear good Susan!” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you so?” said Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh gracious me! that innocentest creetur Toots,” returned Susan +hysterically. “I knew he must be right my dear, because he took on so. +He’s the devotedest and innocentest infant! And is my darling,” +pursued Susan, with another close embrace and burst of tears, “really +really going to be married!” +</p> + +<p> +The mixture of compassion, pleasure, tenderness, protection, and regret with +which the Nipper constantly recurred to this subject, and at every such once, +raised her head to look in the young face and kiss it, and then laid her head +again upon her mistress’s shoulder, caressing her and sobbing, was as +womanly and good a thing, in its way, as ever was seen in the world. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there!” said the soothing voice of Florence presently. +“Now you’re quite yourself, dear Susan!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Nipper, sitting down upon the floor, at her mistress’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. +</p> + +<p> +“I-I-I never did see such a creetur as that Toots,” said Susan, +“in all my born days never!” +</p> + +<p> +“So kind,” suggested Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“And so comic!” Susan sobbed. “The way he’s been going +on inside with me with that disrespectable Chicken on the box!” +</p> + +<p> +“About what, Susan?” inquired Florence, timidly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh about Lieutenant Walters, and Captain Gills, and you my dear Miss +Floy, and the silent tomb,” said Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“The silent tomb!” repeated Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“He says,” here Susan burst into a violent hysterical laugh, +“that he’ll go down into it now immediately and quite comfortable, +but bless your heart my dear Miss Floy he won’t, he’s a great deal +too happy in seeing other people happy for that, he may not be a +Solomon,” pursued the Nipper, with her usual volubility, “nor do I +say he is but this I do say a less selfish human creature human nature never +knew!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Nipper being still hysterical, laughed immoderately 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. +</p> + +<p> +Florence entreated Susan to beg of Mr Toots as a favour that she might have the +pleasure of thanking him for his kindness; and Susan, in a few moments, +produced that young gentleman, still very much dishevelled in appearance, and +stammering exceedingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey,” said Mr Toots. “To be again permitted +to—to—gaze—at least, not to gaze, but—I don’t +exactly know what I was going to say, but it’s of no consequence.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have to thank you so often,” returned Florence, giving him both +her hands, with all her innocent gratitude beaming in her face, “that I +have no words left, and don’t know how to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey,” said Mr Toots, in an awful voice, “if it was +possible that you could, consistently with your angelic nature, Curse me, you +would—if I may be allowed to say so—floor me infinitely less, than +by these undeserved expressions of kindness Their effect upon +me—is—but,” said Mr Toots, abruptly, “this is a +digression, and of no consequence at all.” +</p> + +<p> +As there seemed to be no means of replying to this, but by thanking him again, +Florence thanked him again. +</p> + +<p> +“I could wish,” said Mr Toots, “to take this opportunity, +Miss Dombey, if I might, of entering into a word of explanation. I should have +had the pleasure of—of returning with Susan at an earlier period; but, in +the first place, we didn’t know the name of the relation to whose house +she had gone, and, in the second, as she had left that relation’s and +gone to another at a distance, I think that scarcely anything short of the +sagacity of the Chicken, would have found her out in the time.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence was sure of it. +</p> + +<p> +“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 consequence at all), I am bound to say, that Lieutenant Walters +is a person who appears to be worthy of the blessing that has fallen on +his—on his brow. May he wear it long, and appreciate it, as a very +different, and very unworthy individual, that it is of no consequence to name, +would have done! That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dombey, Captain +Gills is a friend of mine; and during the interval that is now elapsing, I +believe it would afford Captain Gills pleasure to see me occasionally coming +backwards and forwards here. It would afford me pleasure so to come. But I +cannot forget that I once committed myself, fatally, at the corner of the +Square at Brighton; and if my presence will be, in the least degree, unpleasant +to you, I only ask you to name it to me now, and assure you that I shall +perfectly understand you. I shall not consider it at all unkind, and shall only +be too delighted and happy to be honoured with your confidence.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey,” said Mr Toots, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, +“if I shed a tear, it is a tear of joy. It is of no consequence, and I am +very much obliged to you. I may be allowed to remark, after what you have so +kindly said, that it is not my intention to neglect my person any +longer.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence received this intimation with the prettiest expression of perplexity +possible. +</p> + +<p> +“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, and 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 and personal nature. I +thank you very much indeed. If I am not, in a general way, as sensible as my +friends could wish me to be, or as I could wish myself, I really am, upon my +word and honour, particularly sensible of what is considerate and kind. I +feel,” said Mr Toots, in an impassioned tone, “as if I could +express my feelings, at the present moment, in a most remarkable manner, +if—if—I could only get a start.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “what is now to take place +between us, takes place under the sacred seal of confidence. It is the sequel, +Captain Gills, of what has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey, +upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alow and aloft, eh, my lad?” murmured the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly so, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, whose fervour of +acquiescence was greatly heightened by his entire ignorance of the +Captain’s meaning. “Miss Dombey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be +shortly united to Lieutenant Walters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, ay, my lad. We’re all shipmets here,—Wal”r and +sweet—heart will be jined together in the house of bondage, as soon as +the askings is over,” whispered Captain Cuttle, in his ear. +</p> + +<p> +“The askings, Captain Gills!” repeated Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“In the church, down yonder,” said the Captain, pointing his thumb +over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Yes!” returned Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“And then,” said the Captain, in his hoarse whisper, and tapping Mr +Toots on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling from him with a look +of infinite admiration, “what follers? That there pretty creetur, as +delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes away upon the roaring main with +Wal”r on a woyage to China!” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, Captain Gills!” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” nodded the Captain. “The ship as took him up, when he +was wrecked in the hurricane that had drove her clean out of her course, was a +China trader, and Wal”r made the woyage, and got into favour, aboard and +ashore—being as smart and good a lad as ever stepped—and so, the +supercargo dying at Canton, he got made (having acted as clerk afore), and now +he’s supercargo aboard another ship, same owners. And so, you see,” +repeated the Captain, thoughtfully, “the pretty creetur goes away upon +the roaring main with Wal”r, on a woyage to China.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots and Captain Cuttle heaved a sigh in concert. “What then?” +said the Captain. “She loves him true. He loves her true. Them as should +have loved and tended of her, treated of her like the beasts as perish. When +she, cast out of home, come here to me, and dropped upon them planks, her +wownded heart was broke. I know it. I, Ed’ard Cuttle, see it. +There’s nowt but true, kind, steady love, as can ever piece it up again. +If so be I didn’t know that, and didn’t know as Wal”r was her +true love, brother, and she his, I’d have these here blue arms and legs +chopped off, afore I’d let her go. But I know it, and what then! Why, +then, I say, Heaven go with ’em both, and so it will! Amen!” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “let me have the pleasure of +shaking hands. You’ve a way of saying things, that gives me an agreeable +warmth, all up my back. <i>I</i> say Amen. You are aware, Captain Gills, that +I, too, have adored Miss Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cheer up!” said the Captain, laying his hand on Mr Toots’s +shoulder. “Stand by, boy!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my intention, Captain Gills,” returned the spirited Mr +Toots, “to cheer up. Also to standby, as much as possible. When the +silent tomb shall yawn, Captain Gills, I shall be ready for burial; not before. +But not being certain, just at present, of my power over myself, what I wish to +say to you, and what I shall take it as a particular favour if you will mention +to Lieutenant Walters, is as follows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is as follers,” echoed the Captain. “Steady!” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Dombey being so inexpressably kind,” continued Mr Toots with +watery eyes, “as to say that my presence is the reverse of disagreeable +to her, and you and everybody here being no less forbearing and tolerant +towards one who—who certainly,” said Mr Toots, with momentary +dejection, “would appear to have been born by mistake, I 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 Exchange. Captain Gills, if you could enter into this arrangement, and +could answer for Lieutenant Walters, it would be a relief to my feelings that I +should think cheap at the sacrifice of a considerable portion of my +property.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lad,” returned the Captain, “say no more. There +ain’t a colour you can run up, as won’t be made out, and answered +to, by Wal”r and self.” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots, “my mind is greatly relieved. +I wish to preserve the good opinion of all here. I—I—mean well, +upon my honour, however badly I may show it. You know,” said Mr Toots, +“it’s as exactly as Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a customer +with a most extraordinary pair of trousers, and could not cut out what they had +in their minds.” +</p> + +<p> +With this apposite illustration, of which he seemed a little Proud, Mr Toots +gave Captain Cuttle his blessing and departed. +</p> + +<p> +The honest Captain, with his Heart’s Delight in the house, and Susan +tending her, was a beaming and a happy man. As the days flew by, he grew more +beaming and more happy, every day. After some conferences with Susan (for whose +wisdom the Captain had a profound respect, and whose valiant precipitation of +herself on Mrs 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 Market, should, for prudential reasons and considerations of +privacy, be superseded in the temporary discharge of the household duties, by +someone who was not unknown to them, and in whom they could safely confide. +Susan, being present, then named, in furtherance of a suggestion she had +previously offered to the Captain, Mrs Richards. Florence brightened at the +name. And Susan, setting off that very afternoon to the Toodle domicile, to +sound Mrs Richards, returned in triumph the same evening, accompanied by the +identical rosy-cheeked apple-faced Polly, whose demonstrations, when brought +into Florence’s presence, were hardly less affectionate than those of +Susan Nipper herself. +</p> + +<p> +This piece of generalship accomplished; from which the Captain derived uncommon +satisfaction, as he did, indeed, from everything else that was done, whatever +it happened to be; Florence had next to prepare Susan for their approaching +separation. This was a much more difficult task, as Miss Nipper was of a +resolute disposition, and had fully made up her mind that she had come back +never to be parted from her old mistress any more. +</p> + +<p> +“As to wages dear Miss Floy,” she said, “you wouldn’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 at a time like this even if the +Savings’ Banks and me were total strangers or the Banks were broke to +pieces, but you’ve never been without me darling from the time your poor +dear Ma was took away, and though I’m nothing to be boasted of +you’re used to me and oh my own dear mistress through so many years +don’t think of going anywhere without me, for it mustn’t and +can’t be!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Susan, I am going on a long, long voyage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well Miss Floy, and what of that? the more you’ll want me. Lengths +of voyages ain’t an object in my eyes, thank God!” said the +impetuous Susan Nipper. +</p> + +<p> +“But, Susan, I am going with Walter, and I would go with Walter +anywhere—everywhere! Walter is poor, and I am very poor, and I must +learn, now, both to help myself, and help him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Miss Floy!” cried Susan, bursting out afresh, and shaking her +head violently, “it’s nothing new to you to help yourself and +others too and be the patientest and truest of noble hearts, but let me talk to +Mr Walter Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away across the +world alone I cannot, and I won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone, Susan?” returned Florence. “Alone? and Walter taking +me with him!” Ah, what a bright, amazed, enraptured smile was on her +face!—He should have seen it. “I am sure you will not speak to +Walter if I ask you not,” she added tenderly; “and pray +don’t, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan sobbed “Why not, Miss Floy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” said Florence, “I am going to be his wife, to give +him up my whole heart, and to live with him and die with him. He might think, +if you said to him what you have said to me, that I am afraid of what is before +me, or that you have some cause to be afraid for me. Why, Susan, dear, I love +him!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Nipper was so much affected by the quiet fervour of these words, and the +simple, heartfelt, all-pervading earnestness expressed in them, and making the +speaker’s face more beautiful and pure than ever, that she could only +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. +</p> + +<p> +But the Nipper, though susceptible of womanly weaknesses, 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 was always cheerful, +active, bustling, and hopeful. She did, indeed, inform Mr Toots privately, that +she was only “keeping up” for the time, and that when it was all +over, and Miss Dombey was gone, she might be expected to become a spectacle +distressful; and Mr Toots did also express that it was his case too, and that +they would mingle their tears together; but she never otherwise indulged her +private feelings in the presence of Florence or within the precincts of the +Midshipman. +</p> + +<p> +Limited and plain as Florence’s wardrobe was—what a contrast to +that prepared for the last marriage in which she had taken part!—there +was a good deal to do in getting it ready, and Susan Nipper worked away at her +side, all day, with the concentrated zeal of fifty sempstresses. The wonderful +contributions Captain Cuttle 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 +representations, 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 dejected misgivings that they were not gorgeous enough, +and frequently diving out into the street to purchase some wild article that he +deemed necessary to their completeness. But his master-stroke was, the bearing +of them both off, suddenly, one morning, and getting the two words FLORENCE GAY +engraved upon a brass heart inlaid over the lid of each. After this, he smoked +four pipes successively in the little parlour by himself, and was discovered +chuckling, at the expiration of as many hours. +</p> + +<p> +Walter was busy and away all day, but came there every morning early to see +Florence, and always passed the evening with her. Florence never left her high +rooms but to steal downstairs to wait for him when it was his time to come, or, +sheltered by his proud, encircling arm, to bear him company to the door again, +and sometimes peep into the street. In the twilight they were always together. +Oh blessed time! Oh wandering heart at rest! Oh deep, exhaustless, mighty well +of love, in which so much was sunk! +</p> + +<p> +The cruel mark was on her bosom yet. It rose against her 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Walter, dear,” said Florence, one evening, when it was almost +dark. “Do you know what I have been thinking today?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thinking how the time is flying on, and how soon we shall be upon the +sea, sweet Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mean that, Walter, though I think of that too. I have been +thinking what a charge I am to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“A precious, sacred charge, dear heart! Why, I think that +sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are laughing, Walter. I know that’s much more in your thoughts +than mine. But I mean a cost. +</p> + +<p> +“A cost, my own?” +</p> + +<p> +“In money, dear. All these preparations that Susan and I are so busy +with—I have been able to purchase very little for myself. You were poor +before. But how much poorer I shall make you, Walter!” +</p> + +<p> +“And how much richer, Florence!” +</p> + +<p> +Florence laughed, and shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Besides,” said Walter, “long ago—before I went to +sea—I had a little purse presented to me, dearest, which had money in +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” returned Florence, laughing sorrowfully, “very little! +very little, Walter! But, you must not think,” and here she laid her +light hand on his shoulder, and looked into his face, “that I regret to +be this burden on you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it. I +wouldn’t have it otherwise for all the world!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I, indeed, dear Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 must +say you married a poor disowned girl, who had taken shelter here; who had no +other home, no other friends; who had nothing—nothing! Oh, Walter, if I +could have brought you millions, I never could have been so happy for your +sake, as I am!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you, dear Florence? are you nothing?” he returned. +</p> + +<p> +“No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife.” The light hand stole +about his neck, and the voice came nearer—nearer. “I am nothing any +more, that is not you. I have no earthly hope any more, that is not you. I have +nothing dear to me any more, that is not you.” +</p> + +<p> +Oh! well might Mr Toots leave the little company that evening, and twice go out +to correct his watch by the Royal Exchange, and once to keep an appointment +with a banker which he suddenly remembered, and once to take a little turn to +Aldgate Pump and back! +</p> + +<p> +But before he went upon these expeditions, or indeed before he came, and before +lights were brought, Walter said: +</p> + +<p> +“Florence, love, the lading of our ship is nearly finished, and probably +on the very day of our marriage she will drop down the river. Shall we go away +that morning, and stay in Kent until we go on board at Gravesend within a +week?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. But—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my life?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know,” said Florence, “that we shall have no marriage +party, and that nobody will distinguish us by our dress from other people. As +we leave the same day, will you—will you take me somewhere that morning, +Walter—early—before we go to church?” +</p> + +<p> +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, peaceful evening, Florence was +very happy. +</p> + +<p> +Then into the quiet room came Susan Nipper and the candles; shortly afterwards, +the tea, the Captain, and the excursive Mr Toots, who, as above mentioned, was +frequently on the move afterwards, and passed but a restless evening. This, +however, was not his habit: for he generally got on very well, by dint of +playing at cribbage with the Captain under the advice and guidance of Miss +Nipper, and distracting his mind with the calculations incidental to the game; +which he found to be a very effectual means of utterly confounding himself. +</p> + +<p> +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; 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 the sudden rushing forth of Mr Toots, that he had unconsciously +been very instrumental, indeed, in making that gentleman miserable. This +reflection would make the Captain profoundly 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 any more. The state that ensued on this, was, perhaps, his best; +for then, endeavouring to discharge all expression from his face, he would sit +staring round the room, with all these expressions conveyed into it at once, +and each wrestling with the other. Delighted admiration of Florence and Walter +always 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 reproachful voice, to “Stand by!” or growling +some remonstrance to “Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad,” on the want of +caution observable in his behaviour. +</p> + +<p> +One of Mr Toots’s hardest trials, however, was of his own seeking. On the +approach of the Sunday which was to witness the last of those askings in church +of which the Captain had spoken, Mr Toots thus stated his feelings to Susan +Nipper. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan,” said Mr Toots, “I am drawn towards the building. The +words which cut me off from Miss Dombey for ever, will strike upon my ears like +a knell you know, but upon my word and honour, I feel that I must hear them. +Therefore,” said Mr Toots, “will you accompany me to-morrow, to the +sacred edifice?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan,” returned Mr Toots, with much solemnity, “before my +whiskers began to be observed by anybody but myself, I adored Miss Dombey. +While yet a victim to the thraldom of Blimber, I adored Miss Dombey. When I +could no longer be kept out of my property, in a legal point of view, +and—and accordingly came into it—I adored Miss Dombey. The banns +which consign her to Lieutenant Walters, and me to—to Gloom, you +know,” said Mr Toots, after hesitating for a strong expression, +“may be dreadful, will be dreadful; but I feel that I should wish to hear +them spoken. I feel that I should wish to know that the ground was certainly +cut from under me, and that I hadn’t a hope to cherish, or a—or a +leg, in short, to—to go upon.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan Nipper could only commiserate Mr Toots’s unfortunate condition, and +agree, under these circumstances, to accompany him; which she did next morning. +</p> + +<p> +The church Walter had chosen for the purpose, was a mouldy old church in a +yard, hemmed in by a labyrinth of back streets and courts, with a little +burying-ground round it, and itself buried in a kind of vault, formed by the +neighbouring houses, and paved with echoing stones. It was a great dim, shabby +pile, with high old oaken pews, among which about a score of people lost +themselves every Sunday; while the clergyman’s voice drowsily resounded +through the emptiness, and the organ rumbled and rolled as if the church had +got the colic, for want of a congregation to keep the wind and damp out. But so +far was this city church from languishing for the company of other churches, +that spires were clustered round it, as the masts of shipping cluster on the +river. It would have been hard to count them from its steeple-top, they were so +many. In almost every yard and blind-place near, there was a church. The +confusion of bells when Susan and Mr Toots betook themselves towards it on the +Sunday morning, was deafening. There were twenty churches close together, +clamouring for people to come in. +</p> + +<p> +The two stray sheep in question were penned by a beadle in a commodious pew, +and, being early, sat for some time counting the congregation, listening to the +disappointed bell high up in the tower, or looking at a shabby little old man +in the porch behind the screen, who was ringing the same, like the Bull in Cock +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 temporal nature. +</p> + +<p> +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 entirley conquered by his feelings as to rush from the church without +his hat, followed by the beadle and pew-opener, and two gentlemen of the +medical profession, who happened to be present; of whom the first-named +presently returned for that article, informing Miss Nipper in a whisper that +she was not to make herself uneasy about the gentleman, as the gentleman said +his indisposition was of no consequence. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Nipper, feeling that the eyes of that integral portion of Europe which +lost itself weekly among the high-backed pews, were upon her, would have been +sufficient embarrassed by this incident, though it had terminated here; the +more so, as the Captain in the front row of the gallery, was in a state of +unmitigated consciousness which could hardly fail to express to the +congregation that he had some mysterious connection with it. But the extreme +restlessness of Mr Toots painfully increased and protracted the delicacy of her +situation. That young gentleman, incapable, in his state of mind, of remaining +alone in the churchyard, a prey to solitary meditation, and also desirous, no +doubt, of testifying his respect for the offices he had in some measure +interrupted, suddenly returned—not coming back to the pew, but stationing +himself on a free seat in the aisle, between two elderly females who were in +the habit of receiving their portion of a weekly dole of bread then set forth +on a shelf in the porch. In this conjunction Mr Toots remained, greatly +disturbing the congregation, who felt it 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 without, and +as his restlessness was very great, it not only became difficult to conceive at +which window he would appear next, but likewise became necessary, as it were, +for the whole congregation to speculate upon the chances of the different +windows, during the comparative leisure afforded them by the sermon. Mr +Toots’s movements in the churchyard were so eccentric, that he seemed +generally to defeat all calculation, and to appear, like the conjuror’s +figure, where he was least expected; and the effect of these mysterious +presentations was much increased by its being difficult to him to see in, and +easy to everybody else to see out: which occasioned his remaining, every time, +longer than might have been expected, with his face close to the glass, until +he all at once became aware that all eyes were upon him, and vanished. +</p> + +<p> +These proceedings on the part of Mr Toots, and the strong individual +consciousness of them that was exhibited by the Captain, rendered Miss +Nipper’s position so responsible a one, that she was mightily relieved by +the conclusion of the service; and was hardly so affable to Mr Toots as usual, +when he informed her and the Captain, on the way back, that now he was sure he +had no hope, you know, he felt more comfortable—at least not exactly more +comfortable, but more comfortably and completely miserable. +</p> + +<p> +Swiftly now, indeed, the time flew by until it was the evening before the day +appointed for the marriage. They were all assembled in the upper room at the +Midshipman’s, and had no fear of interruption; for there were no lodgers +in the house now, and the Midshipman had it all to himself. They were grave and +quiet in the prospect of to-morrow, but moderately cheerful too. Florence, with +Walter close beside her, was finishing a little piece of work intended as a +parting gift to the Captain. The Captain was playing cribbage with Mr Toots. Mr +Toots was taking counsel as to his hand, of Susan Nipper. Miss Nipper was +giving it, with all due secrecy and circumspection. Diogenes was listening, and +occasionally breaking out into a gruff half-smothered fragment of a bark, of +which he afterwards seemed half-ashamed, as if he doubted having any reason for +it. +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, steady!” said the Captain to Diogenes, “what’s +amiss with you? You don’t seem easy in your mind tonight, my boy!” +</p> + +<p> +Diogenes wagged his tail, but pricked up his ears immediately afterwards, and +gave utterance to another fragment of a bark; for which he apologised to the +Captain, by again wagging his tail. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s my opinion, Di,” said the Captain, looking thoughtfully +at his cards, and stroking his chin with his hook, “as you have your +doubts of Mrs Richards; but if you’re the animal I take you to be, +you’ll think better o’ that; for her looks is her commission. Now, +Brother:” to Mr Toots: “if so be as you’re ready, heave +ahead.” +</p> + +<p> +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 Captain +recovered himself with a great gasp, struck the table a tremendous blow, cried +in a stentorian roar, “Sol Gills ahoy!” and tumbled into the arms +of a weather-beaten pea-coat that had come with Polly into the room. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0725m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +In another moment, Walter was in the arms of the weather-beaten pea-coat. In +another moment, Florence was in the arms of the weather-beaten pea-coat. In +another moment, Captain Cuttle had embraced Mrs Richards and Miss Nipper, and +was violently shaking hands with Mr Toots, exclaiming, as he waved his hook +above his head, “Hooroar, my lad, hooroar!” To which Mr Toots, +wholly at a loss to account for these proceedings, replied with great +politeness, “Certainly, Captain Gills, whatever you think proper!” +</p> + +<p> +The weather-beaten pea-coat, and a no less weather-beaten cap and comforter +belonging to it, turned from the Captain and from Florence back to Walter, and +sounds came from the weather-beaten pea-coat, cap, and comforter, as of an old +man sobbing underneath them; while the shaggy sleeves clasped Walter tight. +During this pause, there was an universal silence, and the Captain polished his +nose with great diligence. But when the pea-coat, cap, and comforter lifted +themselves up again, Florence gently moved towards them; and she and Walter +taking them off, disclosed the old Instrument-maker, a little thinner and more +careworn than of old, in his old Welsh wig and his old coffee-coloured coat and +basket buttons, with his old infallible chronometer ticking away in his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m half blind, Ned,” said the old man, “and almost +deaf and dumb with joy.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 own wines and fig-trees like a taut ould patriark as you are, +and overhaul them there adwentures o’ yourn, in your own formilior woice. +“Tis the woice,” said the Captain, impressively, and announcing a +quotation with his hook, “of the sluggard, I heerd him complain, you have +woke me too soon, I must slumber again. Scatter his ene-mies, and make +’em fall!” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain sat down with the air of a man who had happily expressed the +feeling of everybody present, and immediately rose again to present Mr Toots, +who was much disconcerted by the arrival of anybody, appearing to prefer a +claim to the name of Gills. +</p> + +<p> +“Although,” stammered Mr Toots, “I had not the pleasure of +your acquaintance, Sir, before you were—you were—” +</p> + +<p> +“Lost to sight, to memory dear,” suggested the Captain, in a low +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly so, Captain Gills!” assented Mr Toots. “Although I +had not the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr—Mr Sols,” said Toots, +hitting on that name in the inspiration of a bright idea, “before that +happened, I have the greatest pleasure, I assure you, in—you know, in +knowing you. I hope,” said Mr Toots, “that you’re as well as +can be expected.” +</p> + +<p> +With these courteous words, Mr Toots sat down blushing and chuckling. +</p> + +<p> +The old Instrument-maker, seated in a corner between Walter and Florence, and +nodding at Polly, who was looking on, all smiles and delight, answered the +Captain thus: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hear him!” cried the Captain gravely. “’Tis woman as +seduces all mankind. For which,” aside to Mr Toots, “you’ll +overhaul your Adam and Eve, brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall make a point of doing so, Captain Gills,” said Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“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 sentence—“that I—I can’t say +much tonight. But my dear Ned Cuttle, why didn’t you write?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Write!” echoed the Captain. “Write, Sol Gills?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said the old man, “either to Barbados, or Jamaica, or +Demerara, that was what I asked.” +</p> + +<p> +“What you asked, Sol Gills?” repeated the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said the old man. “Don’t you know, Ned? Sure you +have not forgotten? Every time I wrote to you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t appear to understand me, Ned!” observed old Sol. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, Ned,” said Sol Gills, “why I left here. Did you +open my packet, Ned?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, ay, ay,” said the Captain. “To be sure, I opened the +packet.” +</p> + +<p> +“And read it?” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“And read it,” answered the Captain, eyeing him attentively, and +proceeding to quote it from memory. “‘My dear Ned Cuttle, when I +left home for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my +dear-’ There he sits! There’s Wal”r!” said the Captain, +as if he were relieved by getting hold of anything that was real and +indisputable. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Ned. Now attend a moment!” said the old man. “When I +wrote first—that was from Barbados—I said that though you would +receive that letter long before the year was out, I should be glad if you would +open the packet, as it explained the reason of my going away. Very good, Ned. +When I wrote the second, third, and perhaps the fourth times—that was +from Jamaica—I said I was in just the same state, couldn’t rest, +and 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That he thinks was from Demerara, warn’t it!” said the +Captain, looking hopelessly round. +</p> + +<p> +“—I said,” proceeded old Sol, “that still there was no +certain information got yet. That I found many captains and others, in that +part of the world, who had known me for years, and who assisted me with a +passage here and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, to do a little +in return, in my own craft. That everyone was sorry for me, and seemed to take +a sort of interest in my wanderings; and that I began to think it would be my +fate to cruise about in search of tidings of my boy, until I died.” +</p> + +<p> +“Began to think as how he was a scientific Flying Dutchman!” said +the Captain, as before, and with great seriousness. +</p> + +<p> +“But when the news come one day, Ned,—that was to Barbados, after I +got back there,—that a China trader home’ard bound had been spoke, +that had my boy aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and came +home; arrived at home tonight to find it true, thank God!” said the old +man, devoutly. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, after bowing his head with great reverence, stared all round the +circle, beginning with Mr Toots, and ending with the Instrument-maker; then +gravely said: +</p> + +<p> +“Sol Gills! The observation as I’m a-going to make is +calc’lated to blow every stitch of sail as you can carry, clean out of +the bolt-ropes, and bring you on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one of them +letters 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And posted by my own hand! And directed by my own hand, Number nine Brig +Place!” exclaimed old Sol. +</p> + +<p> +The colour all went out of the Captain’s face and all came back again in +a glow. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Number nine Brig +Place?” inquired the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Mean? Your lodgings, Ned,” returned the old man. “Mrs +What’s-her-name! I shall forget my own name next, but I am behind the +present time—I always was, you recollect—and very much confused. +Mrs—” +</p> + +<p> +“Sol Gills!” said the Captain, as if he were putting the most +improbable case in the world, “it ain’t the name of MacStinger as +you’re a trying to remember?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course it is!” exclaimed the Instrument-maker. “To be +sure Ned. Mrs MacStinger!” +</p> + +<p> +Captain Cuttle, whose eyes were now as wide open as they would be, and the +knobs upon whose face were perfectly luminous, gave a long shrill whistle of a +most melancholy sound, and stood gazing at everybody in a state of +speechlessness. +</p> + +<p> +“Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so kind?” he +said at last. +</p> + +<p> +“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 honour, even to the infallible chronometer in +his pocket, “I posted with my own hand, and directed with my own hand, to +Captain Cuttle, at Mrs MacStinger’s, Number nine Brig Place.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain took his glazed hat off his hook, looked into it, put it on, and +sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, friends all,” said the Captain, staring round in the last +state of discomfiture, “I cut and run from there!” +</p> + +<p> +“And no one knew where you were gone, Captain Cuttle?” cried Walter +hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless your heart, Wal”r,” said the Captain, shaking his +head, “she’d never have allowed o’ my coming to take charge +o’ this here property. Nothing could be done but cut and run. Lord love +you, Wal”r!” said the Captain, “you’ve only seen her in +a calm! But see her when her angry passions rise—and make a note +on!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d give it her!” remarked the Nipper, softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you, do you think, my dear?” returned the Captain, with +feeble admiration. “Well, my dear, it does you credit. But there +ain’t no wild animal I wouldn’t sooner face myself. I only got my +chest away by means of a friend as nobody’s a match for. It was no good +sending any letter there. She wouldn’t take in any letter, bless +you,” said the Captain, “under them circumstances! Why, you could +hardly make it worth a man’s while to be the postman!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, remembering the last conversation he +and the Captain had held together respecting it, he remained under a cloud for +nearly five minutes—an extraordinary period for him when that sun, his +face, broke out once more, shining on all beholders with extraordinary +brilliancy; and he fell into a fit of shaking hands with everybody over and +over again. +</p> + +<p> +At an early hour, but not before Uncle Sol and Walter had questioned each other +at some length about their voyages and dangers, they all, except Walter, +vacated Florence’s room, and went down to the parlour. Here they were +soon afterwards joined by Walter, who told them Florence was a little sorrowful +and heavy-hearted, and had gone to bed. Though they could not have disturbed +her with their voices down there, they all spoke in a whisper after this: and +each, in his different way, felt very lovingly and gently towards +Walter’s fair young bride: and a long explanation there 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr Toots,” said Walter, on parting with him at the house door, +“we shall see each other to-morrow morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lieutenant Walters,” returned Mr Toots, grasping his hand +fervently, “I shall certainly be present.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Walters,” replied Mr Toots, quite touched, “I should be glad +to feel that you had reason to be so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots laid his hand upon the doorpost, and his eyes upon his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“—With her dear love,” said Walter, “that she can never +have a friend whom she will value above you. That the recollection of your true +consideration for her always, can never be forgotten by her. That she remembers +you in her prayers tonight, and hopes that you will think of her when she is +far away. Shall I say anything for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Say, Walter,” replied Mr Toots indistinctly, “that 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots got more distinct as he came to these last words, and raising his eyes +from the doorpost, said them stoutly. He then shook Walter’s hand again +with a fervour that Walter was not slow to return and started homeward. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots was accompanied by the Chicken, whom he had of late brought with him +every evening, and left in the shop, with an idea that unforeseen circumstances +might arise from without, in which the prowess of that distinguished character +would be of service to the Midshipman. The Chicken did not appear to be in a +particularly good humour on this occasion. Either the gas-lamps were +treacherous, or he cocked his eye in a hideous manner, and likewise distorted +his nose, when Mr Toots, crossing the road, looked back over his shoulder at +the room where Florence slept. On the road home, he was more demonstrative of +aggressive intentions against the other foot-passengers, than comported with a +professor of the peaceful art of self-defence. Arrived at home, instead of +leaving Mr Toots in his apartments 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 repaired), with an air of decided disrespect. +</p> + +<p> +His patron being much engaged with his own thoughts, did not observe this for +some time, nor indeed until the Chicken, determined not to be overlooked, had +made divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth, to attract attention. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Chicken,” returned Mr Toots, “explain yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why then, here’s all about it, Master,” said the Chicken. +“I ain’t a cove to chuck a word away. Here’s wot it is. Are +any on ’em to be doubled up?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Master,” said the Chicken. “Is it to be gammon or +pluck? Which?” +</p> + +<p> +“Chicken,” returned Mr Toots, “your expressions are coarse, +and your meaning is obscure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then, I tell you what, Master,” said the Chicken. “This +is where it is. It’s mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is mean, Chicken?” asked Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“It is,” said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his +broken nose. “There! Now, Master! Wot! When you could go and blow on this +here match to the stiff’un;” by which depreciatory appellation it +has been since supposed that the Game One intended to signify Mr Dombey; +“and when you could knock the winner and all the kit of ’em dead +out o’ wind and time, are you going to give in? To give in?” said +the Chicken, with contemptuous emphasis. “Wy, it’s mean!” +</p> + +<p> +“Chicken,” said Mr Toots, severely, “you’re a perfect +Vulture! Your sentiments are atrocious.” +</p> + +<p> +“My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master,” returned the Chicken. +“That’s wot my sentiments is. I can’t abear a meanness. +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Chicken,” said Mr Toots, “you disgust me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Master,” returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, +“there’s a pair on us, then. Come! Here’s a offer! +You’ve spoke to me more than once”t or twice’t about the +public line. Never mind! Give me a fi’typunnote to-morrow, and let me +go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Chicken,” returned Mr Toots, “after the odious sentiments +you have expressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms.” +</p> + +<p> +“Done then,” said the Chicken. “It’s a bargain. This +here conduct of yourn won’t suit my book, Master. Wy, it’s +mean,” said the Chicken; who seemed equally unable to get beyond that +point, and to stop short of it. “That’s where it is; it’s +mean!” +</p> + +<p> +So Mr Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on this incompatibility of moral +perception; and Mr Toots lying down to sleep, dreamed happily of Florence, who +had thought of him as her friend upon the last night of her maiden life, and +who had sent him her dear love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap57"></a>CHAPTER LVII.<br /> +Another Wedding</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r +Sownds the beadle, and Mrs Miff the pew-opener, are early at their posts in the +fine church where Mr Dombey was married. A yellow-faced old gentleman from +India, is going to take unto himself a young wife this morning, and six +carriages full of company are expected, and Mrs Miff has been informed that the +yellow-faced old gentleman could pave the road to church with diamonds and +hardly miss them. +</p> + +<p> +The nuptial benediction is to be a superior one, proceeding from a very +reverend, a dean, and the lady is to be given away, as an extraordinary +present, by somebody who comes express from the Horse Guards. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Miff is more intolerant of common people this morning, than she generally +is; and she has always strong opinions on that subject, for it is associated +with free sittings. Mrs Miff is not a student of political economy (she thinks +the science is connected with dissenters; “Baptists or Wesleyans, or some +o’ them,” she says), but she can never understand what business +your common folks have to be married. “Drat ’em,” says Mrs +Miff “you read the same things over ’em and instead of sovereigns +get sixpences!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Sownds the beadle is more liberal than Mrs Miff—but then he is not a +pew-opener. “It must be done, Ma’am,” he says. “We must +marry ’em. We must have our national schools to walk at the head of, and +we must have our standing armies. We must marry ’em, Ma’am,” +says Mr Sownds, “and keep the country going.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Sownds is sitting on the steps and Mrs Miff is dusting in the church, when a +young couple, plainly dressed, come in. The mortified bonnet of Mrs Miff is +sharply turned towards them, for she espies in this early visit indications of +a runaway match. But they don’t want to be +married—“Only,” says the gentleman, “to walk round the +church.” And as he slips a genteel compliment into the palm of Mrs Miff, +her vinegary face relaxes, and her mortified bonnet and her spare dry figure +dip and crackle. +</p> + +<p> +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-opening eye on the young couple who are walking round the church. +“Ahem,” coughs Mrs Miff whose cough is drier than the hay in any +hassock in her charge, “you’ll come to us one of these mornings, my +dears, unless I’m much mistaken!” +</p> + +<p> +They are looking at a tablet on the wall, erected to the memory of someone +dead. They are a long way off from Mrs Miff, but Mrs Miff can see with half an +eye how she is leaning on his arm, and how his head is bent down over her. +“Well, well,” says Mrs Miff, “you might do worse. For +you’re a tidy pair!” +</p> + +<p> +There is nothing personal in Mrs Miff’s remark. She merely speaks of +stock-in-trade. She is hardly more curious in couples than in coffins. She is +such a spare, straight, dry old lady—such a pew of a woman—that you +should find as many individual sympathies in a chip. Mr Sownds, now, who is +fleshy, and has scarlet in his coat, is of a different temperament. He says, as +they stand upon the steps watching the young couple away, that she has a pretty +figure, hasn’t she, and as well as he could see (for she held her head +down coming out), an uncommon pretty face. “Altogether, Mrs Miff,” +says Mr Sownds with a relish, “she is what you may call a +rose-bud.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And what are the young couple saying as they leave the church, and go out at +the gate? +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Walter, thank you! I can go away, now, happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when we come back, Florence, we will come and see his grave +again.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence lifts her eyes, so bright with tears, to his kind face; and clasps her +disengaged hand on that other modest little hand which clasps his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost empty yet. Let us +walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you will be so tired, my love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no! I was very tired the first time that we ever walked together, but +I shall not be so today.” +</p> + +<p> +And thus—not much changed—she, as innocent and +earnest-hearted—he, as frank, as hopeful, and more proud of +her—Florence and Walter, on their bridal morning, walk through the +streets together. +</p> + +<p> +Not even in that childish walk of long ago, were they so far removed from all +the world about them as today. The childish feet of long ago, did not tread +such enchanted ground as theirs do now. The confidence and love of children may +be given many times, and will spring up in many places; but the woman’s +heart of Florence, with its undivided treasure, can be yielded only once, and +under slight or change, can only droop and die. +</p> + +<p> +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 +goldsmith’s sunny windows; and great houses cast a stately shade upon +them as they pass. But through the light, and through the shade, they go on +lovingly together, lost to everything around; thinking of no other riches, and +no prouder home, than they have now in one another. +</p> + +<p> +Gradually they come into the darker, narrower streets, where the sun, now +yellow, and now red, is seen through the mist, only at street corners, and in +small open spaces where there is a tree, or one of the innumerable churches, or +a paved way and a flight of steps, or a curious little patch of garden, or a +burying-ground, where the few tombs and tombstones are almost black. Lovingly +and trustfully, through all the narrow yards and alleys and the shady streets, +Florence goes, clinging to his arm, to be his wife. +</p> + +<p> +Her heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that their church is very +near. They pass a few great stacks of warehouses, with waggons at the doors, +and busy carmen stopping up the way—but Florence does not see or hear +them—and then the air is quiet, and the day is darkened, and she is +trembling in a church which has a strange smell like a cellar. +</p> + +<p> +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. He ushers them into an old brown, panelled, dusty vestry, like a +corner-cupboard with the shelves taken out; where the wormy registers diffuse a +smell like faded snuff, which has set the tearful Nipper sneezing. +</p> + +<p> +Youthful, and how beautiful, the young bride looks, in this old dusty place, +with no kindred object near her but her husband. There is a dusty old clerk, +who keeps a sort of evaporated news shop underneath an archway opposite, behind +a perfect fortification of posts. There is a dusty old pew-opener who only +keeps herself, and finds that quite enough to do. There is a dusty old beadle +(these are Mr Toots’s beadle and pew-opener of last Sunday), who has +something to do with a Worshipful Company who have got a Hall in the next yard, +with a stained-glass window in it that no mortal ever saw. There are dusty +wooden ledges and cornices poked in and out over the altar, and over the screen +and round the gallery, and over the inscription about what the Master and +Wardens of the Worshipful Company did in one thousand six hundred and +ninety-four. There are dusty old sounding-boards over the pulpit and +reading-desk, looking like lids to be let down on the officiating ministers in +case of their giving offence. There is every possible provision for the +accommodation of dust, except in the churchyard, where the facilities in that +respect are very limited. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, Uncle Sol, and Mr Toots are come; the clergyman is putting on his +surplice in the vestry, while the clerk walks round him, blowing the dust off +it; and the bride and bridegroom stand before the altar. There is no +bridesmaid, unless Susan Nipper is one; and no better father than Captain +Cuttle. A man with a wooden leg, chewing a faint apple and carrying a blue bag +in has 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. +</p> + +<p> +No gracious ray of light is seen to fall on Florence, kneeling at the altar +with her timid head bowed down. The morning luminary is built out, and +don’t shine there. There is a meagre tree outside, where the sparrows are +chirping a little; and there is a blackbird in an eyelet-hole of sun in a +dyer’s garret, over against the window, who whistles loudly whilst the +service is performing; and there is the man with the wooden leg stumping away. +The amens of the dusty clerk appear, like Macbeth’s, to stick in his +throat a little; but Captain Cuttle helps him out, and does it with so much +goodwill that he interpolates three entirely new responses of that word, never +introduced into the service before. +</p> + +<p> +They are married, and have signed their names in one of the old sneezy +registers, and the clergyman’s surplice is restored to the dust, and the +clergyman is gone home. In a dark corner of the dark church, Florence has +turned to Susan Nipper, and is weeping in her arms. Mr Toots’s eyes are +red. The Captain lubricates his nose. Uncle Sol has pulled down his spectacles +from his forehead, and walked out to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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-bye! Good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +They have thought it better not to go back to the Midshipman, but to part so; a +coach is waiting for them, near at hand. +</p> + +<p> +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 +him her hand—gives him, in the fulness of her heart, her +lips—kisses Uncle Sol, and Captain Cuttle, and is borne away by her young +husband. +</p> + +<p> +But Susan cannot bear that Florence should go away with a mournful recollection +of her. She had meant to be so different, that she reproaches herself bitterly. +Intent on making one last effort to redeem her 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 Toots are left behind +together, outside the church, to wait for them. +</p> + +<p> +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 flies down the hill, and waves his glazed hat as a general +signal, which may attract the right coach and which may not. +</p> + +<p> +Susan outstrips the Captain, and comes up with it. She looks in at the window, +sees Walter, with the gentle face beside him, and claps her hands and screams: +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Floy, my darling! look at me! We are all so happy now, dear! One +more good-bye, my precious, one more!” +</p> + +<p> +How Susan does it, she don’t know, but she reaches to the window, kisses +her, and has her arms about her neck, in a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Angry, Susan!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; I am sure you won’t. I say you won’t, my pet, my +dearest!” exclaims Susan; “and here’s the Captain +too—your friend the Captain, you know—to say good-bye once +more!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hooroar, my Heart’s Delight!” vociferates the Captain, with +a countenance of strong emotion. “Hooroar, Wal”r my lad. Hooroar! +Hooroar!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +smiling face upon her mistress, smiling through her tears, until the last. Even +when she is left behind, the Captain continues to appear and disappear at the +door, crying “Hooroar, my lad! 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 any longer. Finally, when the coach is gone, +Susan Nipper, being rejoined by the Captain, falls into a state of +insensibility, and is taken into a baker’s shop to recover. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Sol and Mr Toots wait patiently in the churchyard, sitting on the +coping-stone of the railings, until Captain Cuttle and Susan come back. Neither +being at all desirous to speak, or to be spoken to, they are excellent company, +and quite satisfied. When they all arrive again at the little Midshipman, and +sit down to breakfast, nobody can touch a morsel. Captain Cuttle makes a feint +of being voracious about toast, but gives it up as a swindle. Mr Toots says, +after breakfast, he 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 candid 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 something for supper. Miss Nipper assenting, they buy +a good many little things; and, with the aid of Mrs Richards, set the supper +out quite showily before the Captain and old Sol came home. +</p> + +<p> +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 little wife. +“A admiral’s cabin, mind you,” says the Captain, +“ain’t more trim.” +</p> + +<p> +But one of the Captain’s chief delights is, that he knows the big watch, +and the sugar-tongs, and tea-spoons, are on board: and again and again he +murmurs to himself, “Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a +better course in your life than when you made that there little property over +jintly. You see how the land bore, Ed’ard,” says the Captain, +“and it does you credit, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +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 contented face. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Sol! There’s the last bottle of the old Madeira down below. Would +you wish to have it up tonight, my boy, and drink to Wal”r and his +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +The Instrument-maker, looking wistfully at the Captain, puts his hand into the +breast-pocket of his coffee-coloured coat, brings forth his pocket-book, and +takes a letter out. +</p> + +<p> +“To Mr Dombey,” says the old man. “From Walter. To be sent in +three weeks’ time. I’ll read it.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone with me upon a +distant voyage. To be devoted to her is to have no claim on her or you, but God +knows that I am. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Do not reproach her. She has never reproached you. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I do not think or hope that you will ever forgive me. There is +nothing I expect less. But if an hour should come when it will comfort you to +believe that Florence has someone ever near her, the great charge of whose life +is to cancel her remembrance of past sorrow, I solemnly assure you, you may, in +that hour, rest in that belief.’” +</p> + +<p> +Solomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket-book, and puts back his +pocket-book in his coat. +</p> + +<p> +“We won’t drink the last bottle of the old Madeira yet, Ned,” +says the old man thoughtfully. “Not yet. +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” assents the Captain. “No. Not yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan and Mr Toots are of the same opinion. After a silence they all sit down +to supper, and drink to the young husband and wife in something else; and the +last bottle of the old Madeira still remains among its dust and cobwebs, +undisturbed. +</p> + +<p> +A few days have elapsed, and a stately ship is out at sea, spreading its white +wings to the favouring wind. +</p> + +<p> +Upon the deck, image to the roughest man on board of something that is +graceful, beautiful, and harmless—something that it is good and pleasant +to have there, and that should make the voyage prosperous—is Florence. It +is night, and she and Walter sit alone, watching the solemn path of light upon +the sea between them and the moon. +</p> + +<p> +At length she cannot see it plainly, for the tears that fill her eyes; and then +she lays her head down on his breast, and puts her arms around his neck, +saying, “Oh Walter, dearest love, I am so happy!” +</p> + +<p> +Her husband holds her to his heart, and they are very quiet, and the stately +ship goes on serenely. +</p> + +<p> +“As I hear the sea,” says Florence, “and sit watching it, it +brings so many days into my mind. It makes me think so much—” +</p> + +<p> +“Of Paul, my love. I know it does.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap58"></a>CHAPTER LVIII.<br /> +After a Lapse</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +sea had ebbed and flowed, through a whole year. Through a whole year, the winds +and clouds had come and gone; the ceaseless work of Time had been performed, in +storm and sunshine. Through a whole year, the tides of human chance and change +had set in their allotted courses. Through a whole year, the famous House of +Dombey and Son had fought a fight for life, against cross accidents, doubtful +rumours, unsuccessful ventures, unpropitious times, and most of all, against +the infatuation of its head, who would not contract its enterprises by a +hair’s breadth, and would not listen to a word of warning that the ship +he strained so hard against the storm, was weak, and could not bear it. +</p> + +<p> +The year was out, and the great House was down. +</p> + +<p> +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, headed by that +name. +</p> + +<p> +The world was very busy now, in sooth, and had a deal to say. It was an +innocently credulous and a much ill-used world. It was a world in which there +was no other sort of bankruptcy whatever. There were no conspicuous people in +it, trading far and wide on rotten banks of religion, patriotism, virtue, +honour. There was no amount worth mentioning of mere paper in circulation, on +which anybody lived pretty handsomely, promising to pay great sums of goodness +with no effects. There were no shortcomings anywhere, in anything but money. +The world was very angry indeed; and the people especially, who, in a worse +world, might have been supposed to be apt traders themselves in shows and +pretences, were observed to be mightily indignant. +</p> + +<p> +Here was a new inducement to dissipation, presented to that sport of +circumstances, Mr Perch the Messenger! It was apparently the fate of Mr Perch +to be always waking up, and finding himself famous. He had but yesterday, as +one might say, subsided into private life from the celebrity of the elopement +and the events that followed it; and now he was made a more important man than +ever, by the bankruptcy. Gliding from his bracket in the outer office where he +now sat, watching the strange faces of accountants and others, who quickly +superseded nearly 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 interesting +question, what would he take to drink? Then would Mr Perch descant upon the +hours of acute uneasiness he and Mrs Perch had suffered out at Balls Pond, when +they first suspected “things was going wrong.” Then would Mr Perch +relate to gaping listeners, in a low voice, as if the corpse of the deceased +House were lying unburied in the next room, how Mrs Perch had first come to +surmise that things was going wrong by hearing him (Perch) moaning in his +sleep, “twelve and ninepence in the pound, twelve and ninepence in the +pound!” Which act of somnambulism he supposed to have originated in the +impression made upon him by the change in Mr Dombey’s face. Then would he +inform them how he had once said, “Might I make so bold as ask, Sir, are +you unhappy in your mind?” and how Mr Dombey had replied, “My +faithful Perch—but no, it cannot be!” and with that had struck his +hand upon his forehead, and said, “Leave me, Perch!” Then, in +short, would Mr Perch, a victim to his position, tell all manner of lies; +affecting himself to tears by those that were of a moving nature, and really +believing that the inventions of yesterday had, on repetition, a sort of truth +about them today. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Perch always closed these conferences by meekly remarking, that, of course, +whatever his suspicions might have been (as if he had ever had any!) it +wasn’t for <i>him</i> to betray his trust, was it? Which sentiment (there +never being any creditors present) was received as doing great honour to his +feelings. Thus, he generally brought away a soothed conscience and left an +agreeable impression behind him, when he returned to his bracket: again to sit +watching the strange faces of the accountants and others, making so free with +the great mysteries, the Books; or now and then to go on tiptoe into Mr +Dombey’s empty room, and stir the fire; or to take an airing at the door, +and have a little more doleful chat with any straggler whom he knew; or to +propitiate, with various small attentions, the head accountant: from whom Mr +Perch had expectations of a messengership in a Fire Office, when the affairs of +the House should be wound up. +</p> + +<p> +To Major Bagstock, the bankruptcy was quite a calamity. The Major was not a +sympathetic character—his attention being wholly concentrated on J. +B.—nor was he a man subject to lively emotions, except in the physical +regards of gasping and choking. But he had so paraded his friend Dombey at the +club; had so flourished him at the heads of the members in general, and so put +them down by continual assertion of his riches; that the club, being but human, +was delighted to retort upon the Major, by asking him, with a show of great +concern, whether this tremendous smash had been at all expected, and how his +friend Dombey bore it. To such questions, the Major, waxing very purple, would +reply that it was a bad world, Sir, altogether; that Joey knew a thing or two, +but had been done, Sir, done like an infant; that if you had foretold this, +Sir, to J. Bagstock, when he went abroad with Dombey and was chasing that +vagabond up and down 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; insomuch, Sir, that if Joe’s father were to rise up from the +grave to-morrow, he wouldn’t trust the old blade with a penny piece, but +would tell him that his son Josh was too old a soldier to be done again, Sir. +That he was a suspicious, crabbed, cranky, used-up, J. B. infidel, Sir; and +that if it were consistent with the dignity of a rough and tough old Major, of +the old school, who had had the honour of being personally known to, and +commended by, their late Royal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and York, to retire +to a tub and live in it, by Gad! Sir, he’d have a tub in Pall Mall +to-morrow, to show his contempt for mankind! +</p> + +<p> +Of all this, and many variations of the same tune, the Major would deliver +himself with so many apoplectic symptoms, such rollings of his head, and such +violent growls of ill usage and resentment, that the younger members of the +club surmised he had invested money in his friend Dombey’s House, and +lost it; though the older soldiers and deeper dogs, who knew Joe better, +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 miserable foreigner lived in a rainy season of boot-jacks and brushes. +</p> + +<p> +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 invited to dinner on the day of that +first party, it never would have happened; and that she had said so, at the +time. +</p> + +<p> +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 everything he had, and asked for +no favour from anyone. That any resumption of the business was out of the +question, as he would listen to no friendly negotiation having that compromise +in view; that he had relinquished every post of trust or distinction he had +held, as a man respected among merchants; that he was dying, according to some; +that he was going melancholy mad, according to others; that he was a broken +man, according to all. +</p> + +<p> +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, sitting on his bracket +looking at the accountants, or starting off it, to propitiate the head +accountant, who was to get him into the Fire Office. The Counting House soon +got to be dirty and neglected. The principal slipper and dogs’ collar +seller, at the corner of the court, would have doubted the propriety of +throwing up his forefinger to the brim of his hat, any more, if Mr Dombey had +appeared there now; and the ticket porter, with his hands under his white +apron, moralised good sound morality about ambition, which (he observed) was +not, in his opinion, made to rhyme to perdition, for nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Morfin, the hazel-eyed bachelor, with the hair and whiskers sprinkled with +grey, was perhaps the only person within the atmosphere of the House—its +head, of course, excepted—who was heartily and deeply 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-tightened springs to release with a quick recoil. He worked early and late +to unravel whatever was complicated or difficult in the records of the +transactions of the House; was always in attendance to explain whatever +required explanation; sat in his old room sometimes very late at night, +studying points by his mastery of which he could spare Mr Dombey the pain of +being personally referred to; and then would go home to Islington, and calm his +mind by producing the most dismal and forlorn sounds out of his violoncello +before going to bed. +</p> + +<p> +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 fortunately deaf, and had +no other consciousness of these performances than a sensation of something +rumbling in her bones) announced a lady. +</p> + +<p> +“In mourning,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The violoncello stopped immediately; and the performer, laying it on the 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Alone!” he said, “and John here this morning! Is there +anything the matter, my dear? But no,” he added, “your face tells +quite another story.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you see there, then,” +she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a very pleasant one,” said he; “and, if selfish, a +novelty too, worth seeing in you. But I don’t believe that.” +</p> + +<p> +He had placed a chair for her by this time, and sat down opposite; the +violoncello lying snugly on the sofa between them. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not be surprised at my coming alone, or at John’s not +having told you I was coming,” said Harriet; “and you will believe +that, when I tell you why I have come. May I do so now?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can do nothing better.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were not busy?” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to the violoncello lying on the sofa, and said “I have been, +all day. Here’s my witness. I have been confiding all my cares to it. I +wish I had none but my own to tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is the House at an end?” said Harriet, earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“Completely at an end.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will it never be resumed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never.” +</p> + +<p> +The bright expression of her face was not overshadowed as her lips silently +repeated the word. He seemed to observe this with some little involuntary +surprise: and said again: +</p> + +<p> +“Never. You remember what I told you. It has been, all along, impossible +to convince him; impossible to reason with him; sometimes, impossible even to +approach him. The worst has happened; and the House has fallen, never to be +built up any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Mr Dombey, is he personally ruined?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ruined.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will he have no private fortune left? Nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +A certain eagerness in her voice, and something that was almost joyful in her +look, seemed to surprise him more and more; to disappoint him too, and jar +discordantly against his own emotions. He drummed with the fingers of one hand +on the table, looking wistfully at her, and shaking his head, said, after a +pause: +</p> + +<p> +“The extent of Mr Dombey’s resources is not accurately within my +knowledge; but though they are doubtless very large, his obligations are +enormous. He is a gentleman of high honour and integrity. Any man in his +position could, and many a man in his position would, have saved himself, by +making terms which 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.” +</p> + +<p> +She heard him with little or no change in her expression, and with a divided +attention that showed her to be busy with something in her own mind. When he +was silent, she asked him hurriedly: +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen him lately?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 connexion in higher terms than it deserved, and parting +from me. I am delicate of obtruding myself upon him now, never having had much +intercourse with him in better times; but I have tried to do so. I have +written, gone there, entreated. Quite in vain.” +</p> + +<p> +He watched her, as in the hope that she would testify some greater concern than +she had yet shown; and spoke gravely and feelingly, as if to impress her the +more; but there was no change in her. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Good, true face, as that face of hers was, and pleasant as it had been to him, +Mr Morfin, the hazel-eyed bachelor, since the first time he had ever looked +upon it, it pleased him less at that moment, lighted with a ray of exultation, +than it had ever pleased him before. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The face was pleasanter to him now, though it was pale and melancholy, than it +had been a moment since. He seemed to breathe more cheerily. +</p> + +<p> +“You know,” she said, “our history, the history of both my +brothers, in connexion with the unfortunate, unhappy gentleman, of whom you +have spoken so truly. You know how few our wants are—John’s and +mine—and what little use we have for money, after the life we have led +together for so many years; and now that he is earning an income that is ample +for us, through your kindness. You are not unprepared to hear what favour I +have come to ask of you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly know. I was, a minute ago. Now, I think, I am not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of my dead brother I say nothing. If the dead know what we do—but +you understand me. Of my living brother I could say much; but what need I say +more, than that this act of duty, in which I have come to ask your +indispensable assistance, is his own, and that he cannot rest until it is +performed!” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her eyes again; and the light of exultation in her face began to +appear beautiful, in the observant eyes that watched her. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Sir,” she went on to say, “it must be done very quietly +and secretly. Your experience and knowledge will point out a way of doing it. +Mr Dombey may, perhaps, be led to believe that it is something saved, +unexpectedly, from the wreck of his fortunes; or that it is a voluntary tribute +to his honourable and upright character, from some of those with whom he has +had great dealings; or that it is some old lost debt repaid. There must be many +ways of doing it. I know you will choose the best. The favour 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 secretly, unknown, and unapproved of: that only +a very small part of the inheritance may be reserved to us, until Mr Dombey +shall have possessed the interest of the rest for the remainder of his life; +that you will keep our secret, faithfully—but that I am sure you will; +and that, from this time, it may seldom be whispered, even between you and me, +but may live in my thoughts only as a new reason for thankfulness to Heaven, +and joy and pride in my brother.” +</p> + +<p> +Such a look of exultation there may be on Angels’ faces when the one +repentant sinner enters Heaven, among ninety-nine just men. It was not dimmed +or tarnished by the joyful tears that filled her eyes, but was the brighter for +them. +</p> + +<p> +“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 available for your good purpose, as well as +John’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven forbid that I should dispute it!” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“We may rely on your friendly help?” she said. “I knew we +might!” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be a worse man than,—than I hope I am, or would willingly +believe myself, if I could not give you that assurance from my heart and soul. +You may, implicitly. Upon my honour, I will keep your secret. And if it should +be found that Mr Dombey is so reduced as I fear he will be, acting on a +determination that there seem to be no means of influencing, I will assist you +to accomplish the design, on which you and John are jointly resolved.” +</p> + +<p> +She gave him her hand, and thanked him with a cordial, happy face. +</p> + +<p> +“Harriet,” he said, detaining it in his. “To speak to you of +the worth of any sacrifice that you can make now—above all, of any +sacrifice of mere money—would be idle and presumptuous. To put before you +any appeal to reconsider your purpose or to set narrow limits to it, would be, +I feel, not less so. I have no right to mar the great end of a great history, +by any obtrusion of my own weak self. I have every right to bend my head before +what you confide to me, satisfied that it comes from a higher and better source +of inspiration than my poor worldly knowledge. I will say only this: I am your +faithful steward; and I would rather be so, and your chosen friend, than I +would be anybody in the world, except yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +She thanked him again, cordially, and wished him good-night. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going home?” he said. “Let me go with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not tonight. I am not going home now; I have a visit to make alone. +Will you come to-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said he, “I’ll come to-morrow. In the +meantime, I’ll think of this, and how we can best proceed. And perhaps +I’ll think of it, dear Harriet, and—and—think of me a little +in connexion with it.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +upstairs, when the coach had driven off, that we were creatures of habit, and +it was a sorrowful habit to be an old bachelor. +</p> + +<p> +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 expression he +communicated to the instrument at first, though monstrously pathetic and bland, +was nothing to the expression he communicated to his own face, and bestowed +upon the empty chair: which was so sincere, that he was obliged to have +recourse to Captain Cuttle’s remedy more than once, and to rub his face +with his sleeve. By degrees, however, the 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 bachelorhood until nearly midnight; and +when he took his supper, the violoncello set up on end in the sofa corner, big +with the latent harmony of a whole foundry full of harmonious blacksmiths, +seemed to ogle the empty chair out of its crooked eyes, with unutterable +intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +When Harriet left the house, the driver of her hired coach, taking a course +that was evidently no new one to him, went in and out by bye-ways, through that +part of the suburbs, until he arrived at some open ground, where there were a +few quiet little old houses standing among gardens. At the garden-gate of one +of these he stopped, and Harriet alighted. +</p> + +<p> +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 +curtseyed at sight of her, and conducted her across the garden to the house. +</p> + +<p> +“How is your patient, nurse, tonight?” said Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“In a poor way, Miss, I am afraid. Oh how she do remind me, sometimes, of +my Uncle’s Betsey Jane!” returned the woman of the light +complexion, in a sort of doleful rapture. +</p> + +<p> +“In what respect?” asked Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss, in all respects,” replied the other, “except that +she’s grown up, and Betsey Jane, when at death’s door, was but a +child.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you have told me she recovered,” observed Harriet mildly; +“so there is the more reason for hope, Mrs Wickam.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits to bear +it!” said Mrs Wickam, shaking her head. “My own spirits is not +equal to it, but I don’t owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so +blest!” +</p> + +<p> +“You should try to be more cheerful,” remarked Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“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 ain’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.” +</p> + +<p> +In truth, this was the very Mrs Wickam who had superseded Mrs Richards as the +nurse of little Paul, and who considered herself to have gained the loss in +question, under the roof of the amiable Pipchin. The excellent and thoughtful +old system, hallowed by long prescription, which has usually picked out from +the rest of mankind the most dreary and uncomfortable people that could +possibly be laid hold of, to act as instructors of youth, finger-posts to the +virtues, matrons, monitors, attendants on sick beds, and the like, had +established Mrs Wickam in very good business as a nurse, and had led to her +serious qualities being particularly commended by an admiring and numerous +connexion. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Wickam, with her eyebrows elevated, and her head on one side, lighted the +way upstairs to a clean, neat chamber, opening on another chamber dimly +lighted, where there was a bed. In the first room, an old woman sat +mechanically staring out at the open window, on the darkness. In the second, +stretched upon the bed, lay the shadow of a figure that had spurned the wind +and rain, one wintry night; hardly to be recognised now, but by the long black +hair that showed so very black against the colourless face, and all the white +things about it. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, the strong eyes, and the weak frame! The eyes that turned so eagerly and +brightly to the door when Harriet came in; the feeble head that could not raise +itself, and moved so slowly round upon its pillow! +</p> + +<p> +“Alice!” said the visitor’s mild voice, “am I late +tonight?” +</p> + +<p> +“You always seem late, but are always early.” +</p> + +<p> +Harriet had sat down by the bedside now, and put her hand upon the thin hand +lying there. +</p> + +<p> +“You are better?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Wickam, standing at the foot of the bed, like a disconsolate spectre, most +decidedly and forcibly shook her head to negative this position. +</p> + +<p> +“It matters very little!” said Alice, with a faint smile. +“Better or worse today, is but a day’s difference—perhaps +not so much.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Wickam, as a serious character, expressed her approval with a groan; and +having made some cold dabs at the bottom of the bedclothes, as feeling for the +patient’s feet and expecting to find them stony; went clinking among the +medicine bottles on the table, as who should say, “while we are here, let +us repeat the mixture as before.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 not last much longer. +</p> + +<p> +She drew the hand up as she spoke, and laid her face against it. +</p> + +<p> +“I lie here, sometimes, thinking I should like to live until I had had a +little time to show you how grateful I could be! It is a weakness, and soon +passes. Better for you as it is. Better for me!” +</p> + +<p> +How different her hold upon the hand, from 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 ashes, dust on dust—for she was a +serious character—and withdrew to partake of certain funeral baked meats +downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“How long is it,” asked Alice, “since I went to you and told +you what I had done, and when you were advised it was too late for anyone to +follow?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a year and more,” said Harriet. +</p> + +<p> +“A year and more,” said Alice, thoughtfully intent upon her face. +“Months upon months since you brought me here!” +</p> + +<p> +Harriet answered “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Brought me here, by force of gentleness and kindness. Me!” said +Alice, shrinking with her face behind her hand, “and made me human by +woman’s looks and words, and angel’s deeds!” +</p> + +<p> +Harriet bending over her, composed and soothed her. By and bye, Alice lying as +before, with the hand against her face, asked to have her mother called. +</p> + +<p> +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 until +Harriet went to her and touched her, that she rose up, and came. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother,” said Alice, taking the hand again, and fixing her +lustrous eyes lovingly upon her visitor, while she merely addressed a motion of +her finger to the old woman, “tell her what you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tonight, my deary?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, mother,” answered Alice, faintly and solemnly, +“tonight!” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman, whose wits appeared disorderly 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: +</p> + +<p> +“My handsome gal—” +</p> + +<p> +Heaven, what a cry was that, with which she stopped there, gazing at the poor +form lying on the bed! +</p> + +<p> +“Changed, long ago, mother! Withered, long ago,” said Alice, +without looking at her. “Don’t grieve for that now.” +</p> + +<p> +“—My daughter,” faltered the old woman, “my gal +who’ll soon get better, and shame ’em all with her good +looks.” +</p> + +<p> +Alice smiled mournfully at Harriet, and fondled her hand a little closer, but +said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’ll soon get better, I say,” repeated the old woman, +menacing the vacant air with her shrivelled fist, “and who’ll shame +’em all with her good looks—she will. I say she will! she +shall!”—as if she were in passionate contention with some unseen +opponent at the bedside, who contradicted her—“my daughter has been +turned away from, and cast out, but she could boast relationship to proud folks +too, if she chose. Ah! To proud folks! There’s relationship without your +clergy and your wedding rings—they may make it, but they can’t +break it—and my daughter’s well related. Show me Mrs Dombey, and +I’ll show you my Alice’s first cousin.” +</p> + +<p> +Harriet glanced from the old woman to the lustrous eyes intent upon her face, +and derived corroboration from them. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +gentlemen and the best-liked that came a visiting from London—they have +long been dead, though! Lord, Lord, this long while! The brother, who was my +Ally’s father, longest of the two.” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her head a little, and peered at her daughter’s face; as if +from the remembrance of her own youth, she had flown to the remembrance of her +child’s. Then, suddenly, she laid her face down on the bed, and shut her +head up in her hands and arms. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall all change, mother, in our turn,” said Alice. +</p> + +<p> +“Turn!” cried the old woman, “but why not hers as soon as my +gal’s! The mother must have changed—she looked as old as me, and +full as wrinkled through her paint—but she was handsome. What have I +done, I, what have I done worse than her, that only my gal is to lie there +fading!” +</p> + +<p> +With another of those wild cries, she went running out into the room from which +she had come; but immediately, in her uncertain mood, returned, and creeping up +to Harriet, said: +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That’s all. I +found it out when I began to ask who she was, and all about her, away in +Warwickshire there, one summer-time. Such relations was no good to me, then. +They wouldn’t have owned me, and had nothing to give me. I should have +asked ’em, maybe, for a little money, afterwards, if it hadn’t been +for my Alice; she’d a’most have killed me, if I had, I think. She +was as proud as t’other in her way,” said the old woman, touching +the face of her daughter fearfully, and withdrawing her hand, “for all +she’s so quiet now; but she’ll shame ’em with her good looks +yet. Ha, ha! She’ll shame ’em, will my handsome daughter!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The eyes of Alice had all this time been fixed on Harriet, whose hand she had +never released. She said now: +</p> + +<p> +“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 wrongdoing, of my neglected duty, that I took up with the belief +that duty had not been done to me, and that as the seed was sown, the harvest +grew. I somehow made it out that when ladies had bad homes and mothers, they +went wrong in their way, too; but that their way was not so foul a one as mine, +and they had need to bless God for it. That is all past. It is like a dream, +now, which I cannot quite remember or understand. It has been more and more +like a dream, every day, since you began to sit here, and to read to me. I only +tell it you, as I can recollect it. Will you read to me a little more?” +</p> + +<p> +Harriet was withdrawing her hand to open the book, when Alice detained it for a +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not forget my mother? I forgive her, if I have any cause. I +know that she forgives me, and is sorry in her heart. You will not forget +her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never, Alice!” +</p> + +<p> +“A moment yet. Lay your head so, dear, that as you read I may see the +words in your kind face.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall come,” said Harriet, when she shut the book, “very +early in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +The lustrous eyes, yet fixed upon her face, closed for a moment, then opened; +and Alice kissed and blest her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +removed. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing lay there, any longer, but the ruin of the mortal house on which the +rain had beaten, and the black hair that had fluttered in the wintry wind. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap59"></a>CHAPTER LIX.<br /> +Retribution</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">C</span>hanges have come again upon the great house in the long dull +street, once the scene of Florence’s childhood and loneliness. It is a +great house still, proof against wind and weather, without breaches in the +roof, or shattered windows, or dilapidated walls; but it is a ruin none the +less, and the rats fly from it. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Towlinson and company are, at first, incredulous in respect of the shapeless +rumours that they hear. Cook says our people’s credit ain’t so easy +shook as that comes to, thank God; and 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. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as there is no doubt about it, Mr Towlinson’s main anxiety is +that the failure should be a good round one—not less than a hundred +thousand pound. Mr Perch don’t think himself that a hundred thousand +pound will nearly cover it. The women, led by Mrs Perch and Cook, often repeat +“a hun-dred thou-sand pound!” with awful satisfaction—as if +handling the words were like handling the money; and the housemaid, who has her +eye on Mr Towlinson, wishes she had only a hundredth part of the sum to bestow +on the man of her choice. Mr Towlinson, still mindful of his old wrong, opines +that a foreigner would hardly know what to do with so much money, unless he +spent it on his whiskers; which bitter sarcasm causes the housemaid to withdraw +in tears. +</p> + +<p> +But not to remain long absent; for Cook, who has the reputation of being +extremely good-hearted, says, whatever they do, let ’em stand by one +another now, Towlinson, for there’s no telling how soon they may be +divided. They have been in that house (says Cook) through a funeral, a wedding, +and a running-away; and let it not be said that they couldn’t agree among +themselves at such a time as the present. Mrs Perch is immensely 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 feeling +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 +foreigners 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 +greengrocery and herb and leech line, where your kind favours is particular +requested. This announcement is received with acclamation; and Mrs Perch, +projecting her soul into futurity, says, “girls,” in Cook’s +ear, in a solemn whisper. +</p> + +<p> +Misfortune in the family without feasting, in these lower regions, +couldn’t be. Therefore Cook tosses up a hot dish or two for supper, and +Mr Towlinson compounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same hospitable +purpose. Even Mrs Pipchin, agitated by the occasion, rings her bell, and sends +down word that she requests to have that little bit of sweetbread that was +left, warmed 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +genteel 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. +</p> + +<p> +It is wonderful how good they feel, in making these reflections; and what a +Christian unanimity they are sensible of, in bearing the common shock with +resignation. There is only one interruption to this excellent state of mind, +which is occasioned by a young kitchen-maid of inferior rank—in black +stockings—who, having sat with her mouth open for a long time, +unexpectedly discharges from it words to this effect, “Suppose the wages +shouldn’t be paid!” The company sit for a moment speechless; but +Cook recovering first, turns upon the young woman, and requests to know how she +dares insult the family, whose bread she eats, by such a dishonest supposition, +and whether she thinks that anybody, with a scrap of honour left, could deprive +poor servants of their pittance? “Because if that is your religious +feelings, Mary Daws,” says Cook warmly, “I don’t know where +you mean to go to.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Towlinson don’t know either; nor anybody; and the young kitchen-maid, +appearing not to know exactly, herself, and scouted by the general voice, is +covered with confusion, as with a garment. +</p> + +<p> +After a few days, strange people begin to call at the house, and to make +appointments with one another in the dining-room, as if they lived there. +Especially, there is a gentleman, of a Mosaic Arabian cast of countenance, with +a very massive watch-guard, who whistles in the drawing-room, and, while he is +waiting for the other gentleman, who always has pen and ink in his pocket, asks +Mr Towlinson (by the easy name of “Old Cock,”) if he happens to +know what the figure of them crimson and gold hangings might have been, when +new bought. The 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 carpet caps, who immediately begin +to pull up the carpets, and knock the furniture about, and to print off +thousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall and staircase. +</p> + +<p> +The council downstairs are in full conclave all this time, and, having nothing +to do, perform perfect feats of eating. At length, they are one day summoned in +a body to Mrs Pipchin’s room, and thus addressed by the fair Peruvian: +</p> + +<p> +“Your master’s in difficulties,” says Mrs Pipchin, tartly. +“You know that, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Towlinson, as spokesman, admits a general knowledge of the fact. +</p> + +<p> +“And you’re all on the look-out for yourselves, I warrant +you,” says Mrs Pipchin, shaking her head at them. +</p> + +<p> +A shrill voice from the rear exclaims, “No more than yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s your opinion, Mrs Impudence, is it?” says the ireful +Pipchin, looking with a fiery eye over the intermediate heads. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mrs Pipchin, it is,” replies Cook, advancing. “And what +then, pray?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +With this the doughty Pipchin produces a canvas bag; and tells her wages out to +that day, and a month beyond it; and clutches the money tight, until a receipt +for the same is duly signed, to the last upstroke; when she grudgingly lets it +go. This form of proceeding Mrs Pipchin repeats with every member of the +household, until all are paid. +</p> + +<p> +“Now those that choose, can go about their business,” says 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 slut of a cook, who’ll go immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” says Cook, “she certainly will! I wish you good day, +Mrs Pipchin, and sincerely wish I could compliment you on the sweetness of your +appearance!” +</p> + +<p> +“Get along with you,” says Mrs Pipchin, stamping her foot. +</p> + +<p> +Cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly exasperating to Mrs +Pipchin, and is shortly joined below stairs by the rest of the confederation. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Towlinson then says that, in the first place, he would beg to propose a +little snack of something to eat; and over that snack would desire to offer a +suggestion which he thinks will meet the position in which they find +themselves. The refreshment being produced, and very heartily partaken of, Mr +Towlinson’s suggestion is, in 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 is there again, and full to the throat, sheds tears.) And that he +thinks, at the present time, the feeling ought to be “Go one, go +all!” The housemaid is much affected by this generous sentiment, and +warmly seconds it. Cook says she feels it’s right, and only hopes +it’s not done as a compliment to her, but from a sense of duty. Mr +Towlinson replies, from a sense of duty; and that now he is driven to express +his opinions, he will openly say, that he does not think it over-respectable to +remain in a house where Sales and such-like are carrying forwards. The +housemaid is sure of it; and relates, in confirmation, that a strange man, in a +carpet cap, offered, this very morning, to kiss her on the stairs. Hereupon, Mr +Towlinson is starting from his chair, to seek and “smash” the +offender; when he is laid hold on by the ladies, who beseech him to calm +himself, and to reflect that it is easier and wiser to leave the scene of such +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 retreat. “For what,” says the good woman, “must +his feelings be, if he was to come upon any of the poor servants that he once +deceived into thinking him immensely rich!” Cook is so struck by this +moral consideration, that Mrs Perch improves it with several pious axioms, +original and selected. It becomes a clear case that they must all go. Boxes are +packed, cabs fetched, and at dusk that evening there is not one member of the +party left. +</p> + +<p> +The house stands, large and weather-proof, in the long dull street; but it is a +ruin, and the rats fly from it. +</p> + +<p> +The men in the carpet caps go on tumbling the furniture about; and the +gentlemen with the pens and ink make out inventories of it, and sit upon pieces +of furniture never made to be sat upon, and eat bread and cheese from the +public-house on other pieces of furniture never made to be eaten on, and seem +to have a delight in appropriating precious articles to strange uses. Chaotic +combinations of furniture also take place. Mattresses and bedding appear in the +dining-room; the glass and china get into the conservatory; the great dinner +service is set out in heaps on the long divan in the large drawing-room; and +the stair-wires, made into fasces, decorate the marble chimneypieces. Finally, +a rug, with a printed bill upon it, is hung out from the balcony; and a similar +appendage graces either side of the hall door. +</p> + +<p> +Then, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs and chaise-carts in the +street; and herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian, over-run the house, +sounding the plate-glass mirrors with their knuckles, striking discordant +octaves on the Grand Piano, drawing wet forefingers over the pictures, +breathing on the blades of the best dinner-knives, punching the squabs of +chairs and sofas with their dirty fists, touzling the feather beds, opening and +shutting all the drawers, balancing the silver spoons and forks, looking into +the very threads of the drapery and linen, and disparaging everything. There is +not a secret place in the whole house. 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 +neighbourhood from the top of the house. The swarm and buzz, and going up and +down, endure for days. The Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is on +view. +</p> + +<p> +Then there is a palisade of tables made in the best drawing-room; and on the +capital, french-polished, extending, telescopic range of Spanish mahogany +dining-tables with turned legs, the pulpit of the Auctioneer is erected; and +the herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian, the strangers fluffy and +snuffy, and the stout men with the napless hats, congregate about it and sit +upon everything within reach, mantel-pieces included, and begin to bid. Hot, +humming, and dusty are the rooms all day; and—high above the heat, hum, +and dust—the head and shoulders, voice and hammer, of the Auctioneer, are +ever at work. The men in the carpet caps get flustered and vicious with +tumbling the Lots about, and still the Lots are going, going, gone; still +coming on. Sometimes there is joking and a general roar. This lasts all day and +three days following. The Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is on +sale. +</p> + +<p> +Then the mouldy gigs and chaise-carts reappear; and with them come spring-vans +and waggons, and an army of porters with knots. All day long, the men with +carpet caps are screwing at screw-drivers and bed-winches, or staggering by the +dozen together on the staircase under heavy burdens, or upheaving perfect rocks +of Spanish mahogany, best rose-wood, or plate-glass, into the gigs and +chaise-carts, vans and waggons. All sorts of vehicles of burden are in +attendance, from a tilted waggon to a wheelbarrow. Poor Paul’s little +bedstead is carried off in a donkey-tandem. For nearly a whole week, the +Capital Modern Household Furniture, & c., is in course of removal. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin’s apartments, together with those locked rooms on the +ground-floor where the window-blinds are drawn down close, have been spared the +general devastation. Mrs Pipchin has remained austere and stony during the +proceedings, in her own room; or has occasionally looked in at the sale to see +what the goods are fetching, and to bid for one particular easy chair. Mrs +Pipchin has been the highest bidder for the easy chair, and sits upon her +property when Mrs Chick comes to see her. +</p> + +<p> +“How is my brother, Mrs Pipchin?” says Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know any more than the deuce,” says Mrs Pipchin. +“He never does me the honour to speak to me. He has his meat and drink +put in the next room to his own; and what he takes, he comes out and takes when +there’s nobody there. It’s no use asking me. I know no more about +him than the man in the south who burnt his mouth by eating cold plum +porridge.” +</p> + +<p> +This the acrimonious Pipchin says with a flounce. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hoity toity!” says Mrs Pipchin, rubbing her nose. +“There’s a great fuss, I think, about it. It ain’t so +wonderful a case. People have had misfortunes before now, and been obliged to +part with their furniture. I’m sure I have!” +</p> + +<p> +“My brother,” pursues Mrs Chick profoundly, “is so +peculiar—so strange a man. He is the most peculiar man I ever saw. Would +anyone believe that when he received news of the marriage and emigration of +that unnatural child—it’s a comfort to me, now, to remember that I +always said there was something extraordinary about that child: but nobody +minds me—would anybody believe, I say, that he should then turn round +upon me and say he had supposed, from my manner, that she had come to my house? +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 +asks me! Why, my goodness!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Chick, after forging this powerful chain of reasoning, remains silent for a +minute to admire it. +</p> + +<p> +“Besides,” says the discreet lady, with an argumentative air, +“who ever heard of such obstinacy as his staying shut up here through all +these dreadful disagreeables? It’s not as if there was no place for him +to go to. Of course he could have come to our house. He knows he is at home +there, I suppose? Mr Chick has perfectly bored about it, and I said with my own +lips, ‘Why surely, Paul, you don’t imagine that because your +affairs have got into this state, you are the less at home to such near +relatives as ourselves? You don’t imagine that we are like the rest of +the world?’ But no; here he stays all through, and here he is. 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know what’s to be the end of it, as far as I am +concerned,” replies Mrs Pipchin, “and that’s enough for me. +I’m going to take myself off in a jiffy.” +</p> + +<p> +“In a which, Mrs Pipchin,” says Mrs Chick. +</p> + +<p> +“In a jiffy,” retorts Mrs Pipchin sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well! really I can’t blame you, Mrs Pipchin,” says Mrs +Chick, with frankness. +</p> + +<p> +“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 connexion at Brighton when I came here—little +Pankey’s folks alone were worth a good eighty pounds a-year to +me—and I can’t afford to throw it away. I’ve written to my +niece, and she expects me by this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you spoken to my brother?” inquires Mrs Chick +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, it’s very easy to say speak to him,” retorts Mrs +Pipchin. “How is it done? I called out to him yesterday, that I was no +use here, and that he had better let me send for Mrs Richards. He grunted +something or other that meant yes, and I sent. Grunt indeed! If he had been Mr +Pipchin, he’d have had some reason to grunt. Yah! I’ve no patience +with it!” +</p> + +<p> +Here this exemplary female, who has pumped up so much fortitude and virtue from +the depths of the Peruvian mines, rises from her cushioned property to see Mrs +Chick to the door. Mrs Chick, deploring to the last the peculiar character of +her brother, noiselessly retires, much occupied with her own sagacity and +clearness of head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you what, Polly, me dear,” says Mr Toodle, “being now +an ingine-driver, and well to do in the world, I shouldn’t allow of your +coming here, to be made dull-like, if it warn’t for favours past. But +favours past, Polly, is never to be forgot. To them which is in adversity, +besides, your face is a cord’l. So let’s have another kiss on it, +my dear. You wish no better than to do a right act, I know; and my views is, +that it’s right and dutiful to do this. Good-night, Polly!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Pipchin by this time looms dark in her black bombazeen skirts, black +bonnet, and shawl; and has her personal property packed up; and has her chair +(late a favourite chair of Mr Dombey’s and the dead bargain of the sale) +ready near the street door; and is only waiting for a fly-van, going tonight +to Brighton on private service, which is to call for her, by private contract, +and convey her home. +</p> + +<p> +Presently it comes. Mrs Pipchin’s wardrobe being handed in and stowed +away, Mrs Pipchin’s chair is next handed in, and placed in a convenient +corner among certain trusses of hay; it being the intention of the amiable +woman to occupy the chair during her journey. Mrs Pipchin herself is next +handed in, and grimly takes her seat. There is a snaky gleam in her hard grey +eye, as of anticipated rounds of buttered toast, relays of hot chops, worryings +and quellings of young children, sharp snappings at poor 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 bombazeen skirts, and settles +herself among the cushions of her easy chair. +</p> + +<p> +The house is such a ruin that the rats have fled, and there is not one left. +</p> + +<p> +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 +housekeeper’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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Polly,” says Miss Tox, “when I looked in to have a +little lesson with the children just now, I got the message that you left for +me; and as soon as I could recover my spirits at all, I came on after you. Is +there no one here but you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! not a soul,” says Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen him?” whispers Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you,” returns Polly, “no; he has not been seen this +many a day. They tell me he never leaves his room.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he said to be ill?” inquires Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Ma’am, not that I know of,” returns Polly, “except +in his mind. He must be very bad there, poor gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox’s sympathy is such that she can scarcely speak. She is no +chicken, but she has not grown tough with age and celibacy. Her heart is very +tender, her compassion very genuine, her homage very real. Beneath the locket +with the fishy eye in it, Miss Tox bears better qualities than many a less +whimsical outside; such qualities as will outlive, by many courses of the sun, +the best outsides and brightest husks that fall in the harvest of the great +reaper. +</p> + +<p> +It is long before Miss Tox goes away, and before Polly, with a candle flaring +on the blank stairs, looks after her, for company, down the street, and feels +unwilling to go back into the dreary house, and jar its emptiness with the +heavy fastenings of the door, and glide away to bed. But all this Polly does; +and in the morning sets in one of those darkened rooms such matters as she has +been advised to prepare, and then retires and enters them no more until next +morning at the same hour. There are bells there, but they never ring; and +though she can sometimes hear a footfall going to and fro, it never comes out. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox returns early in the day. It then begins to be Miss Tox’s +occupation to prepare little dainties—or what are such to her—to be +carried into these rooms next morning. She derives so much satisfaction from +the pursuit, that she enters on it regularly from that time; 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 meats, tongues of sheep, halves of fowls, +for her own dinner; and sharing these collations with Polly, passes the greater +part of her time in the ruined house that the rats have fled from: hiding, in a +fright at every sound, stealing in and out like a criminal; only desiring to be +true to the fallen object of her admiration, unknown to him, unknown to all the +world but one poor simple woman. +</p> + +<p> +The Major knows it; but no one is the wiser for that, though the Major is much +the merrier. The Major, in a fit of curiosity, has charged the Native to watch +the house sometimes, and find out what becomes of Dombey. The Native has +reported Miss Tox’s fidelity, and the Major has nearly choked himself +dead with laughter. He is permanently bluer from that hour, and constantly +wheezes to himself, his lobster eyes starting out of his head, “Damme, +Sir, the woman’s a born idiot!” +</p> + +<p> +And the ruined man. How does he pass the hours, alone? +</p> + +<p> +“Let him remember it in that room, years to come!” He did remember +it. It was heavy on his mind now; heavier than all the rest. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0762m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +“Let him remember it in that room, years to come! The rain that falls +upon the roof, the wind that mourns outside the door, may have foreknowledge in +their melancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, years to come!” +</p> + +<p> +He did remember it. In the miserable night he thought of it; in the dreary day, +the wretched dawn, the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight. He did remember it. In +agony, in sorrow, in remorse, in despair! “Papa! Papa! Speak to me, dear +Papa!” He heard the words again, and saw the face. He saw it fall upon +the trembling hands, and heard the one prolonged low cry go upward. +</p> + +<p> +He was fallen, never to be raised up any more. For the night of his worldly +ruin there was no to-morrow’s sun; for the stain of his domestic shame +there was no purification; nothing, thank Heaven, could bring his dead child +back to life. But that which he might have made so different in all the +Past—which might have made the Past itself so different, though this he +hardly thought of now—that which was his own work, that which he could so +easily have wrought into a blessing, and had set himself so steadily for years +to form into a curse: that was the sharp grief of his soul. +</p> + +<p> +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; now, when every loving blossom he +had withered in his innocent daughter’s heart was snowing down in ashes +on him. +</p> + +<p> +He thought of her, as she had been that night when he and his bride came home. +He thought of her as she had been, in all the home-events of the abandoned +house. He thought, now, that of all around him, she alone had never changed. +His boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had sunk into a polluted creature, +his flatterer and friend had been transformed into the worst of villains, his +riches had melted away, the very walls that sheltered him looked on him as a +stranger; she alone had turned the same mild gentle look upon him always. Yes, +to the latest and the last. She had never changed to him—nor had he ever +changed to her—and she was lost. +</p> + +<p> +As, one by one, they fell away before his mind—his baby—hope, his +wife, his friend, his fortune—oh how the mist, through which he had seen +her, cleared, and showed him her true self! Oh, how much better than this that +he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he had his boy, and laid +them in their early grave together! +</p> + +<p> +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 in +the same degree to be avoided, in either aspect. He had no idea of any one +companion in his misery, but the one he had driven away. What he would have +said to her, or what consolation submitted to receive from her, he never +pictured to himself. But he always knew she would have been true to him, if he +had suffered her. He always knew she would have loved him better now, than at +any other time; he was as certain that it was in her nature, as he was that +there was a sky above him; and he sat thinking so, in his loneliness, from hour +to hour. Day after day uttered this speech; night after night showed him this +knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +It began, beyond all doubt (however slow it advanced for some time), in the +receipt of her young husband’s letter, and the certainty that she was +gone. And yet—so proud he was in his ruin, or so reminiscent of her only +as something that might have been his, but was lost beyond +redemption—that if he could have heard her voice in an adjoining room, he +would not have gone to her. If he could have seen her in the street, 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 cold unforgiving face, and not addressed her, or relaxed +it, though his heart should have broken soon afterwards. However turbulent his +thoughts, or harsh his anger had been, at first, concerning her marriage, or +her husband, that was all past now. He chiefly thought of what might have been, +and what was not. What was, was all summed up in this: that she was lost, and +he bowed down with sorrow and remorse. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He came out of his solitude when it was the dead of night, and with a candle in +his hand went softly up the stairs. Of all the footmarks there, making them as +common as the common street, there was not one, he thought, but had seemed at +the time to set itself upon his brain while he had kept close, listening. He +looked at their number, and their hurry, and contention—foot treading +foot out, and upward track and downward jostling one another—and thought, +with absolute dread and wonder, how much he must have suffered during that +trial, and what a changed man he had cause to be. He thought, besides, oh was +there, somewhere in the world, a light footstep that might have worn out in a +moment half those marks!—and bent his head, and wept as he went up. +</p> + +<p> +He almost saw it, going on before. He stopped, looking up towards the skylight; +and a figure, childish itself, but carrying a child, and singing as it went, +seemed to be there again. Anon, it was the same figure, alone, stopping for an +instant, with suspended breath; the bright hair clustering loosely round its +tearful face; and looking back at him. +</p> + +<p> +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 another, with the same trackless +involutions, and varieties of indistinct shapes. +</p> + +<p> +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, weakly, fondly, his two children. +</p> + +<p> +Everywhere, the footsteps! They had had no respect for the old room high up, +where the little bed had been; he could hardly find a clear space there, to +throw himself down, on the floor, against the wall, poor broken man, and let +his tears flow as they would. He had shed so many tears here, long ago, that he +was less ashamed of his weakness in this place than in any other—perhaps, +with that consciousness, had made excuses to himself for coming here. Here, +with stooping shoulders, and his chin dropped on his breast, he had come. Here, +thrown upon the bare boards, in the dead of night, he wept, alone—a proud +man, even then; who, if a kind hand could have been stretched out, or a kind +face could have looked in, would have risen up, and turned away, and gone down +to his cell. +</p> + +<p> +When the day broke he was shut up in his rooms again. He had meant to go away +today, but clung to this tie in the house as the last and only thing left to +him. He would go to-morrow. To-morrow came. He would go to-morrow. Every night, +within the knowledge of no human creature, he came forth, and wandered through +the despoiled house like a ghost. Many a morning when the day broke, his +altered face, drooping behind the closed blind in his window, imperfectly +transparent to the light as yet, pondered on the loss of his two children. It +was one child no more. He 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! +</p> + +<p> +Strong mental agitation and disturbance was no novelty to him, even before his +late sufferings. It never is, 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. +</p> + +<p> +At last he began to think he need not go at all. He might yet give up what his +creditors had spared him (that they had not spared him more, was his own act), +and only sever the tie between him and the ruined house, by severing that other +link— +</p> + +<p> +It was then that his footfall was audible in the late housekeeper’s room, +as he walked to and fro; but not audible in its true meaning, or it would have +had an appalling sound. +</p> + +<p> +The world was very busy and restless about him. He became aware of that again. +It was whispering and babbling. It was never quiet. This, and the intricacy and +complication of the footsteps, harassed him to death. Objects began to take a +bleared and russet colour in his eyes. Dombey and Son was no more—his +children no more. This must be thought of, well, to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +He thought of it to-morrow; and sitting thinking in his chair, saw in the +glass, from time to time, this picture: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +—Hush! what? +</p> + +<p> +It was thinking that if blood were to trickle that way, and to leak out into +the hall, it must be a long time going so far. It would move so stealthily and +slowly, creeping on, with here a lazy little pool, and there a start, and then +another little pool, that a desperately wounded man could only be discovered +through its means, either dead or dying. When it had thought of this a long +while, it got up again, and walked to and fro with its hand in its breast. He +glanced at it occasionally, very curious to watch its motions, and he marked +how wicked and murderous that hand looked. +</p> + +<p> +Now it was thinking again! What was it thinking? +</p> + +<p> +Whether they would tread in the blood when it crept so far, and carry it about +the house among those many prints of feet, or even out into the street. +</p> + +<p> +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 +unmindful, and sat thinking. Suddenly it rose, with a terrible face, and that +guilty hand grasping what was in its breast. Then it was arrested by a +cry—a wild, loud, piercing, loving, rapturous cry—and he only saw +his own reflection in the glass, and at his knees, his daughter! +</p> + +<p> +Yes. His daughter! Look at her! Look here! Down upon the ground, clinging to +him, calling to him, folding her hands, praying to him. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Unchanged still. Of all the world, unchanged. Raising the same face to his, as +on that miserable night. Asking his forgiveness! +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Papa, oh don’t look strangely on me! I never meant to leave +you. I never thought of it, before or afterwards. I was frightened when I went +away, and could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am penitent. I know my +fault. I know my duty better now. Papa, don’t cast me off, or I shall +die!” +</p> + +<p> +He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arms about her neck; he felt her +put her own round his; he felt her kisses on his face; he felt her wet cheek +laid against his own; he felt—oh, how deeply!—all that he had done. +</p> + +<p> +Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he had almost +broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said, sobbing: +</p> + +<p> +“Papa, love, I am a mother. I have a child who will soon call Walter by +the name by which I call you. When it was born, and when I knew how much I +loved it, I knew what I had done in leaving you. Forgive me, dear Papa! oh say +God bless me, and my little child!” +</p> + +<p> +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, hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +His head, now grey, was encircled by her arm; and he groaned to think that +never, never, had it rested so before. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Her tears stopped her. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Papa, for the sake of my child, for the sake of the name we have +given him, for my sake, pardon Walter. He is so kind and tender to me. I am so +happy with him. It was not his fault that we were married. It was mine. I loved +him so much.” +</p> + +<p> +She clung closer to him, more endearing and more earnest. +</p> + +<p> +“He is the darling of my heart, Papa I would die for him. He will love +and honour you as I will. We will teach our little child to love and honour +you; and we will tell him, when he can understand, that you had a son of that +name once, and that he died, and you were very sorry; but that he is gone to +Heaven, where we all hope to see him when our time for resting comes. Kiss me, +Papa, as a promise that you 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!” +</p> + +<p> +As she clung closer to him, in another burst of tears, he kissed her on her +lips, and, lifting up his eyes, said, “Oh my God, forgive me, for I need +it very much!” +</p> + +<p> +With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over and caressing her, and +there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long time; they remaining +clasped in one another’s arms, in the glorious sunshine that had crept in +with Florence. +</p> + +<p> +He dressed himself for going out, with a docile submission to her entreaty; and +walking with a feeble gait, and looking back, with a tremble, at the room in +which he had been so long shut up, and where he had seen the picture in the +glass, passed out with her into the 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 madness—and +keeping close to him, with her eyes upon his face, and his arm about her, led +him out to a coach that was waiting at the door, and carried him away. +</p> + +<p> +Then, Miss Tox and Polly came out of their concealment, and exulted tearfully. +And then they packed his clothes, and books, and so forth, with great care; and +consigned them in due course to certain persons sent by Florence, in the +evening, to fetch them. And then they took a last cup of tea in the lonely +house. +</p> + +<p> +“And so Dombey and Son, as I observed upon a certain sad occasion,” +said Miss Tox, winding up a host of recollections, “is indeed a daughter, +Polly, after all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And a good one!” exclaimed Polly. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” said Miss Tox; “and it’s a credit to +you, Polly, that you were always her friend when she was a little child. You +were her friend long before I was, Polly,” said Miss Tox; “and +you’re a good creature. Robin!” +</p> + +<p> +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 features of the +Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Robin,” said Miss Tox, “I have just observed to your mother, +as you may have heard, that she is a good creature.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so she is, Miss,” quoth the Grinder, with some feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Robin,” said Miss Tox, “I am glad to hear you say +so. Now, Robin, as I am going to give you a trial, at your urgent request, as +my domestic, with a view to your restoration to respectability, I will take +this impressive occasion of remarking that I hope you will never forget that +you have, and have always had, a good mother, and that you will endeavour so to +conduct yourself as to be a comfort to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my soul I will, Miss,” returned the Grinder. “I have +come through a good deal, and my intentions is now as straightfor’ard, +Miss, as a cove’s—” +</p> + +<p> +“I must get you to break yourself of that word, Robin, if you +please,” interposed Miss Tox, politely. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Miss, as a chap’s—” +</p> + +<p> +“Thankee, Robin, no,” returned Miss Tox, “I should prefer +individual.” +</p> + +<p> +“As a indiwiddle’s—,” said the Grinder. +</p> + +<p> +“Much better,” remarked Miss Tox, complacently; “infinitely +more expressive!” +</p> + +<p> +“—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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good indeed,” observed Miss Tox, approvingly. +</p> + +<p> +“—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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Indi—” suggested Miss Tox. +</p> + +<p> +“—widdle,” said the Grinder, “to mend; and I hope to +mend, Miss, with your kind trial; and wishing, Mother, my love to father, and +brothers and sisters, and saying of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad indeed to hear it,” observed Miss Tox. “Will +you take a little bread and butter, and a cup of tea, before we go, +Robin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thankee, Miss,” returned the Grinder; who immediately began to use +his own personal grinders in a most remarkable manner, as if he had been on +very short allowance for a considerable period. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Tox, being, in good time, bonneted and shawled, and 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 unexpected +arrival would occasion there. The great house, dumb as to all that had been +suffered in it, and the changes it had witnessed, stood frowning like a dark +mute on the street; baulking any nearer inquiries with the staring announcement +that the lease of this desirable Family Mansion was to be disposed of. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap60"></a>CHAPTER LX.<br /> +Chiefly Matrimonial</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he +grand half-yearly festival holden by Doctor and Mrs Blimber, on which occasion +they requested the pleasure of the company of every young gentleman pursuing +his studies in that genteel establishment, at an early party, when the hour was +half-past seven o’clock, and when the object was quadrilles, had duly +taken place, about this time; and the young gentlemen, with no unbecoming +demonstrations of levity, had betaken themselves, in a state of scholastic +repletion, to their own homes. Mr Skettles had repaired abroad, permanently to +grace the establishment of his father Sir Barnet Skettles, whose popular +manners had obtained him a diplomatic appointment, the honours 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 extremely full of +antiquity as to be nearly on a par with a genuine ancient Roman in his +knowledge of English: a triumph that affected his good parents with the +tenderest emotions, and caused the father and mother of Mr Briggs (whose +learning, like ill-arranged luggage, was so tightly packed that he +couldn’t get at anything he wanted) to hide their diminished heads. The +fruit laboriously gathered from the tree of knowledge by this latter young +gentleman, in fact, had been subjected to so much pressure, that it had become +a kind of intellectual Norfolk Biffin, and had nothing of its original form or +flavour remaining. Master Bitherstone now, on whom the forcing system had the +happier and not uncommon effect of leaving no impression whatever, when the +forcing apparatus ceased to work, was in a much more comfortable plight; and +being then on 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 voyage. +</p> + +<p> +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 who he sought to +nominate as his successor. But there is a Roman here,” said Doctor +Blimber, laying his hand on the shoulder of Mr Feeder, B.A., “adolescens +imprimis gravis et doctus, gentlemen, whom I, a retiring Cincinnatus, wish to +present to my little senate, as their future Dictator. Gentlemen, we will +resume our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month, under the auspices of Mr +Feeder, B.A.” At this (which Doctor Blimber had previously called upon +all the parents, and urbanely explained), the young gentlemen cheered; and Mr +Tozer, on behalf of the rest, instantly presented the Doctor with a silver +inkstand, in a speech containing very little of the mother-tongue, but fifteen +quotations from the Latin, and seven from the Greek, which moved the younger of +the young gentlemen to discontent and envy: they remarking, “Oh, ah. It +was all very well for old Tozer, but they didn’t subscribe money for old +Tozer to show off with, they supposed; did they? What business was it of old +Tozer’s more than anybody else’s? It wasn’t his inkstand. Why +couldn’t he leave the boys’ property alone?” and murmuring +other expressions of their dissatisfaction, which seemed to find a greater +relief in calling him old Tozer, than in any other available vent. +</p> + +<p> +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 the society of their +relations and friends, they took leave of Mr Feeder with awe. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Feeder’s most romantic visions were fulfilled. The Doctor had +determined to paint the house outside, and put it in thorough repair; and to +give up the business, and to give up Cornelia. The painting and repairing began +upon the very day of the young gentlemen’s departure, and now behold! the +wedding morning was come, and Cornelia, in a new pair of spectacles, was +waiting to be led to the hymeneal altar. +</p> + +<p> +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 to perform +the ceremony, were all assembled in the drawing-room, and Cornelia with her +orange-flowers and bridesmaids had just come down, and looked, as of old, a +little squeezed in appearance, but very charming, when the door opened, and the +weak-eyed young man, in a loud voice, made the following proclamation: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“MR AND MRS TOOTS!” +</p> + +<p> +Upon which there entered Mr Toots, grown extremely stout, and on his arm a lady +very handsomely and becomingly dressed, with very bright black eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs Blimber,” said Mr Toots, “allow me to present my +wife.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Blimber was delighted to receive her. Mrs Blimber was a little +condescending, but extremely kind. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear!” remonstrated Mrs Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word and honour she is,” said Mr Toots. “I—I +assure you, Mrs Blimber, she’s a most extraordinary woman.” +</p> + +<p> +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?”—retired with Mr Feeder, B.A., +into a window. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Feeder, B.A., being in great spirits, made a spar at Mr Toots, and tapped +him skilfully with the back of his hand on the breastbone. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, old Buck!” said Mr Feeder with a laugh. “Well! Here we +are! Taken in and done for. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t forget my old friends, you see,” said Mr Feeder. +“I ask em to my wedding, Toots.” +</p> + +<p> +“Feeder,” replied Mr Toots gravely, “the fact is, that there +were several circumstances which prevented me from communicating with you until +after my marriage had been solemnised. In the first place, I had made a perfect +brute of myself to you, on the subject of Miss 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 upon my word and honour, at that +crisis, would have knocked me completely over. In the second place, our wedding +was strictly private; there being nobody present but one friend of myself and +Mrs Toots’s, who is a Captain in—I don’t exactly know in +what,” said Mr Toots, “but it’s of no consequence. I hope, +Feeder, that in writing a statement of what had occurred before Mrs Toots and +myself went abroad upon our foreign tour, I fully discharged the offices of +friendship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Toots, my boy,” said Mr Feeder, shaking his hands, “I was +joking.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Feeder,” said Mr Toots, “I should be glad to know +what you think of my union.” +</p> + +<p> +“Capital!” returned Mr Feeder. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Feeder was willing to take it for granted. But Mr Toots shook his head, and +wouldn’t hear of that being possible. +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” said Mr Toots, “what I wanted in a wife +was—in short, was sense. Money, Feeder, I had. Sense I—I had not, +particularly.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Feeder murmured, “Oh, yes, you had, Toots!” But Mr Toots said: +</p> + +<p> +“No, Feeder, I had not. Why should I disguise it? I had not. I knew that +sense was There,” said Mr Toots, stretching out his hand towards his +wife, “in perfect heaps. I had no relation to object or be offended, on +the score of station; for I had no relation. I have never had anybody belonging +to me but my guardian, and him, Feeder, I have always considered as a Pirate +and a Corsair. Therefore, you know it was not likely,” said Mr Toots, +“that I should take his opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mr Feeder. +</p> + +<p> +“Accordingly,” resumed Mr Toots, “I acted on my own. Bright +was the day on which I did so! Feeder! Nobody but myself can tell what the +capacity of that woman’s mind is. If ever the Rights of Women, and all +that kind of thing, are properly attended to, it will be through her powerful +intellect—Susan, my dear!” said Mr Toots, looking abruptly out of +the windows “pray do not exert yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Mrs Toots, “I was only talking.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Blimber was impressing on Mrs Toots the necessity of caution, when Mr +Feeder, B.A., offered her his arm, and led her down to the carriages that were +waiting to go to church. Doctor Blimber escorted Mrs 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, M.A., had +already gone on, in advance, to assume his official functions. +</p> + +<p> +The ceremony was performed in an admirable manner. Cornelia, with her crisp +little curls, “went in,” as the Chicken might have said, with great +composure; and Doctor Blimber gave her away, like a man who had quite made up +his mind to it. The gauzy little bridesmaids appeared to suffer most. Mrs +Blimber was affected, but gently so; and told the 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I really,” said Mr Toots, “in this house, where whatever was +done to me in the way of—of any mental confusion sometimes—which is +of no consequence and I impute to nobody—I was always treated like one of +Doctor Blimber’s family, and had a desk to myself for a considerable +period—can—not—allow—my friend Feeder to +be—” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Toots suggested “married.” +</p> + +<p> +“It may not be inappropriate to the occasion, or altogether +uninteresting,” said Mr Toots with a delighted face, “to observe +that my wife is a most extraordinary woman, and would do this much better than +myself—allow my friend Feeder to be married—especially +to—” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Toots suggested “to Miss Blimber.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Mrs Feeder, my love!” said Mr Toots, in a subdued tone of +private discussion: ‘“whom God hath joined,’ you know, +‘let no man’—don’t you know? I cannot allow my friend +Feeder to be married—especially to Mrs Feeder—without proposing +their—their—Toasts; and may,” said Mr Toots, fixing his eyes +on his wife, as if for inspiration in a high flight, “may the torch of +Hymen be the beacon of joy, and may the flowers we have this day strewed in +their path, be the—the banishers of—of gloom!” +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Blimber, who had a taste for metaphor, was pleased with this, and said, +“Very good, Toots! Very well said, indeed, Toots!” and nodded his +head and patted his hands. Mr Feeder made in reply, a comic speech chequered +with sentiment. Mr Alfred Feeder, M.A., was afterwards very happy on Doctor and +Mrs Blimber; Mr Feeder, B.A., scarcely less so, on the gauzy little +bridesmaids. Doctor Blimber then, in a sonorous voice, delivered a few thoughts +in the pastoral style, relative to the rushes among which it was the intention +of himself and Mrs Blimber to dwell, and the bee that would hum around their +cot. Shortly after which, as the Doctor’s eyes were twinkling in a +remarkable manner, and his son-in-law had already observed that time was made +for slaves, and had inquired whether Mrs Toots sang, the discreet Mrs Blimber +dissolved the sitting, and sent Cornelia away, very cool and comfortable, in a +post-chaise, with the man of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +Mr and Mrs Toots withdrew to the Bedford (Mrs Toots had been there before in +old times, under her maiden name of Nipper), and there found a letter, which it +took Mr Toots such an enormous time to read, that Mrs Toots was frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Susan,” said Mr Toots, “fright is worse than +exertion. Pray be calm!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it from?” asked Mrs Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my love,” said Mr Toots, “it’s from Captain +Gills. Do not excite yourself. Walters and Miss Dombey are expected +home!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Reconciled!” cried Mrs Toots, clapping her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Mr Toots; “pray do not exert yourself. Do +remember the medical man! Captain Gills says—at least he don’t say, +but I imagine, from what I can make out, he means—that Miss Dombey has +brought her unfortunate father away from his old house, to one where she and +Walters are living; that he is lying very ill there—supposed to be dying; +and that she attends upon him night and day.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs Toots began to cry quite bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest Susan,” replied Mr Toots, “do, do, if you +possibly can, remember the medical man! If you can’t, it’s of no +consequence—but do endeavour to!” +</p> + +<p> +His wife, with her old manner suddenly restored, so pathetically entreated him +to take her to her precious pet, her little mistress, her own darling, and the +like, that Mr Toots, whose sympathy and admiration were of the strongest kind, +consented from his very heart of hearts; and they agreed to depart immediately, +and present themselves in answer to the Captain’s letter. +</p> + +<p> +Now some hidden sympathies of things, or some coincidences, had that day +brought the Captain himself (toward whom Mr and Mrs Toots were soon journeying) +into the flowery train of wedlock; not as a principal, but as an accessory. It +happened accidentally, and thus: +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, having seen Florence and her baby for a moment, to his unbounded +content, and having had a long talk with Walter, turned out for a walk; feeling +it necessary to have some solitary meditation on the changes of human affairs, +and to shake his glazed hat profoundly over the fall of Mr Dombey, for whom the +generosity and simplicity of his nature were awakened in a lively manner. The +Captain would have been very low, indeed, on the unhappy gentleman’s +account, but for the recollection of the baby; which afforded him such intense +satisfaction whenever it arose, that he laughed aloud as he went along the +street, and, indeed, more than once, in a sudden impulse of joy, threw up his +glazed hat and caught it again; much to the amazement of the spectators. The +rapid alternations of light and shade to which these two conflicting 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 neighbourhood, down among the mast, oar, and block makers, ship-biscuit +bakers, coal-whippers, pitch-kettles, sailors, canals, docks, swing-bridges, +and other soothing objects. +</p> + +<p> +These peaceful scenes, and particularly the region of Limehouse Hole and +thereabouts, were so influential in calming the Captain, that he walked on with +restored tranquillity, and was, in fact, regaling himself, under his breath, +with the ballad of Lovely Peg, when, on turning a corner, he was suddenly +transfixed and rendered speechless by a triumphant procession that he beheld +advancing towards him. +</p> + +<p> +This awful demonstration was headed by that determined woman Mrs MacStinger, +who, preserving a countenance of inexorable resolution, and wearing +conspicuously attached to her obdurate bosom a stupendous watch and appendages, +which the Captain recognised at a glance as the property of Bunsby, conducted +under her arm no other than that sagacious mariner; he, with the distraught and +melancholy visage of a captive borne into a foreign land, meekly resigning +himself to her will. Behind them appeared the young MacStingers, in a body, +exulting. Behind them, two ladies of a terrible and steadfast aspect, leading +between them a short gentleman 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 announced, if the intrepid countenances of the ladies had been +wanting, that it was a procession of sacrifice, and that the victim was Bunsby. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/0777m.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<p> +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, the Captain struck. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Cap’en Cuttle!” said Mrs MacStinger. “This is +indeed a meeting! I bear no malice now, Cap’en Cuttle—you +needn’t fear that I’m a going to cast any reflections. I hope to go +to the altar in another spirit.” Here Mrs MacStinger paused, and drawing +herself up, and inflating her bosom with a long breath, said, in allusion to +the victim, “My “usband, Cap’en Cuttle!” +</p> + +<p> +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, Bunsby put out his; but, in answer to the Captain’s +greeting, spake no word. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain’s concern for his friend, not unmingled, at first, with some +concern for himself—for a shadowy terror that he might be married by +violence, possessed him, until his knowledge of the service came to his relief, +and remembering the legal obligation of saying, “I will,” he felt +himself personally safe so long as he resolved, if asked any question, +distinctly to reply “I won’t”—threw him into a profuse +perspiration; and rendered him, for a time, insensible to the movements of the +procession, 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. +</p> + +<p> +All this time, the Captain could not but observe that Mrs Bokum kept her eyes +steadily on the bridegroom, and that whenever they came near a court or other +narrow turning which appeared favourable for flight, she was on the alert to +cut him off if he attempted escape. The other lady, too, as well as her +husband, the short gentleman with the tall hat, were plainly on guard, +according to a preconcerted plan; and the wretched man was so secured by Mrs +MacStinger, that any effort at self-preservation by flight was rendered futile. +This, indeed, was apparent to the mere populace, who expressed their perception +of the fact by jeers and cries; to all of which, the dread MacStinger was +inflexibly indifferent, while Bunsby himself appeared in a state of +unconsciousness. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain made many attempts to accost the philosopher, if only in a +monosyllable or a signal; but always failed, in consequence of the vigilance of +the guard, and the difficulty, at all times peculiar to Bunsby’s +constitution, of having his attention aroused by any outward and visible sign +whatever. Thus they approached the chapel, a neat whitewashed edifice, recently +engaged by the Reverend Melchisedech Howler, who had consented, on very urgent +solicitation, to give the world another two years of existence, but had +informed his followers that, then, it must positively go. +</p> + +<p> +While the Reverend Melchisedech was offering up some extemporary orisons, the +Captain found an opportunity of growling in the bridegroom’s ear: +</p> + +<p> +“What cheer, my lad, what cheer?” +</p> + +<p> +To which Bunsby replied, with a forgetfulness of the Reverend Melchisedech, +which nothing but his desperate circumstances could have excused: +</p> + +<p> +“D——d bad,” +</p> + +<p> +“Jack Bunsby,” whispered the Captain, “do you do this here, +of your own free will?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Bunsby answered “No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you do it, then, my lad?” inquired the Captain, not +unnaturally. +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby, still looking, and always looking with an immovable countenance, at the +opposite side of the world, made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not sheer off?” said the Captain. “Eh?” whispered +Bunsby, with a momentary gleam of hope. +</p> + +<p> +“Sheer off,” said the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the good?” retorted the forlorn sage. +“She’d capter me agen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Try!” replied the Captain. “Cheer up! Come! Now’s your +time. Sheer off, Jack Bunsby!” +</p> + +<p> +Jack Bunsby, however, instead of profiting by the advice, said in a doleful +whisper: +</p> + +<p> +“It all began in that there chest o’ yourn. Why did I ever conwoy +her into port that night?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lad,” faltered the Captain, “I thought as you had come +over her; not as she had come over you. A man as has got such opinions as you +have!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Bunsby merely uttered a suppressed groan. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” said the Captain, nudging him with his elbow, +“now’s your time! Sheer off! I’ll cover your retreat. The +time’s a flying. Bunsby! It’s for liberty. Will you once?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby was immovable. +</p> + +<p> +“Bunsby!” whispered the Captain, “will you twice?” +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby wouldn’t twice. +</p> + +<p> +“Bunsby!” urged the Captain, “it’s for liberty; will +you three times? Now or never!” +</p> + +<p> +Bunsby didn’t then, and didn’t ever; for Mrs MacStinger immediately +afterwards married him. +</p> + +<p> +One of the most frightful circumstances of the ceremony to the Captain, was the +deadly interest exhibited therein by Juliana MacStinger; and the fatal +concentration of her faculties, with which that promising child, already the +image of her parent, observed the whole proceedings. The Captain saw in this a +succession of man-traps stretching out infinitely; a series of ages of +oppression and coercion, through which the seafaring line was doomed. It was a +more memorable sight than the unflinching steadiness of Mrs Bokum and the other +lady, the exultation of the short gentleman in the tall hat, or even the fell +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 off and adorned the precocious woman in +Juliana. Another year or two, the Captain thought, and to lodge where that +child was, would be destruction. +</p> + +<p> +The ceremony was concluded by a general spring of the young family on Mr +Bunsby, whom they hailed by the endearing name of father, and from whom they +solicited half-pence. These gushes of affection over, the procession was about +to issue forth again, when it was delayed for some little time by an unexpected +transport on the part of Alexander 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 him for ever. In the +anguish of this conviction, he screamed with astonishing force, and turned +black in the face. However touching these marks of a tender disposition 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 +endeavouring 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. +</p> + +<p> +The procession being then in a condition to form itself once more, and repair +to Brig Place, where a marriage feast was in readiness, returned as it had +come; not without the receipt, by Bunsby, of many humorous congratulations from +the populace on his recently-acquired happiness. The Captain accompanied it as +far as the house-door, but, being made uneasy by the gentler manner of Mrs +Bokum, who, now that she was relieved from her engrossing duty—for the +watchfulness and alacrity of the ladies sensibly diminished when the bridegroom +was safely married—had greater leisure to show an interest in his behalf, +there left it and the captive; faintly pleading an appointment, and promising +to return presently. The Captain had another cause for uneasiness, in +remorsefully reflecting that he had been the first means of Bunsby’s +entrapment, though certainly without intending it, and through his unbounded +faith in the resources of that philosopher. +</p> + +<p> +To go back to old Sol Gills at the wooden Midshipman’s, and not first go +round to ask how Mr Dombey was—albeit the house where he lay was out of +London, and away on the borders of a fresh heath—was quite out of the +Captain’s course. So he got a lift when he was tired, and made out the +journey gaily. +</p> + +<p> +The blinds were pulled down, and the house so quiet, that the Captain was +almost afraid to knock; but listening at the door, he heard low voices within, +very near it, and, knocking softly, was admitted by Mr Toots. Mr Toots and his +wife had, in fact, just arrived there; having been at the Midshipman’s to +seek him, and having there obtained the address. +</p> + +<p> +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 +fondling it. Florence was stooping down beside her; and no one could have said +which Mrs Toots was hugging and fondling most, the mother or the child, or +which was the tenderer, Florence of Mrs Toots, or Mrs Toots of her, or both of +the baby; it was such a little group of love and agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“And is your Pa very ill, my darling dear Miss Floy?” asked Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Susan burst into tears, and showered kisses on the little hand that had touched +her so wonderingly. +</p> + +<p> +“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 has always said—she said before we were +married, and has said to this day—that whenever you came home, +she’d come to you in no dress but the dress she used to serve you in, for +fear she might seem strange to you, and you might like her less. I admire the +dress myself,” said Mr Toots, “of all things. I adore her in it! 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 +yourself too much!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap61"></a>CHAPTER LXI.<br /> +Relenting</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: +4.00em">F</span>lorence had need of help. Her father’s need of it was +sore, and made the aid of her old friend invaluable. Death stood at his 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 I 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 about it, and reason with himself, more or less connectedly, for a good +answer; as if it had never been proposed to him until that moment. He would go +on with a musing repetition of the title of his old firm twenty thousand times, +and at every one of them, would turn his head upon his pillow. He would count +his children—one—two—stop, and go back, and begin again in +the same way. +</p> + +<p> +But this was when his mind was in its most distracted state. In all the other +phases of its illness, and in those to which it was most constant, it always +turned on Florence. What he would oftenest do was this: he would 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, confounding that time with the later +days of the many footsteps, he would be amazed at their number, and begin to +count them as he followed her. Here, of a sudden, was a bloody footstep going +on among the others; and after it there began to be, at intervals, doors +standing open, through which certain terrible pictures were seen, in mirrors, +of haggard men, concealing something in their breasts. Still, among the many +footsteps and the bloody footsteps here and there, was the step of Florence. +Still she was going on before. Still the restless mind went, following and +counting, ever farther, ever higher, as to the summit of a mighty tower that it +took years to climb. +</p> + +<p> +One day he inquired if that were not Susan who had spoken a long while ago. +</p> + +<p> +Florence said “Yes, dear Papa;” and asked him would he like to see +her? +</p> + +<p> +He said “very much.” And Susan, with no little trepidation, showed +herself at his bedside. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not to go; to understand that he +forgave her what she had said; and that she was to stay. Florence and he were +very different 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He began to show now that he thought of Florence’s fatigue: and often +taxed his weakness to whisper to her, “Go and walk, my dearest, in the +sweet air. Go to your good husband!” One time when Walter was in his +room, he beckoned him to come near, and to stoop down; and pressing his hand, +whispered an assurance to him that he knew he could trust him with his child +when he was dead. +</p> + +<p> +It chanced one evening, towards sunset, when Florence and Walter were sitting +in his room together, as he liked to see them, that Florence, having her baby +in her arms, began in a low voice to sing to the little fellow, and sang the +old tune she had so often sung to the dead child: He could not bear it at the +time; he held up his trembling hand, imploring her to stop; but next day he +asked her to repeat it, and to do so often of an evening: which she did. He +listening, with his face turned away. +</p> + +<p> +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. He 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. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Walter, “there is someone downstairs who +wishes to speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +She fancied Walter looked grave, and asked him if anything had happened. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, my love!” said Walter. “I have seen the gentleman +myself, and spoken with him. Nothing has happened. Will you come?” +</p> + +<p> +Florence put her arm through his; and confiding her father to the black-eyed +Mrs Toots, who sat as brisk and smart at her work as black-eyed woman could, +accompanied her husband downstairs. In the pleasant little parlour opening on +the garden, sat a gentleman, who rose to advance towards her when she came in, +but turned off, by reason of some peculiarity in his legs, and was only stopped +by the table. +</p> + +<p> +Florence then remembered Cousin Feenix, whom she had not at first recognised in +the shade of the leaves. Cousin Feenix took her hand, and congratulated her +upon her marriage. +</p> + +<p> +“I could have wished, I am sure,” said Cousin Feenix, sitting down +as Florence sat, “to have had an earlier 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 description of society I have kept, has been my own; and it +certainly is anything but flattering to a man’s good opinion of his own +sources, to know that, in point of fact, he has the capacity of boring himself +to a perfectly unlimited extent.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence divined, from some indefinable constraint and anxiety in this +gentleman’s manner—which was always a gentleman’s, in spite +of the harmless little eccentricities that attached to it—and from +Walter’s manner no less, that something more immediately tending to some +object was to follow this. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been mentioning to my friend Mr Gay, if I may be allowed to have +the honour of calling him so,” said Cousin Feenix, “that I am +rejoiced to hear that my friend Dombey is very decidedly mending. I trust my +friend Dombey will not allow his mind to be too much preyed upon, by any mere +loss of fortune. I cannot say that I have ever experienced any very great loss +of fortune myself: never having had, in point of fact, any great amount of +fortune to lose. But as much as I could lose, I have lost; and I don’t +find that I particularly care about it. I know my friend Dombey to be a +devilish honourable man; and it’s calculated to console my friend Dombey +very much, to know, that this is the universal sentiment. Even Tommy +Screwzer,—a man of an extremely bilious habit, with whom my friend Gay is +probably acquainted—cannot say a syllable in disputation of the +fact.” +</p> + +<p> +Florence felt, more than ever, that there was something to come; and looked +earnestly for it. So earnestly, that Cousin Feenix answered, as if she had +spoken. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is,” said Cousin Feenix, “that my friend Gay and +myself have been discussing the propriety of entreating a favour at your hands; +and that I have the consent of my friend Gay—who has met me in an +exceedingly kind and open manner, for which I am very much indebted to +him—to solicit it. I am sensible that so amiable a lady as the lovely and +accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey will not require much urging; 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 prevented 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 popgun, 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 that it always woke ’em. And +they were so entirely innocent of what was going on, otherwise, that it used to +be commonly said by Conversation Brown—four-bottle man at the 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 +Honourable Member in the last stage of convulsions in the Lobby, and that the +Honourable Member’s name was Pitt, the approbation would have been +vociferous.” +</p> + +<p> +This postponement of the point, put Florence in a flutter; and she looked from +Cousin Feenix to Walter, in increasing agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“My love,” said Walter, “there is nothing the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing the matter, upon my honour,” said Cousin Feenix; +“and I am deeply distressed at being the means of causing you a +moment’s uneasiness. I beg to assure you that there is nothing the +matter. The favour that I have to ask is, simply—but it really does seem +so exceedingly 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. +</p> + +<p> +Walter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in the look that Florence +turned towards him, said: +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will ride to London with +this gentleman, whom you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“And my friend Gay, also—I beg your pardon!” interrupted +Cousin Feenix. +</p> + +<p> +“—And with me—and make a visit somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“To whom?” asked Florence, looking from one to the other. +</p> + +<p> +“If I might entreat,” said Cousin Feenix, “that you would not +press for an answer to that question, I would venture to take the liberty of +making the request.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, Walter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And think it right?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If Papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is awake, I will go +immediately,” said Florence. And rising quietly, and glancing at them +with a look that was a little alarmed but perfectly confiding, left the room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I will leave,” said Cousin Feenix, “a card for my friend +Dombey, sincerely trusting that he will pick up health and strength with every +returning hour. And I hope my friend Dombey will do me the favour to consider +me a man who has a devilish warm admiration of his character, 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, but if my friend Dombey +should require a change of air, and would take up his quarters there, he would +find it a remarkably healthy spot—as it need be, for it’s amazingly +dull. If my friend Dombey suffers from bodily weakness, and would allow me to +recommend what has frequently done myself good, as a man who has been extremely +queer at times, and who lived pretty freely in the days when men lived very +freely, I should say, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an egg, beat up +with sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and taken in the morning with a +slice of dry toast. Jackson, who kept the boxing-rooms in Bond Street—man +of very superior qualifications, with whose reputation my friend Gay is no +doubt acquainted—used to mention that in training for the ring they +substituted rum for sherry. I should recommend sherry in this case, on account +of my friend Dombey being in an invalided condition; which might occasion rum +to fly—in point of fact to his head—and throw him into a devil of a +state.” +</p> + +<p> +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 determined to go out +into the garden, he led her to the door, and handed her into a carriage that +was ready for her reception. +</p> + +<p> +Walter entered after him, and they drove away. +</p> + +<p> +Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they drove through certain dull +and stately streets, lying westward in London, it was growing dusk. Florence +had, by this time, put her hand in Walter’s; and was looking very +earnestly, and with increasing agitation, into every new street into which they +turned. +</p> + +<p> +When the carriage stopped, at last, before that house in Brook Street, where +her father’s unhappy marriage had been celebrated, Florence said, +“Walter, what is this? Who is here?” Walter cheering her, and not +replying, she glanced up at the house-front, and saw that all the windows were +shut, as if it were uninhabited. Cousin Feenix had by this time alighted, and +was offering his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not coming, Walter?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I will remain here. Don’t tremble there is nothing to fear, +dearest Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure of that, +but—” +</p> + +<p> +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 sadness ever since. +</p> + +<p> +Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling; and stopped, with her +conductor, at the drawing-room 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Great Heaven!” she said, “what is this?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose up and putting +out her hands to keep her off. “Mama!” +</p> + +<p> +They stood looking at each other. Passion and pride had worn it, but it was the +face of Edith, and beautiful and stately yet. It was the face of Florence, and +through all the terrified avoidance it expressed, there was pity in it, sorrow, +a grateful tender memory. On each face, wonder and fear were painted vividly; +each so still and silent, looking at the other over the black gulf of the +irrevocable past. +</p> + +<p> +Florence was the first to change. Bursting into tears, she said from her full +heart, “Oh, Mama, Mama! why do we meet like this? Why were you ever kind +to me when there was no one else, that we should meet like this?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith stood before her, dumb and motionless. Her eyes were fixed upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +She answered not a word. +</p> + +<p> +“Walter—I am married to him, and we have a son,” said +Florence, timidly—“is at the door, and has brought me here. I will +tell him that you are repentant; that you are changed,” said Florence, +looking mournfully upon her; “and he will speak to Papa with me, I know. +Is there anything but this that I can do?” +</p> + +<p> +Edith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or limb, answered slowly: +</p> + +<p> +“The stain upon your name, upon your husband’s, on your +child’s. Will that ever be forgiven, Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +She answered not a word. +</p> + +<p> +“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, “I have not shrunk back from you, Mama, because I +fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced by you. I only wish to do my duty +to Papa. I am very dear to him, and he is very dear to me. But I never can +forget that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to Heaven,” cried +Florence, falling on her bosom, “pray to Heaven, Mama, to forgive you all +this sin and shame, and to forgive me if I cannot help doing this (if it is +wrong), when I remember what you used to be!” +</p> + +<p> +Edith, as if she fell beneath her touch, sunk down on her knees, and caught her +round the neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Florence!” she cried. “My better angel! Before I am mad +again, before my stubbornness comes back and strikes me dumb, believe me, upon +my soul I am innocent!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mama!” +</p> + +<p> +“Guilty of much! Guilty of that which sets a waste between us evermore. +Guilty of what must separate me, through the whole remainder of my life, from +purity and innocence—from you, of all the earth. Guilty of a blind and +passionate resentment, of which I do not, cannot, will not, even now, repent; +but not guilty with that dead man. Before God!” +</p> + +<p> +Upon her knees upon the ground, she held up both her hands, and swore it. +</p> + +<p> +“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 head, for the last +time!” +</p> + +<p> +She was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener thus in older days, she had +been happier now. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 decidedly the most unintelligible thing +within a man’s experience—very odd conjunctions of that sort. But +as I mentioned to my friend Dombey, I could not admit the criminality of my +lovely and accomplished relative until it was perfectly established. And +feeling, when the deceased person was, in point of fact, destroyed in a +devilish horrible manner, that her position was a very painful one—and +feeling besides that our family had been a little to blame in not paying more +attention to her, and that we are a careless family—and also that my +aunt, though a 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 +occasion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the honour to express that +she believed I was, in my way, a devilish good sort of fellow; and that +therefore she put herself under my protection. Which in point of fact I +understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely and accomplished +relative, as I am getting extremely shaky, and have derived great comfort from +her solicitude.” +</p> + +<p> +Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand as if she +would have begged him to say no more. +</p> + +<p> +“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 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 therefore did not involve myself in any +discussions. But, observing lately, that her accessible point did appear to be +a very strong description of tenderness for the daughter of my friend Dombey, +it occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on both +sides, it might lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we being in London, in +the present private way, before going to the South of Italy, there to establish +ourselves, in point of fact, until we go to our long homes, which is a devilish +disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied myself to the discovery of the +residence of my friend Gay—handsome man of an uncommonly frank +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 Feenix, 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 honour 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Cousin Feenix’s legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving +them alone together, he shut the door. +</p> + +<p> +Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close beside her. +Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper. +</p> + +<p> +“I debated with myself a long time,” she said in a low voice, +“whether to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, +and feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and +how to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it for Papa?” asked Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“It is for whom you will,” she answered. “It is given to you, +and is obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Mama,” said Florence, “he has lost his fortune; he has been +at the point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I +shall say to him from you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you tell me,” asked Edith, “that you were very dear to +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” said Florence, in a thrilling voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more?” said Florence after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done—not +yet—for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is a +changed man—-” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence’s hand +that stopped her. +</p> + +<p> +“—But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. +Tell him I wish it never had been.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I say,” said Florence, “that you grieved to hear of the +afflictions he has suffered?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not,” she replied, “if they have taught him that his +daughter is very dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if +they have brought that lesson, Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 so?” +</p> + +<p> +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 outside: +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him that if, in his own present, he can find any reason to +compassionate my past, I sent word that I asked him to do so. Tell him that if, +in his own present, he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I asked +him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one another, never more to meet +on this side of eternity, he knows there is one feeling in common between us +now, that there never was before.” +</p> + +<p> +Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in her dark eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I trust myself to that,” she said, “for his better thoughts +of me, and mine of him. When he loves his 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 of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh Mama!” said Florence. “How it lightens my heart, even in +such a strange meeting and parting, to hear this!” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange words in my own ears,” said Edith, “and foreign to +the sound of my own voice! But even if I had been the wretched creature I have +given him occasion to believe me, I think I could have said them still, hearing +that you and he were very dear to one another. Let him, when you are dearest, +ever feel that he is most forbearing in his thoughts of me—that I am most +forbearing in my thoughts of him! Those are the last words I send him! Now, +goodbye, my life!” +</p> + +<p> +She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out all her woman’s soul +of love and tenderness at once. +</p> + +<p> +“This kiss for your child! These kisses for a blessing on your head! My +own dear Florence, my sweet girl, farewell!” +</p> + +<p> +“To meet again!” cried Florence. +</p> + +<p> +“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 I +loved you!” +</p> + +<p> +And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but accompanied by her embraces +and caresses to the last. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +amiable wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive nature so very +much distressed and cut up by the interview which is just concluded. But I hope +and trust I have acted for the best, and that my honourable friend Dombey will +find his mind relieved by the disclosures which have taken place. I exceedingly +lament that my friend Dombey should have got himself, in point of fact, into +the devil’s own state of conglomeration by an alliance with our family; +but am strongly of opinion that if it hadn’t been for the infernal +scoundrel Barker—man with white teeth—everything would have gone on +pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who does me the honour to have formed +an uncommonly good opinion of myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my +friend Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a father to her. +And in regard to the changes of human life, and the extraordinary manner in +which we are perpetually conducting ourselves, all I can say is, with my friend +Shakespeare—man who wasn’t for an age but for all time, and with +whom my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted—that its like the shadow of a +dream.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap62"></a>CHAPTER LXII.<br /> +Final</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It is the last bottle of the old Madiera. +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, Mr Gills,” says Mr Dombey. “This is a +very rare and most delicious wine.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. There is a very halo of +delight round his glowing forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“We always promised ourselves, Sir,” observes Mr Gills,” Ned +and myself, I mean—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey nods at the Captain, who shines more and more with speechless +gratification. +</p> + +<p> +“—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Walter and his wife!” says Mr Dombey. “Florence, my +child”—and turns to kiss her. +</p> + +<p> +“To Walter and his wife!” says Mr Toots. +</p> + +<p> +“To Wal”r and his wife!” exclaims the Captain. +“Hooroar!” and the Captain exhibiting a strong desire to clink his +glass against some other glass, Mr Dombey, with a ready hand, holds out his. +The others follow; and there is a blithe and merry ringing, as of a little peal +of marriage bells. +</p> + +<p> +Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did in its time; and dust and +cobwebs thicken on the bottles. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks of care and +suffering; but they are traces of a storm that has passed on for ever, and left +a clear evening in its track. +</p> + +<p> +Ambitious projects trouble him no more. His only pride is in his daughter and +her husband. He has a silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and is always with his +daughter. Miss Tox is not infrequently of the family party, and is quite +devoted to it, and a great favourite. Her admiration of her once stately patron +is, and has been ever since the morning of her shock in Princess’s Place, +platonic, but not weakened in the least. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his fortunes, 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 honourably accepted, and has no doubt it arises out of some forgotten +transaction in the times of the old House. +</p> + +<p> +That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is married now, and to the sister +of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief sometimes, but seldom. There +is a reason in the greyhaired Junior’s history, and yet a stronger reason +in his name, why he should keep retired from his old employer; and as he lives +with his sister and her husband, they participate in that retirement. Walter +sees them sometimes—Florence too—and the pleasant house resounds +with profound duets arranged for the Piano-Forte and Violoncello, and with the +labours of Harmonious Blacksmiths. +</p> + +<p> +And how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Why, here he still +is, right leg foremost, hard at work upon the hackney coaches, and more on the +alert than ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat to his buckled shoes; +and up above him, in golden characters, these names shine refulgent, GILLS AND +CUTTLE. +</p> + +<p> +Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman achieve beyond his usual +easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile round the blue +umbrella in Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr Gills’s old investments +are coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of being behind the time in +those respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth, a little before it, and had +to wait the fulness of the time and the design. The whisper is that Mr +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 +his coffee-coloured suit, with his chronometer in his pocket, and his +spectacles on his forehead, he don’t appear to break his heart at +customers not coming, but looks very jovial and contented, though full as misty +as of yore. +</p> + +<p> +As to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of a business in the +Captain’s mind which is better than any reality. The Captain is as +satisfied of the Midshipman’s importance to the commerce and navigation +of the country, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the Port of London +without the Midshipman’s assistance. His delight in his own name over the +door, is inexhaustible. He crosses the street, twenty times a day, to look at +it from the other side of the way; and invariably says, on these occasions, +“Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother could ha’ know’d +as you would ever be a man o’ science, the good old creetur would +ha’ been took aback in-deed!” +</p> + +<p> +But here is Mr Toots descending on the Midshipman with violent rapidity, and Mr +Toots’s face is very red as he bursts into the little parlour. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Gills,” says Mr Toots, “and Mr Sols, I am happy to +inform you that Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.” +</p> + +<p> +“And it does her credit!” cries the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“I give you joy, Mr Toots!” says old Sol. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A female stranger?” inquires the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Captain Gills,” says Mr Toots, “and I’m glad of +it. The oftener we can repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the +better!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stand by!” says the Captain, turning to the old case-bottle with +no throat—for it is evening, and the Midshipman’s usual moderate +provision of pipes and glasses is on the board. “Here’s to her, and +may she have ever so many more!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of his heart is very +loquacious. +</p> + +<p> +“Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful woman has given of +her excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr Sols,” said Mr Toots, “I +think none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has understood +my devotion to Miss Dombey.” +</p> + +<p> +Both his auditors assent. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you know,” says Mr Toots, “I have never changed my +sentiments towards Miss Dombey. They are the same as ever. She is the same +bright vision to me, at present, that she was before I made Walters’s +acquaintance. When Mrs Toots and myself first began to talk of—in short, +of the tender passion, you know, Captain Gills.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, my lad,” says the Captain, “as makes us all slue +round—for which you’ll overhaul the book—” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills,” says Mr Toots, with great +earnestness; “when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained +that I was what you may call a Blighted Flower, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +The Captain approves of this figure greatly; and murmurs that no flower as +blows, is like the rose. +</p> + +<p> +“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 nobody in the world I look up to, as I do to Miss +Dombey. Knows that there’s nothing on earth I wouldn’t do for Miss +Dombey. She knows that I consider Miss Dombey the most beautiful, the most +amiable, the most angelic of her sex. What is her observation upon that? The +perfection of sense. ‘My dear, you’re right. I think so +too.’” +</p> + +<p> +“And so do I!” says the Captain. +</p> + +<p> +“So do I,” says Sol Gills. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” resumes Mr Toots, after some contemplative pulling at his +pipe, during which his visage has expressed the most contented reflection, +“what an observant woman my wife is! What sagacity she possesses! What +remarks she makes! It was only last night, when we were sitting in the +enjoyment of connubial bliss—which, upon my word and honour, is a feeble +term to express my feelings in the society of my wife—that she said how +remarkable it was to consider the present position of our friend Walters. +‘Here,’ observes my wife, ‘he is, released from sea-going, +after that first long voyage with his young bride’—as you know he +was, Mr Sols.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite true,” says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 his uncle at the +very best possible time of his fortunes’—which I think is the case, +Mr Sols? My wife is always correct.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly so,” says Mr Toots. “You’ll never find my wife +wrong. ‘Here he is,’ says that most remarkable woman, ‘so +situated,—and what follows? What follows?’ observed Mrs Toots. Now +pray remark, Captain Gills, and Mr Sols, the depth of my wife’s +penetration. ‘Why that, under the very eye of Mr Dombey, there is a +foundation going on, upon which a—an Edifice;’ that was Mrs +Toots’s word,” says Mr Toots exultingly, ‘“is gradually +rising, perhaps to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he was once the head, +and the small beginnings of which (a common fault, but a bad one, Mrs Toots +said) escaped his memory. Thus,’ said my wife, ‘from his daughter, +after all, another Dombey and Son will ascend’—no +‘rise;’ that was Mrs Toots’s +word—‘triumphant!’” +</p> + +<p> +Mr Toots, with the assistance of his pipe—which he is extremely glad to +devote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with a very +uncomfortable sensation—does such grand justice to this prophetic +sentence of his wife’s, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat in +a state of the greatest excitement, cries: +</p> + +<p> +“Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell +Wal”r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business? Was +it this here quotation, ‘Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, +and when you are old you will never depart from it.’ Was it them words, +Sol Gills?” +</p> + +<p> +“It certainly was, Ned,” replied the old Instrument-maker. “I +remember well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I tell you what,” says the Captain, leaning back in his +chair, and composing his chest for a prodigious roar. “I’ll give +you Lovely Peg right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!” +</p> + +<p> +Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and dust and +cobwebs thicken on the bottles. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him, helps him +in his play, attends upon him, watches him as if he were the object of his +life. If he be thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is thoughtful too; and +sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and looks up in his face, +asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in his, and holding it, forgets to +answer. Then the child says: +</p> + +<p> +“What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, I am very strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her +in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face. He cannot bear to +see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?” +</p> + +<p> +He only answers, “Little Florence! little Florence!” and smooths +away the curls that shade her earnest eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The voices in the waves speak low to him of Florence, day and +night—plainest when he, his blooming daughter, and her husband, beside +them in the evening, or sit at an open window, listening to their roar. They +speak to him of Florence and his altered heart; of Florence and their ceaseless +murmuring to her of the love, eternal and illimitable, extending still, beyond +the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible country far away. +</p> + +<p> +Never from the mighty sea may voices rise too late, to come between us and the +unseen region on the other shore! Better, far better, that they whispered of +that region in our childish ears, and the swift river hurried us away! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap63"></a>PREFACE OF 1848</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> +cannot forego my usual opportunity of saying farewell to my readers in this +greeting-place, though I have only to acknowledge the unbounded warmth and +earnestness of their sympathy in every stage of the journey we have just +concluded. +</p> + +<p> +If any of them have felt a sorrow in one of the principal incidents on which +this fiction turns, I hope it may be a sorrow of that sort which endears the +sharers in it, one to another. This is not unselfish in me. I may claim to have +felt it, at least as much as anybody else; and I would fain be remembered +kindly for my part in the experience. +</p> + +<p> +DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Twenty-Fourth March, 1848. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap64"></a>PREFACE OF 1867</h2> + +<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> make +so bold as to believe that the faculty (or the habit) of correctly observing +the characters of men, is a rare one. I have not even found, within my +experience, that the faculty (or the habit) of correctly observing so much as +the faces of men, is a general one by any means. The two commonest mistakes in +judgement that I suppose to arise from the former default, are, the confounding +of shyness with arrogance—a very common mistake indeed—and the not +understanding that an obstinate nature exists in a perpetual struggle with +itself. +</p> + +<p> +Mr Dombey undergoes no violent change, either in this book, or in real life. A +sense of his injustice 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 a close 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. +</p> + +<p> +I began this book by the Lake of Geneva, and went on with it for some months in +France, before pursuing it in England. The association between the writing and +the place of writing is so curiously strong in my mind, that at this day, +although I know, in my fancy, every stair in the little midshipman’s +house, and could swear to every pew in the church in which Florence was +married, or to every young gentleman’s bedstead in Doctor Blimber’s +establishment, I yet confusedly 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, my +remembrance wanders for a whole winter night about the streets of +Paris—as I restlessly did with a heavy heart, on the night when I had +written the chapter in which my little friend and I parted company. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOMBEY AND SON ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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